Absolutely Baked

“I’ve been fine-tuning these double-chocolate triple-fudge single-caramel cookies for a while now,” said Pinkie Pie as she carried a huge tray fresh out of the oven. “Ya think I’ve got it down this time?”

Pot Luck groaned quietly, his eyes squinting in pain. He wasn’t sure he could take much more. His stomach was stuffed to the brim with pastry, batter, berry juice and regret, to the point he felt like one more taste would cause him to explode.

What also concerned him was how he was eye-level with the bakery’s roof. By now, Pot Luck’s body was a gigantic dollop of green fat, a plethora of thick rolls sagging down toward the cracked ground. His neck had been lost thanks to his chins resembling a stack of rear tractor tyres and his cheeks likened to a pair of deflated yoga balls, all dominating his face. All four of his hooves had been lost, buried within the folds of blubber sloping down his gigantic bulk. His posterior’s circumference was enough to put the Castle of Friendship to shame.

The only clues to Pot Luck being a pony were the small tuft of ginger mane on his head, the tip of a tail poking out from his bottom back rolls, and the ridiculously stretched and malformed shamrock cutie marks doing their best to cover his carriage-sized flanks. He looked like he’d fit right in among the rolling hills in his homeland of Shireland.

Not only that, but since he was outside, a crowd of onlookers had surrounded him. The locals stared up at this gigantic mountain of green gluttony in both horror and amazement.

“Celestia above,” a stallion gasped. “Are you sure that’s a pony?”

“This is what I keep saying,” a griffin said, hovering at Pot’s face and prodding a claw into one of his pillowy cheeks. “Ponies keep eating sweets, and it’s gonna come back to bite ‘em.”

“He’s so squishy!” chirped a filly. Pot felt a small hoof poke one of the many overinflated rolls on his flank, and he couldn’t help but let out a little giggle at the sensation. “And jiggly!”

But that wasn’t what worried him most. No, that was when Pinkie Pie returned to him with yet another concoction out of the kitchen. For what felt like weeks, Pinkie had been stuffing him stupid with her many, many experimental recipes, and he couldn’t stop her. Not only was she always whizzing around too fast for him, but part of him was enjoying all those treats. All those cakes, pies, cupcakes and muffins being stuffed down his gullet He was convinced that part of him was his stomach, with its never-ending gurgles and grumbles sending tremors through the ground around Ponyville.

Maybe he wouldn’t feel so embarrassed about it if he were still inside the kitchen, but Pinkie insisted she roll him out of the surplus delivery shutter after he started taking up too much room in the kitchen. He had to be buttered up to get his girth unstuck from the doorframe, and once Pinkie had popped him out, she had given him the whole stick to cheer him up.

He grunted as he felt that all-too-familiar rhythmic pressing of four hooves bouncing up his stomach. Sure enough, the pink terror popped into his sight - what his cheeks left of it - with a small mountain of cookies balanced in a bowl. The problem was his stomach was already stuffed up with many helpings of her patented chocolate-boulder sundae supreme, her triple decker doughnut-pancake surprise, and at least three attempts of a wedding cake that would leave a village of yaks unconscious. Suffice to say, he had very little room left.

“P-Punkuh…” he whimpered, having developed a mumble from his cheeks puckering his lips. The poor stallion’s voice had deepened by the layers of neck fat pressing against his vocal chords and slowed by the sheer effort it took to move his oral muscles, making him appear to speak in slow motion. “N-Nuh mure…ooouuurrrrrrrrrp… t-tuu full… mmhhh… hic-buuuurrrrrp… shtumach… ooohhh… gunna… brrrruuuuaaaaaaarrrrrrrp… b-bursht…”

But Pinkie either didn’t understand what he’d tried to say, or she simply didn’t care. The mischievous glint in her eye suggested the latter as she crammed cookie after cookie into his mouth by hoof. And being the building-sized food dump he had become, as soon as food entered his mouth, he chewed and swallowed through instinct.

After she poured the last baker’s dozen into his gaping maw, she gave Pot a loving pat on the head. “You’re such a good taste tester, Lucky! Always eating everything up.”

Pot could only manage a hiccup, and a groan escaped him as Pinkie slid back down the curvature of his gut. He felt her press a hoof into it again, but was thankful she was at least being gentle.

“Holy moly!” she gasped. “You’re more stuffed up than the apple-berry surprise pie I make for Applejack!” She leaned toward a nearby spectator and whispered, “The surprise is the one strawberry I sneak in. She hasn’t found it yet, but you didn’t hear it from me.”

She skipped back toward the kitchen, stopping at the door to look over her shoulder at Pot Luck. “Don’tcha worry, Lucky, I know just what you need.”

If Pot could stretch the corners of his mouth anymore, he’d have a small hopeful smile on his fat face. Maybe she was finally going to let up?

“A nice big pitcher of chocolate milk!” She beamed ear-to-ear. “Real thick and topped with whipped cream. Always makes my tummy ache go away, so it’s bound to make your tummy good and happy too!”

Pot Luck watched helplessly as Pinkie Pie disappeared into Sugarcube Corner. His whine was drowned out by his stomach’s ominous, thunderous gurgle…