Augmentor

Ms. Cerisa Primrose cut a striking figure—a complexion like marzipan, hair a deep shade of ripe tangerine that reached well past her shoulders, dimpled face, and mint green eyes that betrayed a scampish glimmer. She was trim and stylishly dressed in a vibrant but tasteful cherry-red business suit. As there were few visitors to the factory, a former break room predating the arrival of the Oompa-Loompas was re-purposed as a makeshift conference space. The cinderblock walls were painted powder-blue, accented by a single horizontal chartreuse stripe midway down. The afternoon sunshine, warm as butterscotch, streamed through the tall west-facing windows. Comfortable chairs, their cushions sporting candy patterns, encircled a sturdy but well-worn wooden table. Overhead, a single-cord pendant lamp with a glass shade resembling a bowl full of colorful candies cast a welcoming glow above the table. Thick glass pipes leading to the Chocolate Room crossed the ceiling. Charlie and Mr. Wonka ushered Ms. Primrose into the room. “May we offer you a beverage? Coffee? Tea? Soda?” “Tea, please.” “Ah, the natural choice of a refined palate, I see,” said Mr. Wonka. “Please, have a seat.” Mr. Wonka situated himself at the head of the table. Next to his chair was an ornate gumball machine. “Cerisa Primrose,” he began. “What a lovely name.” When everyone was seated, Mr. Wonka cleared his throat and turned the handle of the gumball machine, which dispensed a plastic capsule that he popped open. He pulled out a slip of paper, which he read silently, then nodded to himself and placed the slip of paper in front of him on the table. “Tell me, Ms. Primrose, how long have you been in marketing? It can’t have been very long. I’d venture to say you’re barely a couple of years out of school.” Ms. Primrose straightened in her chair, smoothing the fabric of her smart skirt suit as she met Wonka's gaze levelly. “Oh, Mr. Wonka, you flatter me. The truth is that I’ve been in the marketing field for nearly a decade now.” Ms. Primrose took a sip of tea. “Maybe I’ve not had quite as much experience as the true veterans of this industry, but my passion for marketing runs deep. I believe my fresh perspective and keen eye for emerging trends set me apart in this rapidly evolving industry. But I’m ready now for a new career challenge. What an opportunity it would be to learn from a master confectioner like yourself!” “You were saying about flattery?” remarked Mr. Wonka. He seemed to suppress a smile as he scratched a few lines in a notepad. He selected another capsule from the vending machine, read the enclosed note, opened his briefcase, and produced a chocolate bar, which he slid across the table to Ms. Primrose. WONKA’S WHIPPLE-SCRUMPTIOUS FUDGEMALLOW DELIGHT, it said on the wrapper. “At one time, these lovelies were my all-time best seller,” said Mr. Wonka. “My lucky candy bar!” announced Charlie proudly. “I found my Golden Ticket tucked into the wrapper of a Whipple-Scrumptious Fudgemallow Delight bar. They’ve always been my favorite.” “But sadly,” Mr. Wonka went on, “they seem to have fallen out of fashion in recent days. Ms. Primrose, how would you market a classic for the contemporary candy age?” Ms. Primrose delicately picked up the chocolate bar and examined it critically, holding it up to the light, scrutinizing its size and shape. She carefully unwrapped a corner of the bar and inhaled deeply, as a sommelier might assess a fine wine. Then, she took a tiny, delicate nibble, closing her eyes and savoring the chocolate as she did so. “It’s been years,” she said. “And it’s just as decadent as I remember.” She turned the bar over to look at the wrapper again. “That’s certainly a large font on the wrapper, isn’t it,” she said. “Iconic, but you might consider smaller text, a brighter color…maybe even a cartoon mascot. They’re very popular right now. Perhaps a word puzzle or maze on the back of the wrapper.” Mr. Wonka continued to pose questions, one by one, milking the interview for dramatic effect, though by now he had already reached his decision. “Ms. Primrose,” he asked, for his final query: “Above all, what does candy mean to you?” “Fun,” she said definitively. Mr. Wonka was taken with the remarkable young woman. She appeared ambitious, eager to learn, self-assured. Perhaps overconfident? No matter. She was young, and an excess of confidence was the hallmark of youth. Mr. Wonka admired her verve and enthusiasm. She was appropriately business-minded but not brusque. She had an easy charm about her. Ms. Primrose was, in short, as enchanting as her namesake. Mr. Wonka knew this had not escaped Charlie, who was, naturally, enthralled with her. Mr. Wonka was careful not to let on too quickly that he intended to hire Ms. Primrose as their new Director of Marketing. He waited several weeks before finally announcing the decision to Charlie, who was, of course, overjoyed upon learning the news. Ms. Primrose was, as far as he was concerned, perfect. There was a great flurry of mundane activity that transpired when Ms. Primrose began at the factory. Red tape must be waded through even in the candy industry. There were telephone calls to be made, forms to be filled out, office supplies to be issued, operating procedures to be explained, and rules to be delineated. Indeed, Mr. Wonka was content to have Ms. Primrose occupy herself with busywork for some time. She was, initially, Director of Marketing in name only, and largely deskbound—seeing little of the factory beyond her office, which disappointed Charlie no end. He would find various pretenses for visiting her daily, to say good morning, to see how she was getting on, to ask whether there was anything she needed. Mr. Wonka recognized Ms. Primrose’s talents, of course, and it pained him to be so slow in allowing her to exercise her full potential, but he was also understandably cautious. He needed to ensure, however obsessive it might seem, that his faith in her was not misplaced. But he was very much pleased by her progress and little by little increased her purview. “We’ll need to grant Ms. Primrose greater access to the factory,” he advised Charlie one day. “She’ll have limited clearance for the time being, of course. I want you to begin showing her around. Start with a room or two a day, and don’t reveal too much at any one time. And we’ll need to keep an eye on her, sweet and charming though she may be. Be careful that she doesn’t try anything that’s not ready for eating. And for heaven’s sake, don’t dare let her anywhere near the gum machine!” Charlie thought the last admonition an odd one, but it made him wonder if Mr. Wonka knew more than he was letting on about Charlie’s machinations, for it was only because of Charlie that Ms. Primrose was the new Director of Marketing—or that there was a Director of Marketing at all. In the weeks that followed, Charlie worked closely with Ms. Primrose, and a solid rapport soon flourished between the two. She was like a big sister to him, though she was technically his employee. But while she was the more experienced in business, she was nevertheless new to the factory, and Charlie felt that they were, in a sense, learning the secrets of the trade together. Charlie wanted badly to let her sample the Pudge Fudge straight away. But it was too soon. And he couldn’t just give it to her, could he? No, that would be like Mr. Wonka offering the gum to Violet. If Ms. Primrose was to have the Pudge Fudge, Charlie would have to test her somehow. It had to be her choice. In the meantime, he would have to be content with letting her sample Wonka’s other offerings, which were in ample supply. But if it could be said of anyone that they knew the meaning of moderation, it was Ms. Primrose. Charlie marveled at her self-control. She sampled candies like a connoisseur, savoring their taste but never nibbling more than the tiniest bit. As the months rolled by, Ms. Primrose endeared herself more and more to Mr. Wonka, and he let down his guard accordingly. He no longer shadowed her relentlessly, content in the knowledge that she was trustworthy and dedicated and decidedly not a spy. And for her part, once accorded the opportunity, Ms. Primrose quickly established herself as a thoroughly competent Director of Marketing. It was not long before the chocolate factory posted record profits, with growth expected.

