Spitfire scowled as she stood in the darkest corner she could find, the lights of the banquet hall just dim enough for the crowds of ponies around her to see by, but not bright enough that anypony would have to shield their eyes against the unnatural glare.
She had no doubt ponies were going to talk about this for a while. Already she’d had several of the Cloudsdale elite come up to her and tell her what a beautiful speech she’d given. How she’d inspired the next generation, and her work would go down in the history books.
That’s what she was now after all: history.
Her scowl deepened at the thought before she lifted a glass of champagne to her lips. The bubbling alcohol had always been served at these events, and was inescapable even now despite her insistence that she not have to suffer it at her own retirement party. Although at this point she was glad for the weak alcohol taking the edge off the twisting in her guts and the feeling of the too-tight golden watch strap pinching against her fetlock.
Anything to dampen the growing heat between her ears. She’d had enough of ponies coming up to her and trying to make small talk, enough of the well-meaning platitudes of her old squad, enough of the empty smiles of the press ponies sidling up to her and asking her if she had any plans for the future. She’d had enough of just about everything at this point and so she’d sequestered herself away in the corner, just watching as everypony else laughed and chatted. Each of them knowing exactly what they’d be doing tomorrow.
“Ah, Captain Spitfire.”
Spitfire turned to glare at the pony who dared to interrupt her solitude, her shift in position allowing her to spot a particularly greasy unicorn. His mane was slicked back to his neck, the suit he was wearing looked like it might’ve been expensive before it was washed in cooker oil, and what little of his washed-out coat that was visible looked matted, plastered down against his skin—but worst of all were his eyes. The milky blue irises slowly panned over her, drinking her in as if she was some feast to be devoured through sight alone. “I was wondering if I could have a moment of your time?”
“Go away, Grease-Stain.” Spitfire snorted, her wing clutching the fluted glass between her primaries as she tried to shift away from the intruder, without leaving her corner.
“Please I won’t take a second.” He smiled as he edged closer. “My name is Sweet Deal, and I was simply hoping to talk about a business opportunity for the both of us.”
Spitfire almost growled as she shuffled further away; she could see a few of her old flight squad picking their way over to her. “I said go away, Grease-Stain.”
“Very well.” Sweet Deal’s horn lit for a second as he pulled a business card from his suit pocket, the pristine card shining white against the slimy back fabric before he levitated it into Spitfire’s own breast pocket. “I’ll be at this location tomorrow afternoon from about one o’clock to two, if you’re still interested in what I have to offer and have the time to talk. I wish you a pleasant evening, Captain.”
Spitfire snorted at the stallion as he retreated back into the crowd, the greasy unicorn quickly slipping from her sight before she pulled the card from her pocket with a free wing. The temptation to just rip it up and drop the scraps underhoof warred with her desire to have something, anything to take her mind off of just how empty the last week had been—before she eventually slipped the card back into her pocket.
She’d see what this stallion wanted. That way at least she wouldn’t have to sit around an empty house, waiting for nothing to happen.
Spitfire looked down at the card again as she trotted through the Cloudsdale residential district. It had been years since she’d had the time to wander her home city: as a recruit she’d been too busy training, as a regular flier she’d been too busy practicing, and as the captain she’d been too busy organizing. There was no time to spare on just experiencing, and as a result her city felt foreign, the streets she’d grown up in strange and unfamiliar under her hooves—as cloud buildings she’d never seen before loomed over her, and corralled her down the path to her destination.
A destination that turned out to be a quiet, outdoor cafe, with a spattering of tables scattered across a covered terrace. The quiet chatter of ponies as they sipped coffee and gossiped between friends filled her ears as she scanned across the assembly for her target. She noticed Sweet Deal at the same time the greasy unicorn spotted her.
