Watching the literal decay of a pathetic dying lard pig as you force is to glut itself closer and closer to the grave. Laughing at its quivering, revolting ruddy cheeks bulge as you pinch its snout and push down more buttery slop to drown out its desperate squeals for help. Slapping its swollen, ripping flesh as you smear buttercream frosting on its unrecognisable face. Making it snort and eat from a trough as its weak knees snap and useless rotting arms collapse under its trembling adipose rolls. Putting it into a diaper as its pitiful muscles atrophy beyond return. Stroking its clammy forehead and whispering that it’s a shame it can’t get away now as you scroll through a catalogue of monstrous bariatric coffins to dump its obscene carcass in, forcing it to watch. Pushing sticks of greasy butter down its weak little gullet as it cries in pain in its blubbery chest. Watching its helpless little sunken eyes dart around for salvation as its collapsing cholesterol-ridden heart tears at its shuddering, buried ribs. Squeezing and twisting its lard as it squirms in agony and terror, its unidentifiable limbs numb, vision darkened. Lulling it to organ failure before 20 whilst cramming in the final droplets of sugar and lard into its warm pig gullet.