AUTHOR'S NOTE: I wrote this one about a decade ago for an audience of one—a feedee test reader (she knows who she is) who seemed to enjoy it. Now that there's an "expanded Wonka universe," I figured I'd dust this off. Everything old is new again. --T.J. ______________________________ _____ Charlie Bucket's life had begun to settle into a familiar rhythm—even something resembling normalcy—if such a thing could exist within Willy Wonka's chocolate factory. Now grown, Charlie stood as the heir apparent. He was still an apprentice, but nonetheless he was primed to take the helm when the time came. The past 15 years had seemed like an endless tempest of activity in the wake of the fateful Golden Ticket tour. But eventually, the Bucket family acclimated to their new home, and Mr. Wonka had begun to teach Charlie the inner workings of the operation. And so Charlie’s days were now spent exploring the endless rooms and corridors of the great facility, day by day unlocking more of its fascinating secrets. Now that Charlie’s grandparents had passed on, he was keenly aware of Mr. Wonka's advancing age, but the elderly chocolatier seemed as lively and quick-witted as ever. Was Mr. Wonka now the oldest person Charlie knew? Though Charlie had seen firsthand the chaos caused by Wonka’s elixir of youth—the equally miraculous and disastrous Wonka-Vite—he suspected that Mr. Wonka might indulge in a furtive tipple or two of the potion every now and again, if only to hold back the encroaching clutches of time. The vastness of the factory stretched out before Charlie, and it would take him years—perhaps even until the last of Mr. Wonka’s days—to learn the nuances of candy-making, manufacturing, distribution, and all the other strategic business considerations that still seemed to him a world away. Mr. Wonka managed to reserve a sliver of time for his own personal projects. Today, with an air of both glee and important business, they traversed maze-like hallways, until at last Mr. Wonka directed Charlie towards a red door bearing the sign: "Inventing Room - Private - Keep Out." Charlie remembered this room fondly. It was Mr. Wonka’s favorite room in the entire factory. He still guarded it very closely and until this day had forbidden Charlie—or anyone else—from entering. “Charlie,” said Mr. Wonka, producing an ornate key from the pocket of his plum-colored coat and opening the door, “I want to show you a wonderful invention of mine. It’s a little project I started working on after I sent out the Golden Tickets.” From a small refrigerator, he removed a tray covered in waxed paper and placed it on a table. “Voilà!” he said, peeling off the covering with a flourish. "It looks like fudge," said Charlie, a hint of disappointment in his voice. After all the wonders he had seen in this chocolate factory, a pan of fudge seemed so...ordinary. "Indeed it is fudge," Mr. Wonka declared giddily. “But this is no ordinary fudge. Do you, by chance, remember the three-course meal gum? “The one that turned Violet Beauregarde into a blueberry?” asked Charlie. “Precisely,” said Mr. Wonka. "Oh yes, of course I remember that gum," Charlie replied. It was an understatement. Charlie could hardly forget Violet's monumental metamorphosis. He had replayed those few astonishing minutes in his mind many times after the tour: Violet, ballooning with each defiant chew, as Mrs. Beauregarde's panicked shrieks echoed through the Inventing Room; and the other guests gawking, speechless, as the Oompa-Loompas whooped and whirled in their blueberry ballet, maneuvering the colossal blue orb towards the boat. But later, as he watched from up high in the glass elevator while Violet and her parents departed the factory, a wave of relief overtook him. It appeared that the de-juicing had worked! All the same, a part of him thought Violet deserved to remain a blueberry forever. It gave him an almost vindictive delight to know that she was still out there somewhere, just as strikingly violet from head to toe as she had been when she left the factory…her purple pigmentation a permanent penance for her transgressions. Yet Violet's transformation baffled Charlie. Why that particular punishment? Mr. Wonka, aware of Violet’s gum-chomping prowess, surely knew she wouldn’t be able to resist the world’s very first three-course-meal gum. A different but far less powerful gum, perhaps with a particularly putrid aftertaste or excessive stickiness, could have served as a lesson. But no, Wonka’s magic chewing gum turned her into an immense round fruit. Was it for the guests' amusement? A dramatic comeuppance, altering Violet's very identity so that she became the literal embodiment of “just desserts”? Charlie marveled at the perfect justice of it all. She had brought it on herself. Mr. Wonka spoke up again, disrupting Charlie’s reverie. “You’ve already seen my patented ingredient-compression methods at work," Mr. Wonka went on. "To all appearances, that gum was just an ordinary, thin stick of chewing gum like any other...but somehow I managed to compress heaven-only-knows how many gallons of blueberry juice into it. Hundreds. Maybe a thousand, even.” "Well," he explained, "I'm working along a similar principle with this fudge here. Do you remember when Augustus got stuck in the pipe on his way to the Fudge Room? And the Oompa-Loompas burst into song and taunted the Gloops about their son Augustus being blended up into fudge?" Charlie nodded. "I was afraid he'd be boiled and chopped up, just like they said he would." "They were just joking, of course," chuckled Mr. Wonka. "You know the Oompa-Loompas never let a good joke go to waste. Augustus was very much all right, as you saw for yourself. I never would have let such a terrible thing happen. But for me, the puzzle's the thing...the challenge...and I started to wonder...what *would* Augustus-infused fudge be like? What would its properties be? "I decided, first and foremost," Mr. Wonka went on, "that it would have to be tremendously fattening. And it would stimulate the appetite no end. As you'll remember, Augustus was always ravenous. He had an infinite appetite. "The problem, as I pointed out to Mrs. Gloop, was that Augustus-flavored fudge would taste terrible. But what if I could distill all of those Gloopy qualities and purify them and somehow make a delicious confection worthy of the Wonka stamp of excellence? What if I could condense more sugar and fat and flavor and sheer empty calories into a square of fudge than an entire cartload of the stuff should rightfully be able to hold, to make it the richest, most dense, and absolutely the most decadent fudge ever created? "Well, Charlie,” Mr. Wonka announced triumphantly, “This is it! This is that fudge. It's extremely high-quality stuff. I only use premium ingredients, naturally. My finest dark cocoa, which can only be used when the lights are off. And confectioner's sugar made from sugar cane watered exclusively with sugar water. And my patented cold butter, from Arctic cows. And lots of super-heavy cream. Super-heavy cream is one of the secret ingredients. It's so heavy that it takes two Oompa-Loompas just to lift a single cup of it!” "Pudge Fudge,” mused Charlie with a laugh. “Who would buy such a thing?" "Ah," sighed Mr. Wonka dejectedly. "Therein lies the problem. I'm afraid I won't be able to find a market for it. You see, the public is becoming much more health-conscious, and a fudge that's positively overloaded with all the things that make fudge so delicious just doesn't fill the bill nowadays." Sometimes Charlie just couldn't fathom the way Mr. Wonka's mind worked. Mr. Wonka and the Oompa-Loompas had chastised Augustus Gloop for being overweight and greedy, yet now Mr. Wonka had invented a new, extremely fattening, appetite-stimulating treat. Nevertheless, Charlie thought it was an oddly wonderful idea and was instantly glad that Mr. Wonka had created such a thing. It could solve world hunger someday! For Charlie, whose family had been so poor that they had little to eat besides watery cabbage soup and stale bread thinly spread with rancid margarine—and for one bleak moment even teetered on the brink of starvation—something like Pudge Fudge would have seemed like a proper nutritional supplement. "I've not given up hope on this stuff," added Mr. Wonka cheerfully. "It's really no more frivolous than some of my other ideas...like exploding candies for your enemies, or marshmallow pillows, or mint jujubes that stain the teeth green. Pudge Fudge has got to be useful for something." “Like what, Mr. Wonka?” asked Charlie. It was a rhetorical question. To Charlie’s mind, this “Pudge Fudge,” if it could do what Mr. Wonka claimed, was intrinsically useful. "Well, for instance, think of all the romantic disputes it could prevent," suggested Mr. Wonka. "Say a lady's beau presents her with a box of Pudge Fudge for Valentine's Day. She'll never bother to ask him again if an outfit makes her look fat. They’ll both know the answer to that!” Charlie was struck with an idea of his own. "You could give it to your date before the big dance...and make her a queen-sized prom queen!" "Now you're thinking, Charlie! You're getting an agile mind for business already!" "Who needs thin chocolate-mint cookies when there's Pudge Fudge!" laughed Charlie. "And it will be a godsend to mothers-in-law everywhere," proposed Mr. Wonka. "If a meddling matriarch thinks her daughter-in-law is underfed, she can simply slip the young woman a bit of Wonka's Pudge Fudge, and right before her very eyes, the wispy wife will burgeon into a bulging bride." Charlie knew the ways of mothers-in-law, having lived with all of his grandparents. Mrs. Bucket herself had been accused by Grandma Georgina of being underfed, but then, so was the whole family. Mr. Wonka sighed. "But the very idea of such a candy seems sinful even to me. And in any case, it remains reservedly untested. Not to worry, my good fellow...I'll figure it out someday." Charlie was now fascinated by the purported properties of this fudge, which so recently had seemed mundane. He positively *had* to see the stuff work its magic. Would it really do all that Mr. Wonka said it would? Charlie had no doubt. Confectionery curiosities were commonplace in Wonka’s factory. Rest assured that Charlie wracked his brains for weeks trying to think