“Miss Spitfire,” he spoke cheerfully as she approached the table, the quiet gossip of the other ponies dying out as she trotted past them. “I wasn’t sure when you’d arrive.” His horn flickered and the chair opposite was pushed out from the table; Sweet Deal gestured for Spitfire to sit down on the proffered chair, which she did even as she continued to glare at him. “I hope you don’t mind that I took the liberty of ordering for you? Just coffee and a snack.”
“What do you want, Sweet Deal?” Spitfire spoke as quickly as she could, her eyes trying to bore a hole through the unicorn’s head and leave burn marks on the wall behind him.
“Straight down to it then?” The unicorn’s cheer didn’t wither at all under Spitfire’s glare, an ability that any of her previous squadmates would have killed for. “I represent Cloudsdale Confections and my employers would like to hire you to endorse our products, and they would be willing to pay you quite the sum to do so.” He levitated his briefcase up, pulled out several folders, and spread their contents out across the table.
Spitfire barely spared the assembled papers a glance, instead focusing on Sweet Deal, her mind whirring. This wasn’t the first time she’d been offered an endorsement deal; ponies had nearly trampled each other to try and get her to sign her name to their products, but in the months following the announcement of her retirement those deals had dried up completely. Nopony wanted to put their hooves on a dwindling cloud.
“Why me, why now?”
“Because you were the Captain of the Wonderbolts, Miss Spitfire.”
“Not anymore.” Spitfire almost hissed. But before she could continue to chew Sweet Deal out, a server arrived at their table, the young pegasus carefully placing a pair of coffee mugs, a sandwich that Sweet Deal quickly pulled to his side, and a brownie covered with white chocolate and raspberries that he pushed in front of Spitfire.
Sweet Deal didn’t reply immediately, instead hovering the sandwich to his mouth and taking a bite, letting Spitfire’s temper simmer down slightly as he chewed and swallowed before speaking. “You were the Captain of the Wonderbolts. Your word still carries enough weight to be lucrative, even if it’s not to the same ponies as before, Miss Spitfire.”
“And you’d like me to put the weight of my word behind your products, is that it?”
“Indeed.”
“No.”
Sweet Deal continued to smile for a second, before Spitfire’s refusal registered, and his expression fell. “No, Miss Spitfire? May I ask why you’re turning us down?”
Spitfire snorted, lifting the mug up to her lips and sipping before she replied. “I retired to get away from constantly being busy, to have time to myself.”
“I pride myself on being able to read ponies, Spitfire. Every interviewer has asked you what you plan to do now that you have free time, and you’ve rankled at the question each time it has been asked,” Sweet Deal shot back, his smile returning as he spoke. “However if you are so opposed to this deal as it stands may I suggest something else?”
“Would anything I say stop you?” Spitfire spoke as Sweet Deal started to float the contracts and folders back into his briefcase, leaving several bits on the table in their place.
“I can have some samples of our goods sent to your house tomorrow morning so you can taste what you would be endorsing, and I shall arrange for another meeting in a month’s time, once you’ve had some more time to think on my offer.” He stood up as he spoke, briefcase suspended in the pale green glow of his horn. “I wish you a pleasant day, Miss Spitfire,” Sweet Deal finished as he trotted away, leaving Spitfire alone at the table, the fire-maned pegasus snorting at his back before she quickly chugged her own coffee, finished the brownie, and flapped away.
A lifetime of training had turned Spitfire’s sleep cycle into something that a cockerel would envy. Every morning she would be up before the sun, and even now after her retirement she held onto that habit. Being able to sit in her kitchen and watch the sun crest over the peak of Mount Canter with a cup of steaming tea in her hooves was an opportunity she was fairly certain she shared with few.
It was oddly calming. Normally at this time she’d have been running through her exercises, no time for thought or reflection, just go, go, go. Then she’d spent the last two months living in her office trying—and mostly failing—not to lose her temper with that most dreadful servant of bureaucracy, paperwork. And yesterday morning she’d been nursing a hangover the size of Crash’s ego, hoping it would die down enough that she could meet with Sweet Deal without putting him through the table. She couldn’t remember having the time to just cruise through her morning like this for years, and for the first time since she’d signed her own letters of discharge, she didn’t feel like she was spinning her wheels aimlessly.
