I don't really have energy for a full-on story, so here's a drabble of a new idea I had.
A reminder that I still accept commissions and tips on Ko-Fi :)
You were imprisoned for "crimes" against capitalism and now they were making you a food tester.
Not a tester of good food. A tester of the junkiest possible food. They were saving up money on actual testers, so they "employed" prisoners. And since they were also greenwashing their company with a "zero waste" policy, it wasn't enough for you to just eat a bite of each item. You had to finish it all.
Your first few weeks in prison, they stretched out your stomach with water and soda, to get you accustomed to stuffing. Every prisoner would be given a concoction of drugs which would up their appetite and prevent from gagging, as well as dull a fullness response. It didn't take a long time for you to start feeling perpetually hungry.
They didn't really care for the effects this all would have on the prisoner's bodies, of course. They only recorded everyone's weight in the beginning, took measurements for a stretchy uniform, and assigned everyone to their cells.
You've been here for two years now.
You sleepily open your eyes as a ring of a bell announces the start of yet another day.
Your stomach gurgles as you roll off the bed. Nothing in your cell really accomodates your growing body, and so the bed is starting to feel a bit narrow.
You rock yourself up to a standing position. Your belly drops, stretching the confines of your uniform. Before you even manage to waddle to the door, there's a banging noise on the other side.
"Move it, fatso!" a warden shouts through the door. "We haven't got all day!"
"Huff - coming!" you puff. The wardens haven't adjusted their behaviour to your growing size, either. They often kick you in the ass these days when they feel like you're moving too slowly.
Today is a monthly weigh-in. It mostly just serves the purpose of assessing how much more you're able to eat these days. The portion sizes increase alongside your weight.
"445.5," the scale reads.
You step back and waddle to your feeding room. Everything jiggles as you move. Your overhang recently started to brush your thighs and it impedes your movement even more.
"Faster, fatass!" the warden jabs a rod into your back rolls.
"I'm - huff - trying..." Sweat pours down your forehead as you valiantly plod onwards.
"No talking back, lardass!"
You start swinging your hammy arms around to help yourself with balance. Large patches of sweat form on your uniform. Your double chin quivers as sweat runs down your neck roll. But still, you waddle. You can't stop now - if you do and the wardens decide you're too fat to walk, you're going to stay in your cell forever. They will bring all the food to you and after two months of this, you won't be able to stand even if you tried.
Finally, you reach your feeding room. Before you stands another warden.
The question doesn't surprise you; it's all a part of the routine here. You have to wait and catch your breath before you're able to respond, though.
"Who are you??" the warden asks more pressingly.
You have to answer. Otherwise it's forced immobility.
"Huff - a useless fatso."
"A useless fatso!" you speak up, still breathy from exertion.
"Because - hh - because I committed a crime against - huff..."
"Yes," the warden nods. "And now the Capital has graciously allowed you to live and eat for free as you atone for your transgressions, lardass. What is your purpose here?"
"To - huff - serve the Capital. And to grow."
"Until all I can do is consume."
Relieved, you plop down on a chair. You're ravenous.
Your feeding starts as usual, with different versions of burgers from a recognizable chain. You devour ten of them in one go. You know how to pace yourself now, when to massage your belly to incite burps, to make more room for more food. Next come cakes and various desserts, and you eat them one by one, only giving small comments as you do. Some stuff is too salty or too sweet, but you still have to eat it all.
This lasts for hours. After the session is done, it's back to your cell, and the journey would be even more torturous with a full belly.
Today, it seems, is your unlucky day.
You try to stand up, but you can't budge. Your belly is packed like a drum and domes above you.
"Are you too fat to move?" the warden asks.
"No!" you cry out desperately and try to stand up again. Again, you don't budge, only sweat more.
"I think this speaks for itself."
"No, please, no, not immobility..."
But it's too late as the warden presses a buzzer and two other people arrive with a reinforced wheelchair.
"Say goodbye to walking," the warden says with a smirk.
You can't help it - you cry.
They slap your fleshy cheek. "Fed by the Capital, and still unhappy about it, eh?"
"I - huff - please - I just want to be able to move..."
"That's a privilege you denied yourself when you commited a crime, lardass."
"A - huff - ushelesh fatsho."
It's hard to speak now, there's so much fat on your face. It's hard to move your fingers, either, so the food is delivered to you on a conveyor belt or through a funnel.
You spill in your cell, walking definitely being a thing of the past. Soon, any movement at all will become a distant memory.
"And why are you here?" the warden asks again.
You don't really remember what you did anymore. Your sole purpose is to consume.
The warden smiles wide. "Good fatty."
If your fat cheeks weren't blocking you, you'd smile in return.
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