of ways to arrange for a suitable tester of the Pudge Fudge. After much rumination, he arrived at what he thought was an exceedingly clever idea "Mr. Wonka, I've been thinking. What we need here at the factory…," he announced authoritatively, “…is a good marketer! Someone who can promote ideas like exploding candy and luminous lollipops and three-course-meal gum…and Pudge Fudge…and get them into the candy shops!" Mr. Wonka was impressed with Charlie's business acumen. His protégé was learning quickly. Mr. Wonka agreed that it was a good idea in theory, if perhaps not in practice. He was a cynical chocolatier and knew that his counterparts in the industry would take great delight in ruining him, given the slightest opportunity. It was a surprisingly cutthroat business, this candy world. So Mr. Wonka took pains to keep his factory safe from his rivals, or for that matter, from anyone who conceivably could sell out to his candy-making foes. You see, Charlie," said Mr. Wonka. "Before I sent out those tickets, the factory had been sealed shut for ten long years. The Oompa-Loompas have been my only workers in that whole time. I haven't hired a single employee since those double-crossing spies —masquerading as workers—almost put me out of business. I don't know that I could ever trust an outsider again. And the Golden Ticket tour only served to remind me that everyone is so untrustworthy." "But wasn't the whole purpose of the tour to find your heir, Mr. Wonka?" said Charlie indignantly. "Am I untrustworthy? You chose me. Or at least that's what you told me." Mr. Wonka admitted that he had, of course, entrusted Charlie with the entire factory. After all, it was essentially Charlie Bucket’s Chocolate Factory. Mr. Wonka could only guide him, but ultimately it would be Charlie calling the shots. Charlie went on. "The candy business is changing, Mr. Wonka. Advertising is everything nowadays. Even if you make the very best candy in the world—and I think you do—no one will know unless the public is familiar with your brand. I'm afraid shopkeepers won't stock their shelves based on advice from Oompa-Loompas. We need someone whose job it is to make sure that the Wonka brand is Number One. Even with the help of all the Oompa-Loompas in the factory, you and I can't do everything." Mr. Wonka paced for several minutes, deep in thought, tapping his fingers together pensively. "Fine," he said at last. "We'll place an ad. But only in the most reputable dedicated trade journals, my boy. We can't hire just any riff-raff off the street." And so they set about finding applicants for such an enviable position. Mr. Wonka was not one for stuffy formalities, and so he and Charlie tore through a great many rough drafts using the typical boring verbiage of job postings. But finally it was whittled down to this: "MR. WILLY WONKA, candy-maker extraordinaire, seeks distinguished candidates for the position of Marketing Director for his world-renowned Chocolate Factory. Qualified individuals will be at the utmost zenith of their professional development and must be absolutely and passionately dedicated to promoting the very finest and delightfullest chocolates and candies known to human- and Oompa-Loompa-kind. No Vermicious Knids need apply." Many jobseekers who read the ad assumed, of course, that it had to be a joke. Mr. Wonka was nonetheless a shrewd businessman and intended to hold any serious contenders for the job to rigorous standards. Charlie, of course, sat in for the interviews, but it was Mr. Wonka who conducted them. Charlie still knew little of the practicalities of business, but he observed his mentor carefully and did his best to appear to be a person of influence. But he very much did have a say, as Mr. Wonka reminded him, and whoever was hired to fill the position might very well work directly for Charlie one day. It proved to be a tedious procedure. Mr. Wonka filtered all applicants through a stringent screening process. Most of the applicants, as you would expect, were weeded out well before they set foot inside the factory. Even with these safeguards in place, a few of those who made it through turned out to be hangers-on who were entirely unqualified. Others were sincere but inexperienced. Still others showed potential but for one reason or another would not be, as Mr. Wonka put it, a good “fit.” Yet somehow almost all of them seemed strangely dull and conservative. What business did they have working in the candy industry? Charlie thought anyone who worked in a chocolate factory should be eccentric and artistic and fun-loving. After all, what was candy, if not the sugary manifestation of fun itself? Charlie and Mr. Wonka were beginning to think that it was an altogether pointless endeavor. But then, among the last pool of interviewees, came Ms. Cerisa Primrose...

Thanks for the kind words! Here's a link to the best-quality upload of the original Munchies PSA: (Watch Out for) The Munchies --T.J.

Part Two How long had it been since life had been “normal”? Bonnie tried to recollect; she guessed it had been at least a year-and-a-half. Or was it almost three? The details were murky. It might just as well have been a couple of weeks as a couple of years. Days and weeks seemed to melt into each other like Creamsicles on hazy summer afternoons. Bonnie was losing her formerly keen sense of time—not to mention her figure. Endless delivery and takeout, diminished pressure to look presentable, lounging around, constant munching—this was normalcy now. There was no denying that it had been a fattening couple of years, give or take. Bonnie had always eaten sensibly and had managed to maintain her high-school weight—a tidbit she was embarrassed to once have secretly prided herself on. It wasn’t that she was vain—she didn’t think so, at least. It was just how it was; it was simply a fact that applied to her no less than, say, her natural auburn hair color. She was just naturally thin. Was. Had always been, until the pandemic started. She wasn’t fat now, exactly. Out-of-shape, certainly. But not fat…yet. She was flabby—and was having a tough time coming to terms with it. And there was no denying that she had been eating like a pig. She knew she was flirting with fatness, but she kept telling herself it was a temporary state of affairs. Bonnie was thankful to still be gainfully employed. Her job had afforded her the luxury of working from home. And it was working remotely that had spoiled her. She didn’t want to go back to the office—that much she knew. There had been a push by management to return to the brick-and-mortar workplace, but so far she had successfully eluded it. She had come to far prefer staying at home, where she could be as casual as she wanted and work how she wanted in the environment she wanted, with easy access to all her creature comforts. She thought of herself as reasonably gregarious, though even that was changing. An active social life was a twenty-something’s game. Now, at 33, Bonnie wondered whether she might be past all that. Somehow, these days, she was content to lounge around and snack in front of the TV in her free time, something she once would have dismissed as the worst kind of laziness. She was concerned as well about what her co-workers would think of her if they saw her again now in person. It was easy enough to hide the extra weight on video calls with the right lighting and camera placement, but there would be no hiding it in the flesh. Bonnie never imagined she would ever put on so much weight. Her! Bonnie McFadden, the twig! That wispy and frail-looking girl who used to peck at her food! Bonnie’s mother had always told her that she ate like a bird. As a child, she was a notoriously picky eater—something she never grew out of entirely. But during the pandemic, she gradually relinquished this pickiness, and her appetite flourished. Her mother, incidentally, had been diplomatic so far in never mentioning it, but Bonnie knew that comments were imminent if she continued on this path. Lately Bonnie had felt the urge to tease Mare about her weight. It wasn’t born of mean-spiritedness—there was no animosity between them. They were good friends, in fact. Bonnie just found it amusing and somehow gratifying to see Mare plumping up at such a rate. And it wasn’t schadenfreude exactly, either, since the same thing was happening to her, and she suspected that Mare felt equally amused by that. Perhaps it was just projection. Bonnie felt it gave her a certain degree of leverage in some way that she couldn’t quite articulate. She had no rivalry with Mare. It simply made Bonnie feel better, however fleetingly, about her own situation. Bonnie couldn’t feel too bad about taking pleasure in Mare’s expanding figure. After all, Mare wasn’t blameless in all this. Bonnie seemed to recall that it was Mare who introduced junk food into the house and who began the trend of what eventually became chronic full-blown overindulgence. It was all very innocuous at first, of course, and went practically unnoticed until a toll already had been taken on their respective waistlines. Now that Bonnie thought of it, she suspected that Mare had been subtly encouraging her to overeat. There were Mare’s huge pasta dinners, for instance—with far more servings than people to serve, but which gradually had become a staple. “Go ahead and have a little more,” Mare would offer. “There’s plenty for everyone, and leftovers for days.” Terry never would have extra, when she was home for dinner at all, but Bonnie helped herself more and more often—until eventually all sense of portion control was lost on her. And Mare was forever bringing home treats: ice cream, of course, and candy bars and chips and dips and chocolate by the pound. Mare, a freelancer, had gotten a head start on working remotely, and had been doing it for some time now. But she never had been chubby before. It was unclear to Bonnie why Mare had put on so much weight during the pandemic when her work situation hadn’t changed much at all. Nevertheless, it was comforting to Bonnie to have a friend who was also filling out; it alleviated some of her own self-consciousness. But a few pounds here and there was one thing. Becoming a full-fledged fat-ass was quite another. Bonnie knew she would have to be careful. The problem was, lately she had been anything but.