It was an almost alien sensation.
A sensation that was cut short when somepony started pounding on her door, the sudden noise startling Spitfire enough that when she jumped, the steaming liquid in her mug slopped over the side and splashed against her hooves.
Cursing loud enough to rouse the dead and cradling her scalded hooves Spitfire flapped her way through her foyer to the front door. Whoever had startled her was still going, and the pounding beat echoed through the empty room like the thundering drums of war.
“What do you want?” Spitfire yelled as she yanked the door open, adding her own, impressive, vocals to the cacophony that rang through the morning air.
“Got a priority delivery here from Cloudsdale Confections for ya.” The delivery pony, a beige pegasus whose muzzle managed to sport an impressive amount of stubble, spoke gruffly as he gestured down at a parcel by his hooves before shoving a clipboard into Spitfire’s snout. “Need ya to sign here.”
“Delivery? Do you know what time it is?” Spitfire fumed.
“Yeah, too early for both of us, and I’ve still got to work after this. Sign here.” He thrust the clipboard forwards again, poking her in the chest, before Spitfire snatched it from his hooves and messily scrawled across the dotted line.
“Right, there, I’ve signed,” Spitfire growled as she shoved the clipboard back. “Gimme my parcel, and buck off.”
The beige pegasus looked up for a second before shouting, “Alright Colts, bring it down!” Spitfire following his gaze to spot a team of pegasi hooked into an air-wagon, hovering overhead while they furiously beat their wings to stay level, before they plummeted downwards; their hooves thumped against the cloud foundation at their heavy landing, before the wagon itself followed suit a split-second later. The noise of its impact sent nearby birds scattering, before the reinforced wood and metal started to sink slowly through the dense foundation under the weight of all the crates it was carrying. Each bulky box was marked on the side with the Cloudsdale Confections logo.
“What the buck is that?”
“Yer delivery.” The delivery pegasus pushed an envelope into Spitfire’s hooves before he turned to the cart and lifted a crate—the first of many—from the back. “Ya mind if we just leave these in yer front room? We gotta get back to work at some point today.”
“What the buck am I supposed to do with all that?”
“I dunno, your choice.”
Spitfire stepped back as the pegasus crew pushed past her, each of them carrying a crate on their back, before she opened the envelope and pulled out a letter.
Miss Spitfire,
I apologise for the sheer amount of free samples but my employers were insistent that you get a chance to try everything from our range of products.
None the less I hope you enjoy them, and I look forward to our next meeting in four weeks’ time.
Sweet Deal.
Spitfire just hovered there, slowly reading and rereading the letter as the pegasus crew walked past, hauling in crate after crate until the entire wagon was empty and the stack of crates in the foyer was towering over her.
“Right, Lady, that’s yer delivery sorted.” The beige pegasus spoke, jerking Spitfire out of her shock as her eyes twitched and her her wings ruffled. “Hope ya have a good day.” The door slamming shut behind him, before the muffled noise of wingbeats could be heard and Spitfire yanked the door open to see the wagon crew already fading away into the distance.
Cursing loudly, Spitfire swung the door shut behind her, before turning to face the pile of crates that half filled the large room. There had to be at least twenty of the bucking things, probably more, but she was already stressed out enough without counting just how much that bucking grease-stain had dumped on her.
Slumping back onto her haunches, she stared up at the wooden wall, weighing choices in her head. There was too much to send back without it costing a leg and a wing, and there was no way the trash ponies would pick any of this up if she just dumped it. The only real choice she had was to move it somewhere out of the way and just wait for Sweet Deal to return.