Part 23   Mim gestured, and the overhead lights dimmed and the recliner was bathed in a soft ambient pink glow. The room was redolent with dessert aromas and the tantalizing smells of everything butterbell—the sweet heady scent of ripe fruit commingled with fragrant wildflower.   “I’m going to feed you to capacity, but you will savor every bite,” Mim declared. “This can be an extraordinarily pleasurable experience for you, if you let it.” She rubbed her hands together delightedly. “Now, what shall we start with? Why not something light, to ease you into it!”   She surveyed the tabletop and the trays still sitting atop the serving bots. “For you, I think…the triple-whipped butterbell mousse will do nicely.”   Not wanting to betray her anticipation, Lina sat completely still and said nothing.   Mim hoisted the mousse, which was in an oversized dessert cup with an enormous dollop of whipped cream on top. Then she summoned her robotic seat, moved forward into a deep curved recess in the tabletop, and settled in across from Lina. She produced a long-handled ergonomic feeding spoon, the head of which was fabricated of an extraordinarily soft silicone-like polymer, designed to be gentle to the mouth and to deliver a generous but manageable portion.   “Open,” said Mim, brandishing the spoon commandingly. Lina obeyed.   With the dessert cup in one hand and the spoon in the other, Mim delivered the first spoonful to Lina’s waiting mouth.   The mousse was perfectly chilled, with a texture as fluffy as a cloud, and bursting with flavor. Lina did her best maintain a flat affect as she ate. Inside she was rapturous—but she would not give Mim the satisfaction of knowing it.   Mim employed the spoon efficiently, delivering one spoonful after another at a steady rate until the mousse was gone.   “You certainly gobbled that right up,” she said, grinning as she dabbed Lina’s lips with a napkin. “But let’s move right along to keep those calories flowing.”   Lina should have wanted to shove Mim aside, bolt from the recliner, and run…anyplace. Now, stripped of her willpower, and still too physically exhausted to resist or flee, Lina felt as though she could not stop eating even if she wanted to. But she immediately reminded herself of her near-starvation—and that was not a condition to which she wished to return.   Next there was a parfait of topaz-colored sliced butterbell and shortcake and full-fat whipped cream in alternating layers, nine layers deep, with plump Gliesian cloudberries on top—which Lina dispatched with equal alacrity.   Mim goaded her on. “Keep going, darlin’, you’re doing just fine!” She looked around tentatively as she decided on the next dessert for Lina to devour.   “Butterbell cobbler!” said Mim. “Better get it while it’s still nice and warm. And you’ll need a big scoop of Vesta vanilla ice cream on top.”   The crust was thick and cake-like, the butterbell tender and juicy, and the Vesta vanilla ice cream was the perfect counterpoint. Lina was exhilarated.   “Here, honey,” said Mim, pouring Lina a glass of aromatic liquor. “Wash it down with some sparkling butterbell melomel! It pairs wonderfully with everything on the menu.” This Lina drank herself, without assistance from Mim.   Next Mim presented a braided pastry filled with butterbell compote, and garnished with a sprig of mint. She fed this to Lina by hand.   “I’m doing all the talking today,” said Mim. “You’re being so awfully quiet. For such a headstrong young woman, I thought you’d have so much more to say about all this.”   “Mmph,” Lina mumbled, her cheeks stuffed full of pastry.   Then came the fresh chilled butterbell fruits, their bright ripe pink and orange skins glistening with condensation. These Mim cut in half; she removed the seeds, and scooped out the luscious flesh, which she fed to Lina with a slightly smaller and more elegant spoon. The meat of the butterbell was succulent and cool and refreshing to Lina’s palate.   Lina was enveloped by a glowing sense of contentment, in spite of herself, and she was keenly aware that Mim for the first time was showing a gentle and nurturing side. But Lina cautioned herself: she must not forge a bond with her. It was only more trickery—she knew that Mim was only putting up a front because she was getting her way. Should Lina fail to acquiesce to any part of Mim’s plan, Mim would rebuke her—there was no doubt of that.   In succession came butterbell turnovers and a butterbell trifle and butterbell cream cheese cookies with butterbell and lunar lemon glaze. And Lina wolfed her way through them all. Mim was smiling slyly as she stuffed the skinny with sumptuous desserts.   But Lina’s chewing began to slow with each bite and eventually ceased altogether. Lina heaved a sigh.   “Something wrong?” asked Mim.   “I couldn’t possibly eat another bite,” huffed Lina, leaning back in the recliner.   Mim palpated Lina’s belly and consulted a read-out to measure its tautness. She gave it a gentle pat. “You still have a little more room in there,” she said. “But I have something to help relieve the sense of pressure.” She produced a vial of faintly turquoise-colored liquid.   “Bottoms up!” said Mim, uncapping the vial. “Just a little something to reignite your appetite.”   She tilted Lina’s chin upward with little resistance. Just a day ago, Lina would have slapped the vial out of Mim’s hand, but now she quaffed its contents in a single gulp.   “Shall we take a quick breather?” said Mim. “Let the appetite renewer do its work. You may want to have a quick stretch to keep your belly pliable.”   The recliner adjusted and Lina was able to stretch her arms and legs and to bend a few times side to side, forward and back. This would have been her chance to bolt, had she the inclination, but she was much too full to run…and in any case had nowhere to go.   In just minutes, as the liquid went to work, Lina began to feel all residual tension melt away. Soon, she felt a craving swell up anew inside her, and before long, she was ravenous again.   Lina’s appetite restored, Mim immediately resumed the feeding. She presented Lina with butterbell dessert bars, and butterbell jubilee, and butterbell torte, which were vanquished in due course.   “Oh, and now here’s something for you!” said Mim excitedly. “A slice of Old-Fashioned Butterbell Pie! It’s an old family recipe. You’re going to love this!” Lina found the crust flaky and tender and the butterbell perfectly spiced.   “Here, try this beautiful butterbell shake, sweetie.” She handed a great tall glass over to Lina. “You don’t even want to know how many calories are in this.” And Mim was right: Lina didn’t want to know. Nonetheless, Lina sucked eagerly at the straw.   Then came a beautifully presented triple-layered butterbell cake with butterbell frosting. It did not seem quite full-sized—however large such a thing might be—but certainly it was much larger than any single serving Lina ever would have allowed herself.   “This is almost too pretty to eat,” said Mim, considering the perfectly designed cake for a moment. Then she shrugged. Almost.” And with that, she cut a piece, and into Lina’s mouth it went. Lina made little chuffing sounds after each bite.   “Oh, and some butterbell tarts, you’d like some of those, wouldn’t you, dear?” said Mim. She didn’t give Lina time to answer, and popped a tart in Lina’s mouth, quickly followed by another.   Mim was growing ever more animated, obviously pleased with Lina’s compliance, as she persisted in plying the young woman with treats.   Lina wanted to moan—in pleasure, but also with some discomfort, as she was already feeling overfull—but she dared not. She did not want to show her hand.   Next came a large slice of butterbell cheesecake, drizzled with butterbell syrup. It was smooth and creamy, with a perfect graham cracker crust, but Lina found it impossibly rich. She barely managed to finish the slice. At last, she hiccupped and cried out, “No more! Too much! I’ll pop!”   “Shhh.” Mim hushed her soothingly. “No one’s popping on my watch. It’s alright; you may stop eating now. I think you’d better get some rest. You have another big day tomorrow.”   Mim summoned the serving bots to clear the empty plates and cups and bowls and glasses and trays. Lina lay still in the recliner, clutching her distended belly and trying to stay as motionless as possible.   “Well!” said Mim. “You’re already eating like a fat girl! Keep that up, mon cochon, and you will be one soon enough, don’t you worry!”   Lina’s mouth was encircled with the remnants of the last desserts she had eaten. The bib was splattered as well. “Tsk, tsk. Look at you. How careless,” teased Mim. “You’ve made such a mess.” Lina could only manage a shrug as Mim wiped her mouth with a napkin before removing the bib.   The tabletop retracted and the recliner adjusted itself. The cushions puffed up and Lina settled in.   “You’ve had a very busy day, my dear,” said Mim. “And you should feel quite pleased with yourself.” Lina was in too much of a sugar stupor to feel much of anything. In her hazy overstuffed state, she was only aware of being glutted and bloated and perhaps a bit giddy.   But even in the wake of that lavish dessert feast, Lina still did not want to be a fat girl. Mim could stuff her full of all the food her stomach could hold, blow her up as big as she wanted, but Lina silently resolved then and there that she would always be a skinny at heart.   Mim sat beside the recliner, laid a hand atop Lina’s belly, gave it a few tentative pokes as though testing it, and began to rub in concentric circles. “Soon all of this will turn to fat,” said Mim. “And it will lay the perfect foundation for all the blubber that’s to follow.” Lina knew she should have been horrified at the thought, but she was too tired to protest and an artful belly massage was exactly what she needed at that moment. Her horror would have to wait for another day.   “Relax and sleep, my soon-to-be-former skinny,” Mim said. Lina soon drifted off and fell into strange dreams.

Part One Bonnie wasn’t sure what was happening to her housemate, Mariella, but whatever it was, it was starting to happen to herself, too. Mare had blown past flabbiness some time ago, and was now migrating into bona fide chunker territory. Every extra ounce was magnified on Mare’s tiny frame; she was just barely 5’ tall. But Bonnie wasn’t looking quite so svelte these days, either, and she knew it herself. And it was becoming a real problem. Bonnie was emptying the last of a snack-sized bag of chips into her mouth, tapping on the bag to ensure that she got every last crumb. Mare, who had just wandered into the kitchen, opened the refrigerator door and surveyed her choices; she selected the familiar trapezoidal takeout box with its red-inked illustrations of a pagoda on each side. “’Enjoy! Thank You!’” said Mare, leaning against the island and reading aloud the words on the container. “Well, that’s very polite of them. I will enjoy, and thank you.” She had already un-tabbed the container and was loading her fork. Mare, who once had believed that Chinese food was properly enjoyed using chopsticks, seemingly lacked the patience for that these days. It was simply easier to eat directly from the container, with whichever plastic utensil was handy. The young women once had been sticklers for presentation. In fact, they had established that as one of their house rules. Food was to be served on a plate, and everyone must sit down at the dining room table when eating. Somehow the two now seemed to live in violation of their own rules, and snacks were frequently enjoyed wherever happened to be most convenient. And then there was the business of the snacks themselves. “Snack” once had meant baby carrots or celery sticks, but their modest definition of the word had since expanded to encompass Cheetos, Pringles, and Little Debbie snack cakes. “Oh,” said Mare, pushing her black-rimmed glasses up on her nose. “I meant to tell you. I picked up a quart of ice cream earlier.” She slurped the noodles from the leftover shrimp mei fun. “I hope you got something good.” “Caramel Praline Dream. I figured we could share it. Unless you’re not interested. More for me, then.” “Hey, who said I’m not interested?” Bonnie was fiddling with her t-shirt. It had become something of a nervous habit, but she couldn’t help it. All her tops had started riding up around her spare tire. She began to laugh, seemingly without provocation. “What’s so funny?” asked Mare. “Look at us,” Bonnie sighed. “We’ve really let ourselves go.” “Speak for yourself.” “Listen up, Mariella Rizzuto! You’re gonna get it!” said Bonnie, shaking her fist with feigned indignation. “But don’t kid yourself, dumpling. I said we’ve let ourselves go. That includes me and you.” Mare, unfazed, returned to her noodles. “You know,” said Mare, finishing the last of the mei fun, “I’m surprised Nurse Retched hasn’t said anything yet. You know she’s been dying to.” This was their playful nickname for Terri, the third housemate, who was, in fact, an actual nurse. They were fond of her, despite the moniker, though Terri was a bit of a hardnose on health issues. But she worked long shifts and was seldom around most days of the week. “Tell me about it,” said Bonnie. “She’s been biting her tongue all this time.” “We’ll get the lecture of our lives one of these days.” “I’m dreading it,” said Bonnie. “Oo!” Mare squeaked, abruptly changing the subject. “I forgot I threw a fortune cookie in the drawer last night!” She retrieved it, gleefully tore open the little clear wrapper, and snapped the cookie in half. She pulled out the fortune with her teeth, and popped the oblong wafer halves into her mouth. “What does it say?” asked Bonnie. “It says, ‘Some things are just too heavy to haul around.’ What do you think it means?” “No idea. Did you try adding ‘in bed’ to it?” “Still doesn’t make any sense.” “But you know what would make sense right now?” asked Bonnie. “Caramel Praline Dream, obviously,” said Mare. It’s the only thing that makes sense.”