“Next time I see that grease-stain I’m gonna break his bucking’ teeth,” Spitfire muttered to herself before flying up to the top crate and attempting to pull it down, straining and heaving—but the wooden box refused to budge, stubbornly staying stock-still as the pegasus struggled to shift it slightly.
Spitfire didn’t give up quickly, and by the time she’d stopped trying to pull the top box down from the pile, her chest was heaving and a lather had worked itself up on her sides. She might’ve been one of the top flyers of the Wonderbolts, but she hadn’t trained to carry heavy loads.er wings folded in on her sides as they gave up the ghost and dropped her to the cloud floor.
Glaring at the box, she looked at the latch holding the front of it shut, and her stomach growled quietly. She’d ignored breakfast to deal with this load of horseapples, which probably hadn’t been the best idea, but now she was stuck with a dilemma. Trot back to the kitchen on aching and scalded hooves, or open the crates and accept the fact she was doing what Sweet Deal wanted.
Dull throbbing pain fought with spite in her head, before she put her hooves on the ground and made her decision.
She couldn’t go through an entire month of just having those crates sitting around, driving her to distraction like they already had. They’d only been here thirty minutes, blocking her foyer, and already she’d busted her wings trying to shift them.
Gingerly walking over to the first crate, she grabbed the latch in her teeth and twisted, letting the front swing open to reveal packets of Wingling Tarts packed into the wooden box like sardines. A wall of cherry red and white cartons stared out at her, each cardboard column promising a different flavor, as the sheer scale of what had been dumped on her started to register fully, and she struggled to think of a place where she could move the entire load.
“It ain’t gonna go away ‘cause I stare at it.” Spitfire slumped, her wings brushing against the floor, before leaned forwards and pulled a single carton out. “But I’m just having one of you guys, and then I’m figuring out where to put the rest of you lot. Ain’t no way I’m gonna be able to finish all of you.”
It had been a week since the delivery, and Spitfire was slowly going mad without anything to do.
It had taken a day for her hooves to heal up, shuffling awkwardly through her house on her rear legs to a bathroom where she could soak them under a stream of cold water. The boiling tea had apparently managed to creep in under her frogs and scald the edges of her sensitive flesh where it met her hoof, but that was nothing compared to her wing.
Somehow, some-bucking-how—she suspected a cruel twist of fate—she had managed to pull a tendon in her wing joint when she had tried to lift the topmost crate, and by the time a doctor had shown up at her house, the joint itself was swollen to the point of uselessness. The old quack’s only solution was for her to rest it: no flying, no stretches, no strenuous exercises of any kind, just nothing but house rest.
She had run out of things to do in her flightless state before the day was through.
And to top it all off, none of her regularly scheduled food deliveries were arriving, leaving her in house with enough snack food to stock a supermarket, and nothing to do but read, sleep, trot from room to room, and eat.
And her waistline was suffering for it.
The once fit and toned pegasus was no longer as sleek as she had been when she had signed her own discharge forms. Two months of desk jockeying had taken the hard edges from her muscles, as the paperwork required for her retirement had shackled her to her desk, and her mounting boredom had led to her graze on more and more of the sample treats she had received.
In fact if any of her old squad had come to visit her, they would have had trouble recognising her as the steel-eyed taskmaster of the Wonderbolts. It wasn’t like she was fat or anything, or so she told herself, but there was a definite layer of pudge growing over her stomach, shaking and wobbling as she moved; her plot cheeks pressed against each other lightly with each step, and the faintest hint of a second chin could be seen growing underneath her mouth whenever she leant her head down to pick up another box of treats.
Just like she was doing now; a layer of glaze and crumbs was encrusted around her lips as she swallowed the doughnut in her mouth and lazily licked her lips before a hoof flipped to the next page in her book. Her eyes were barely able to focus on the words as they drifted over the page, before she slumped back into the couch cushions and let the book fall from her hooves where it tumbled to the ground.