Part 22    “Dry your tears, Ms. Lazuli,” said Mim firmly. “They’ll do you no good. We’ve got important work to do. For me, it’s the business of feeding, and for you it’s the business of eating.”    Lina continued to sob and sniffle…until she became distracted by a curious sensation: an impression of soothing warmth that seemed to originate in her belly and radiate like a pinwheel outward to the tips of her fingers and toes.    Mim noticed Lina’s abrupt silence and smiled. “You’ve finally got some nourishment in you. It feels wonderful, doesn’t it?” Lina, who certainly would not admit to it aloud, wiped away a tear with her finger.    Mim made a disapproving clucking sound. “You haven’t even taken a moment to consider what you’ve just eaten. How ungrateful of you.”    Lina felt somehow abashed. It was true; her long-buried craving of a lifetime had just been fulfilled and she had not yet taken the time to reflect on this stroke of fortune. So Lina chose now to fully bask in the afterglow of the Gliesian butterbell pudding that she had just scarfed down. It had been so luxuriant, so enticing, so intoxicatingly delicious, that in a moment her fears of the impending gorging were forgotten. This was the first peace she had known since she had been in Fatropolis.    And though Lina knew that Mim was priming her for fattening, the effects of the butterbell would not be instantaneous. She would be a skinny for a while longer, at least, and just for this minute, she was content to enjoy the warm feeling of satiation, this sweet relief from that awful gnawing void in her belly.    Lina realized she had been rendered bereft of all resistance. Whereas not even half-an-hour before, she had despised Mim with all the antipathy she could muster, Lina’s opinion of her captor suddenly seemed to have softened. For the first time, she could almost see Mim in a favorable light. Who was it but Mim who had given her her secret heart’s desire…Gliesian butterbell? And who else but Mim had helped Lina remember Gliesian butterbell at all? And who but a benefactor would have gifted her with something so perfect, so beautiful?    Still, in some distant recess of her mind, there was a flicker of suspicion that all of this was just more trickery. She knew Mim’s ulterior motive—to alter her irrevocably, just as Mim had been doing to Daesti—but Lina did not feel quite the same urgency to escape as she had before. Would it be the worst punishment in the galaxy to be forced to laze about and be stuffed full of sumptuous desserts? If that was to be her sentence, it might even be worth it for the prospect of more Gliesian butterbell. And Lina was so tired of this constant fighting against everything.    And after all, Daesti seemed to have stoically accepted her fate, last Lina saw her. Poor Daesti…Lina supposed she must be shamefully overweight by now. Lina tried to imagine a heavier version of herself and simply could not envisage it.    But just maybe, Lina thought, she deserved to share Daesti’s fate. Maybe if she herself hadn’t angered Mim, she and Daesti might have bargained their way out of Fatropolis, and the two would be enjoying themselves somewhere on Kepler-226 now, their sultry figures intact. But regrets were useless to her now, and in any case it was too late.    She chose instead to focus to enjoy this feeling of detached calmness that had washed over her.    Mim, meanwhile, was busily making preparations.    “How about some dessert music?” said Mim, making a gesture in the air, as if she were preparing to conduct some unseen orchestra. Immediately, that ethereal and mesmerizing drone that she had heard many times before, was piped into the room.    Mim maneuvered a robotic stool beside Lina and began speaking very softly, in a slow, measured cadence. Lina, in her hazy twilight state, felt as though she were floating on a raft in some vast tranquil pool.    “Lina,” began Mim. “I want you to stay completely relaxed. Now, I’m going to ask you a few simple questions. Can you do that for me?”    “Yes,” replied Lina.    “Good girl,” said Mim. “Now, Lina, do you know why you are here? In this city…in this building…in this room?”    “So you can make me fat,” said Lina in a perfectly matter-of-fact manner, as if she were uttering the most mundane of statements.    “That’s right,” said Mim, enunciating every syllable crisply. “I’m going to make you very, very fat. But are you fat right now, Lina?”    “No,” replied Lina, seemingly with a twinge of remorse and distaste. “I’m a skinny.”    “Yes,” said Mim. “You are a skinny. You are an extraordinarily-skinny skinny. But I’m going to change all that. But what must you do to help me change you, Lina? What is your role in all this?    “I must attain my highest weight,” said Lina. There were those words again. Even in her somniferous state, it struck Lina as an odd thing to declare. Nevertheless, she spoke the words impassively, as if the statement were a foregone conclusion.    “That’s a good girl,” said Mim. “Now, we must begin the de-thinnification process. That’s where we’ll train you to reject skinniness with your whole core—in short, to make your body and mind receptive to fatness. We have to teach you to think like a fat girl, to feel like a fat girl, to have the appetite and cravings of a fat girl. Once you have been properly de-thinnified, your body will hold on to extra weight easily. And then the plumpification process can be put into full effect.”    Lina nodded slowly, not entirely sure what any of this would entail. But she was keenly aware of her eagerness to enjoy more Gliesian butterbell. And more was on the way…and all for her! Her heart bounded with anticipation.    “And now,” Mim declared proudly, “at last you are ready for your first proper glutting…with many more to follow.” She fastened a large bib around Lina’s neck, and Lina could feel her face redden at this petty indignity, just the latest in a long succession of such petty indignities.    There came the steady whir of servo motors as, one by one, small serving bots began to arrive from the kitchen, bearing trays heaped with the Gliesian butterbell confections that Mim had ordered. The recliner adjusted automatically and a tabletop surface fanned out around Lina, and Mim, with surprising deftness, began to set the items on the table before her.    “Well,” said Mim, “there’s no time to waste, Lina. We’ve got to get you feasting while you’re still tractable.”    Lina could hardly contain her anticipation, though she was careful not to betray her enthusiasm. She still retained enough dignity not to hand Mim a victory.

AUTHOR'S NOTE: I’ve promised a Munchies follow-up for a long time, and among my many unfinished pieces, there actually is a proper “sequel” in progress. But I figure that now might be an ideal time to start from scratch, since the Munchies have become more relevant than ever in the past two-and-a-half years. After all, who hasn’t put on a little weight since then? As I’ve written before, the original PSA had a huge influence on me, though probably not for the reasons its creators would have hoped. I always thought it would make for an ideal weight-gain story, even if there was a time when—believe it or not—I had no idea who would ever read such a thing. (This was long before I knew that apparently there are plenty of people who would.) In any event, I’m glad I could do my part to rescue the PSA from obscurity. It was always too good of an idea to let languish in the dustbin of Saturday-morning history. --T.J. PROLOGUE You’ve heard of us—the evil imps Who turn the skinnies into blimps The stout gray blobs who tempt and tease Let us come and feed you, please It’s been a while—oh, far too long But if you think we’re gone, you’re wrong In fact, we’ve been here all the while But stealthy feeding is our style In honesty, we never left So thank us for your extra heft We’re clever and we have a hunch That we’ll find ways to make you munch We can make you stuff your face Of stuff it for you, just in case ‘Cause when you’re in a gloomy mood The universal cure is food Or feeling cheerful? Celebrate! Even then you’ll put on weight When we arrive and make our rounds You’ll start piling on the pounds ‘Cause if you munch when you are bored A mammoth butt is your reward If you snack when you are blue You’ll get a jiggly belly, too Soon we’ll blow you up to size Those widened hips and massive thighs It gives us joy to ruin your figure We love to see you getting bigger Let us come and pay a visit That’s not too much to ask, now, is it? Imagine all the weight you’ll gain! Across the world, the Munchies reign Now it’s time to turn the page And usher in the Munchies Age! What’s our purpose? What’s our plan? To make you fat…because we can.

Thanks, I appreciate the compliments! I wish I could promise that the next installment will be posted in a few days. Unfortunately, as you've discovered, my writing pace tends to be glacial. But if it's any consolation, a good chunk of the next installment is already written....

Part 21    “Hungry, Lina?” Mim teased, in a maddeningly casual manner.    As if on cue, Lina felt a sharp pang in the pit of her stomach. She winced and clutched her abdomen.    “My patience has worn thin, Lina. And I don’t have patience for anything thin. So, let's try this again,” said Mim. “I hope with more luck this time.”    From a small hatch in a console she produced a metallic circlet similar to the one she had used several weeks prior, when she had attempted to determine what it was that Lina craved—which, at the time, was nothing. But things had been much different then, when Lina was still possessed of her prodigious willpower.    “We have been preparing for this for a long time,” Mim declared with an air of finality, as she placed the circlet around Lina’s temples.    A series of panels spread out from behind the cybernetic recliner’s headrest, partially encircling Lina's head. The recliner and its many sensors, the circlet, WIDE-AS and its mind interface—all were working in conjunction to search Lina’s unconscious thoughts for a weakness…a food craving, the thing that would finally break her.    Images gradually coalesced before Lina’s eyes, a visual parade of foodstuffs. Only this time, there was no surplus of willpower as a buffer against these temptations. Lina was much too hungry and exhausted.    Her stomach growled again.    “Now,” said Mim. “Let’s just see if we can find out exactly what it is that can whet your appetite.”    Mim carefully observed several readouts as Lina tensed up in the chair and tried to exert any remnant of her rapidly dwindling determination, and when she realized that even this was failing her, she tried her utmost to lose herself in a sort of generalized hunger, focusing on the emptiness of her stomach.    Mim modulated her voice so that it took on a sort of sing-song quality. “You must be so very hungry by now, Lina. You can't hold out forever. I just need you to think clearly for me. You can do that, can't you, Lina? There's no harm in thoughts, is there? I just need you to think of a food that has brought you intense joy, and how perfect that would taste right now. What is that food, Lina?”    Lina knew what Mim was doing and tried to clutter her own mind, forcing her thoughts to race wildly between unrelated images and mental white noise. But now she was aware of a comforting, warm, and vaguely familiar aroma in the air, something wonderful and rich and sweet-smelling.    Images of dozens of foods flashed through Lina's mind, first by category, then becoming more specific. Holographic manifestations of these foods began to come into focus, multiplying until they became a parade of culinary imagery.    “You feel that hunger gnawing away at you, Lina? You can end that right now, and for good. You can finally be satisfied. What a relief it will be to just give in.” Mim’s voice was slowing down. “And you can just give in. There is nothing to worry about. You can be fat and happy. Fat is beautiful, Lina. Fat is where it’s at. Your friend Daesti already knows this, and remember how contented she looked when I gave you that sneak preview of her new figure! You can be that content, too. Think of what you'd like to eat, Lina. Is it something savory? Something sweet? Oh...what's this? Some positive biofeedback on something sweet!”    Lina’s autonomic responses were betraying her; her heart was racing now, her stomach rumbling. She could not stop thinking of exactly what she did not want to think of. The tears welled up again. “Please,” Lina pleaded pitifully. “Stop messing with my thoughts.”    “Someone has a sweet tooth,” taunted Mim.    Lina shook her head from side to side, choking back sobs.    The chair adjusted itself and now Lina was fully reclined. Mim walked up alongside her and patted Lina’s belly.    “Taut like a drum,” Mim said. “Listen to that hollow sound. How empty your belly is. So much room in there, begging to be filled. Let’s get some food in you.”    Lina squirmed.    “Let’s narrow it down a little further,” Mim said. “It’s only a matter of time."    There were only desserts now in the cavalcade of images dancing in Lina’s field of vision. The representations floating before her were so lifelike and enticing that Lina grasped at the air. She felt so ravenous that she could have wolfed down any of them. But they were only images, without substance, she reminded herself.    But at last there appeared an image of something that she absolutely could not refuse...if only it were real.    For the most fleeting fraction of a second, Lina recalled a confection that she had tasted exactly once in her life…on her 10th birthday.    It was a rare treat, and the most decadent-tasting thing she had ever eaten up to that point…a cake with the most wonderfully vivid pinkish-orange-ish frosting, with a flavor like the sweetest nectar and the richest cream blended together, and pieces of glazed fruit of an even more vibrant hue on top. She had never tasted anything like it, before or since. Cake had always been just cake to her, but this was something magnificent. And on the side, to match, had been ice cream of the same flavor, with little flecks of fruit throughout.    It all came back to her as Mim made a jubilant pronouncement.    “Gliesian butterbell!” said Mim triumphantly. “Ah, so that’s it!”    For Lina, who had always been a picky eater, this was the singular treat she had ever thought she could eat for the rest of her life and be perfectly content, the one thing she could have allowed herself to gorge upon.    But that was before the blight hit. Lina half-recollected the news stories from years before. The problem eluded the brightest botanical minds, and soon Gliesian butterbell became, if not entirely extinct, then certainly at least no longer a viable commercial crop.    The Gliesian in its name referred to the tropical planet Gliese 832c, to which it was indigenous, while butterbell was the name given to both the sizable fruit and the gorgeous fragrant flower that bore it. The fruit itself was uniquely shaped, with fleshy rings around its circumference that resembled nothing so much as rolls of fat.    "Gliesian butterbell!” Mim was practically singing the words now, and with great glee. “Gliesian butterbell! Well, Lina, you really do have exquisite taste. And the delicious irony! It's one of the most incredibly fattening foods ever discovered. Gliesian butterbell!"    “But it doesn’t exist anymore,” countered Lina.    “Oh, but it does!” said Mim decisively. “We had our most brilliant botanists on the problem from the beginning. It took years, but they managed to save it after all! And now it’s a hearty crop again. I’m so glad. It would have been such a shame for it to go extinct.”    Mim was already speaking via vidlink with someone in the kitchen. “Can you whip up some Gliesian butterbell pudding for our dear scrawny guest…with some refeeding formula blended in?”    “Right away,” came the reply.    It arrived on a shiny silver tray in a fancy, capacious dessert glass with an elegant spoon beside it.    Mim sat next to Lina and deliberately and theatrically waved the spoon about and held the dessert glass tantalizingly in front of her. “Is this what you want, Lina?”    Lina’s eyes were wide, her mouth watering.    Mim dipped the spoon into the dessert glass and held it under Lina’s nose. “Here it is, Lina. Your long-lost heart’s desire. I bet you thought you’d never see the likes of it again, hmm? It’s right here. Literally under your nose. You can’t possibly tell me you don’t want some.”    Lina was trembling all over now. She wanted to swipe the dessert glass from Mim’s hands and pound down its contents in in one gulp. Only some last vestige of restraint prevented her from doing so.    “I know what you’re doing!” shouted Lina. “And I won’t play along! You can’t make me beg for food!”    Mim held the spoon held it up to Lina's mouth, but Lina turned her face to the opposite side and pressed her lips tight even though at that moment she wanted the butterbell pudding more than anything else in the whole galaxy.    Mim continued to taunt her. She popped an overflowing spoonful of the creamy concoction into her own mouth and cooed rapturously. “So incredibly smooth,” she purred as she narrowed her eyelids in delight. “You’d better have some, Lina, before I eat the whole thing.”    Mim repeatedly gestured to Lina to offer some of the coveted dessert, and each time instead consumed a spoonful herself.    Minutes passed and somehow Lina still managed to remain steadfast.    But then her stomach rumbled once more and she began to feel desperately, wildly, excruciatingly ravenous. She was sure she was starving. She was sure she would crumble into dust at any moment. Unless…    At last, a single tear rolled down each of Lina’s cheeks. She began to sob softly. “Could I...could I just have a little bit, please?” she said in a tiny, helpless voice.    “I’m sorry, what was that?” teased Mim. “I couldn’t quite make it out. It almost sounded like you might have been asking for something. A little bit of my Gliesian butterbell pudding, maybe? Did I hear that right?”    The tearful Lina nodded meekly.    “I don’t know, Lina. I just don’t know. All this time we’ve spent here, and now you’re just going to give in?”    “What do you want from me?!” screeched Lina.    And so it had happened. The very thing that Lina had vowed to herself she would not let happen, had in fact happened: She had lost her composure completely.    “Remember: If you eat, you’re ours,” Mim reminded her. “Give in and eat our food, and you belong to Fatropolis. That was the wager.”    “Please! I can’t take this anymore! I need to eat something!” Lina pleaded.    “I don’t think you’re serious about this,” said Mim.    Lina felt immense anger and her immense rapacity surging inside her. She was sure she was going mad with hunger. She was breaking.    “You bitch!” Lina bellowed. “You absolute bitch!” She was infuriated by Mim's indifference, her resolute maliciousness, her arrogant smile. And Mim, for her part, continued to look on coolly, though it seemed she was doing her best to hide a smirk.    “That's not very nice, Lina,” Mim replied imperturbably. “And just for that, we'll tack on an extra 100 kayjees to your mandatory minimum weight.”    “No!” sobbed Lina. “No! Please! It isn’t fair! I'm sorry! Don't do this! It's not fair!”    “It doesn’t have to be this difficult, Lina. It’s never had to be this difficult. You know what you want. Stop putting up such a fuss.”    Lina was nearly hyperventilating. Her eyes were closed tight. “Please. I’m so hungry,” Lina said in a low, quiet, desperate voice. “Just make these hunger pangs go away. Please. I’m begging you.”    “Are you sure?” asked Mim.    “Please!” shouted Lina. “I’m sure! I’m sure! I need something to eat!”    “Be aware that you have asked for this of your own volition.”    At last Mim popped a spoonful of the pudding into Lina’s mouth. And quickly again another. And another.    She relinquished the dessert glass and the spoon to Lina and let her feed herself. Already Lina was simultaneously shoveling the dessert into her mouth and sobbing a deep sob of relief intermingled with defeat.    Lina looked down at the empty dessert glass ruefully, realizing what it meant for her.    Mim was beaming. “I told you that you’d take the first bite,” she gloated, kissing Lina on the forehead.    Mim was already linked to the kitchen again. “Bring our skinny young lady a sweet feast she’ll never forget. Chilled butterbell pods; triple-whipped butterbell mousse; butterbell shakes and butterbell cakes iced with butterbell frosting. Don’t skimp. If it’s butterbell she wants, then let’s pump our pretty little guest full of it. She’s worked up quite an appetite.”    “No! I can’t!” protested Lina. “I only wanted a taste! Don’t do this to me!”    Mim paid her no mind, but simply patted Lina’s belly as they waited for the robotic dessert cart to arrive.