“Ugh, so bored!” Spitfire groused to herself, she’d been alone for the last six days and the sheer tedium of her inability to do anything save read, sleep, and eat had been growing more and more pervasive as time flew by. She’d read all the books in her house before, and her normal recourse for burning away boredom had been taken away from her. Leaning down, she barely noticed as she picked up the last doughnut from the box of twelve; multi-colored sprinkles and white glaze stained her lips again as she grazed idly on the calorie-laden treat which disappeared down her throat in three bites. Her empty mouth prompted her to reach back down to the box where her hoof only found air.
“Empty already?” Spitfire huffed as she flopped back against the couch, her body settling into the indent that she had worn into the cushion during the last week of indolence. “Why do they make these things so small?” She ignored the couch’s quiet creaking as she rolled herself to her hooves, and ignored the empty packets as they scattered around her; lethargically, she trotted towards the kitchen.
It was about the only exercise Spitfire had gotten for the last week, walking from room to room, and it showed. Her steps were slow and heavy, and there was a faint trail in the carpet leading from the couch to the kitchen where her hooves had worn away the fabric slightly.
In fact, she walked the path by instinct at this point, while her brain spun its wheels trying to think of something to do, barely aware of her body reaching the kitchen. Still lost in thought, she sat down and unconsciously pulled out several boxes of cookies. Each was the size of her hoof, and she proceeded to eat them one by one until her mouth, once again, started to graze on air.
“Come on, there’s gotta be more.” Spitfire moaned as she slumped in her seat, her stomach gurgling underneath her as it struggled to digest the load Spitfire had forced into it in her boredom, before a yawn split her mouth wide open.
Slipping from the stool, Spitfire landed heavily on her hooves and staggered out of the kitchen, blearily grabbing two family-sized bags of marshmallows on the way. She plodded back to the couch, not noticing how her swollen stomach swayed and sloshed underneath her with each step.
Sighing morosely, she closed her eyes, chewing on a hoofful of the soft white fluff, her daydreams of flight slowly turning to actual dreams as she drifted to sleep. Her hoof remained in the half empty, family-sized bag of treats as she snored, and her stomach burbled.
Another week passed, Spitfire slowly growing more and more sedentary as her stomach bloated and her flanks swelled. The trips from her couch to the kitchen were becoming fewer and fewer as she slowly dragged greater loads of food through the hallway to her resting spot. Each trip included at least one snack break, usually more if she was feeling particularly hungry or bored. Although the two may as well have been synonymous at this point.
By this point the pegasus had noticed her growing body; how could she not notice when her stomach was swaying enough to touch her legs while her plot cheeks clapped against each other at every step? But instead of the revulsion she’d thought she would feel, there had been some sort of twisted pride. She was doing something again. It might have been something that she’d never have considered doing before, but it gave her a routine, and sticking to routines had always been a point of pride to her.
Plus she could always burn it off, if she wanted to.
Thoughts of being slim again were far from her mind however as she leaned forwards, her chubby cheeks brushing against the side of a carton as she picked up another Wingling bakewell.
The crate she had opened first had been starting to run low, and she’d gathered all the remaining cartons to her couch over the last day—with plenty of small stops to quiet her rumbling stomach, or to catch her breath, or because the clock said it was time for a snack—and placed them in a row in front of her couch, which at this point was more her bed. The furniture was seemingly floating in a sea of discarded cardboard, plastic, foil, and soda bottles.
Oh yes, those had been a pleasant discovery, Spitfire mused as she chewed languidly. Apparently Cloudsdale Confections had some sort of deal with the Canterlot Cola Corporation, and Sweet Deal’s bosses had seen to it that there were a couple of crates stuffed to the brim with plastic bottles full of the sugary liquid. It was so much easier to just pop a bottle open and chug the fizzy liquid down, than it was to sit around for minutes waiting for the kettle to boil. And she still hadn’t received her regular food deliveries, so it was soda or water at this point.
Swallowing, Spitfire licked at the remains of the tart that were encrusted around her mouth, her tongue smearing the white filling over her lips before her stomach burbled. Then her mouth opened wide, a belch tearing its way out and setting her entire body jiggling and wobbling as the expulsion of rancid air left her.
“Urgh, that was a big one.” Spitfire moaned to herself as her hooves crept down to massage her stomach, both of them sinking slightly into the layers of pudge that coated her gut as they pressed and kneaded her soft flesh, shaking loose several more burps as she did.
“Means I’ve got room for more now, though,” the pegasus muttered to herself, before leaning her head down and continuing with her feast of tarts. Glazed cherries, lemon slices, white icing, pastry crusts, and other flecks of food built up on her bulging cheeks as she worked her way through the rapidly dwindling feast, until all that was left was empty cardboard and plastic trays.
Spitfire wheezed as she tried to roll herself off of her couch, her solidly packed stomach forcing her to shuffle her body across with her hooves until her gut was hanging over the edge and she used its mass as a counterweight to drag the rest of her to her hooves.
She landed heavily, and the sheer momentum of her mass almost dragged her to the side for a couple of steps before she adjusted to her ponderously swaying stomach. Her entire body swayed and wobbled as she stood there, trying to catch her breath, before she shuffled forwards, the lowest curve of her stomach brushed aside the top layer of trash that had accumulated around her resting place.
“That’s one crate, urp, down.”
Spitfire lay on her couch, her body wobbling fitfully as her hooves slowly and jerkily dragged another container of eclairs to her snout. The first one leaving its job as an impromptu feedbag as she belched with enough force to send the discarded packaging flying from her snout, and into the opposite wall—a distance of at least six meters.
If anypony had been around to see her, they would not have been able to recognize the goldenrod pegasus from a month ago.
She’d spent another two weeks doing nothing but laying on top of her couch, doing nothing but eating and sleeping, doing nothing but growing bigger, fatter, and lazier.
She hadn’t even had to leave her couch for the last week. After finishing the crate of Wingling bakewells, she’d taken a week to slowly move everything still uneaten into her den, where she could just graze on the fattening pastries, consume calorie-laden chocolates, and chug down fizzy drinks without having to pull herself from the creaking and groaning sofa that she was close to outgrowing.
Her bloated stomach hung inches from the edge of the cushions, taking up almost two thirds of the sofa’s space, the gurgling and churning organ packed solid as she forced more food down her throat without cessation except to sleep. The curve of her rump was almost higher than the sofa’s backboard and her flanks pushed against the creaking frame while her stomach pushed forwards. Her tail had long since disappeared between her plot cheeks as they swelled outwards, but she could still feel it as it flicked back and forth, tickling her flesh enough to make her squirm, which inevitably set off another belching chain as her stomach audibly moaned. Belches that would set her entire body wobbling, her growing rolls of flab slapping against each other in a cacophony that reminded her faintly of the noise of hundreds of pegasi all taking off at the same time, their wings beating at the sky.
Her wings certainly weren’t going to be doing that. Forget flying, she didn’t know if she could still move them properly anymore. The layers of back flab had slowly started to encroach down her sides, trapping the base of her wings whenever she tried to ruffle her feathers, making the movement slow and unwieldy.
Leaning forward she rammed her chubby cheeks against the cardboard box, the sheer amount of flesh she was trying to squeeze into the box tearing it slightly as she gorged on the chocolate- and cream-filled pastries inside. The snorting and grunting sound of her piggish consumption mixed with the groaning of her swollen stomach and the creaking of her straining couch to fill the room with an orchestra of disgusting noise that echoed quietly from the walls before another rumbling belch interrupted it.
Spitfire wheezed and hiccuped as the expulsion of rancid air finished, before grunting as she languidly moved a flabby hoof to rub at her groaning gut. Letting her swollen stomach churn as she tried to massage away some of the tension that came from being so overfilled, while her eyes drifted up the clock on the opposite wall, its white face marred by several small stains from when she’d accidently launched cartons that still had some food in them.
“Five to, urp, noon.” Her eyes moved from the clock to the pile of snack cartons sitting within easy reaching distance. “Got some, time ‘fore my, noon nap, for a snack.” Her free hoof reached out to the pile before dragging back a bottle of cola, the fizzy liquid sloshing and bubbling as she twisted the cap off, before sticking the mouth of the bottle between her lips, not letting any of the frothing, bubbling liquid spill out. Spitfire tilted her head back and chugged desperately as she drained the bottle, small streams of soda trickling from the corner of her mouth and dribbling down over her triple chins, which jiggled with each frenzied gulp.
The entire three liter bottle lasted no more than thirty seconds before Spitfire’s cheeks bulged with air, a stentorian belch leaving her lips as the bottle rocketed across the room to crash into the cloudcrete wall with enough force to dent the fluffy material.
The pegasus just lay there, her body heaving as she tried to catch her breath, her lungs straining against the crushing weight of her body while her heart hammered in her chest. The heavy beats filled her ears as it thumped rhythmically against her ribcage.
It took the gluttonous mare until she had caught her breath to realize that the pounding she was hearing wasn’t coming from inside her, but the front door instead, and she groaned loudly.
“Com’ on.” She wheezed while she slowly shifted her weight across the couch, the practiced shuffling motion pushing her lard-laden gut off first so it would drag her down onto her hooves, which sank into the ocean of discarded packaging, her stomach crushing the empty packets underneath as it hung down to her knees, before she started to waddle her way to the door.
She had barely gone four steps before she remembered why she’d stopped walking from the kitchen to the couch. Her stiff legs and weakening muscles screamed with the load they were expected to bear. Her slow atrophy into complete immobility had only been exacerbated by her absolute refusal to move for any reason other than to eat.
Then she encountered the second problem of her complete fall to gluttony. Her bloated and distended gut became stuck in the door frame as she waddled her bulk forwards, rolls of flab bunching up as she pressed herself forwards. The sheer amount of effort involved in squirming and squeezing her lard-laden body through the narrow doorway made her weakened legs tremble and ache, and once she was finally free she was forced to lean against the wall as she gasped for breath. All while somepony continued to hammer at her front door.
It took her another fifteen minutes of huffing and puffing her way through her house to reach her front door, and she could feel sweat pouring down her sides as her stomach wobbled back and forth against her knees, while her plot jiggled up and down, the two boulder-like cheeks clapping against each other with every step.
It felt like she was being tortured as she lifted a hoof to the door handle, the three legs that remained on the ground trembling as the weight they were supposed to support increased dramatically.
Spitfire almost collapsed forwards as she leant her weight against the handle, and the door swung open—revealing Sweet Deal, standing with a hoof in the air as he prepared to knock again.
“What, what do you want, Grease-Stain?” She wheezed as her hoof returned to the ground, her limb squashing into her stomach as her pendulous gut swayed and sloshed with the motion. “Better be good, ‘m missing my nap, for you.”
“Miss Spitfire,” The unicorn was rendered speechless by the pig of a pegasus barely able to stand up in front of him. He’d sent the free sample mostly as a joke, hoping that her boredom after retiring would goad her into trying some samples. Not into becoming a winged blob. “I’m, uh, here to follow up on our, um, previous meeting.” He couldn’t stop staring, and his ears pinned themselves to his skull as her stomach growled loudly enough that his stammering was muffled for a second. “You remember the endorsement deal, right?”
“Yeah,” Spitfire spoke as Sweet Deal stammered himself into silence, “but before I go, putting my name, to your products, I got one question.” She stared over her puffed up and jiggling cheeks at the sweating stallion, her eyes narrowing while she licked her lips.
“You got any more, ‘free samples’?”