To all who've commented, thank you for the good words. I'll try to (very belatedly) answer a question... curiotwo: I do have the basic trajectory of the story already plotted out. In fact, I wrote the beginning and the ending around the same time. I have a pretty clear idea about where I want to story to go, so the more recent installments are actually some of the oldest material. I have quite a few other projects underway that are not WG-related at all. A couple of these are sort of vaguely sci-fi, but it's a difficult genre in which to write seriously. I'm not sure it's even possible to write truly futuristic "science fiction" anymore, since the technological reality nowadays is at least as interesting as anything a fiction writer could dream up. William Gibson is arguably the last great innovator in the genre (which is not to say there aren't plenty of other fine writers out there...just that it's much more difficult to be prescient about what the future might hold}. Most science fiction these days in probably more accurately described in terms of some subgenre, like space fantasy or retro futurism or dystopic fiction, and all that's fine, of course. I'm not sure it matters very much, since most people have a general sense of what "sci-fi" means even though it covers a lot of ground. In any case, I have been working on the next installment of "Fat Is Beautiful," and I'm pretty confident there won't be a year-and-a-half lapse this time around....

Part 20    Lina lazed on the great cybernetic recliner, her hands resting atop her globe of a belly, tautly bulging and seeming all the more ball-like with the luster of the blue raspberry bodysuit. Acutely aware of the slowly mounting pressure in her stomach, and fearing that she was nearing the bursting point, Lina remained as still as she could, taking slow, measured breaths. Although the worst of the ache had been alleviated by the lotion Mim had given her, Lina hardly dared to move.    Lina felt utterly disengaged from her surroundings. She had been so isolated these last few weeks, and her mind molded and conditioned to such an extent, that she could no longer be certain of anything. She had the curious sensation of being unsure even of her physical proportions. She felt frail and insubstantial, but the gravid balloon in her belly belied that notion. She was not sure whether she was the tall, willowy young woman she had been when she landed in this place, or a speck of a girl, so tiny that a cake towered like a mountain over her. Lina could not quite say whether she was large or small, tall or short, thin or fat. She seemed to exist in these states simultaneously, as though her tight garment were some sort of Schrödinger’s catsuit.    One conclusion seemed inescapable, and that was that she was trapped, and she had all but resigned herself to it. She was losing her fighting spirit. Why hadn't she admitted it to herself before? Her sense of self was being altered, day by day, without her being fully cognizant of it. The recurring simulations in which Lina was immersed were part of a regimen designed to keep her from distinguishing between physical reality and the merely virtual. She was losing her certitude as to whether anything were real, including herself. Lina understood now that this was why she had been kept separate from Daesti, with only vids and Mim to keep her company. It was all by design.    The hazy, hypnotic sounds that lulled her to sleep had been filling her dreams somehow with images of fatness and gluttony. In her waking state she could try to block these thoughts, but asleep she was defenseless. These ideas had breached the gates of her mind and she was succumbing subconsciously. Even the sweet aromas that were piped into the room had piqued her cravings and whittled down her willpower, though she had tried to remain as impervious as she could.    These constant tests of temptation were exhausting, and Lina was weary. Weary of being endlessly on the defensive, weary of this excruciating self-denial. Weary of everything.    She understood now that this all had been orchestrated for just such an effect. She knew Mim had been trying to manipulate her, but all the while the directress had seemed so ham-handedly obvious about it all, and Lina foolishly had conflated obviousness with ineffectiveness. In her former overconfidence, Lina had thought she could outwit Mim, or at least make a show of brute resistance. Lina had convinced herself that she had been successful in withstanding this barrage on her senses, but it had subtly overtaken her just the same. But of course Mim had been accomplishing her goals without Lina’s conscious realization. Mim had let Lina think that Lina had won.    And now Lina had an awful epiphany: Mim had been working on her this whole time, making Lina’s own body receptive to the fate Mim had intended for her. She was already being turned into a fatty in all but appearance, and all her defiance had amounted to nothing. Now it would only take some gentle nudging in the right direction to actualize Mim’s terrible plan.    At present, Lina's attention was drawn again to her belly. Just at the moment when she was sure she was about to pop, Lina sighed a great heaving sigh and was met with the unexpected sensation of relief. The balloon had apparently begun to contract, and her gut along with it. When the pressure had finally subsided, Lina felt an unfathomable emptiness in her belly.    Mim strode purposefully and authoritatively into the room at that moment. Evidently she had been monitoring feedback from the bodysuit, waiting for the precise time to make her appearance.    And with Mim’s entrance, Lina was swiftly brought back to reality. As though her perception were all at once expanded into a bubble of clarity, Lina was now hyper-aware of the circular room and all of its implements and accouterments, the glass walls that doubled as vidscreens, the many monitors and consoles and blinking indicator lights. This room that previously had felt like a cell, now seemed like her artificial habitat, as if she had known no other existence.    Lina realized that she had underestimated Mim. Whatever Lina’s estimation of her had been before, Lina saw her as absolutely authoritative at this moment. Though nothing had changed externally—after all, Mim was the same woman Lina once had elbowed in the gut—it was for all intents and purposes as though Mim were 200 feet tall. As far as Lina was concerned, Mim was now the strongest woman in the universe, and she knew better than to lift a finger to her, for fear that Mim might trod upon her and squash her.    “Well, looks like you’ve finally deflated,” said Mim, giving Lina's belly a thump. “Now we can get started with the de-thinnification process.”    “I'll stay thinnified, if it's all the same to you,” said Lina, who thought a display of defiant nonchalance might be just the thing to steel herself up for what might be her last stand.    But Lina was far too anxious for such a display, and her quip was not made with her usual aplomb. Not only did Lina’s attempt at humor fall flat, it did nothing to allay her fears, and she was instead now overwhelmingly anxious. She rebuked herself for not attempting to stay in Mim’s good graces.    Lina’s mind raced. Would Mim prove to be a woman of her word? Surely by now the deadline Mim had imposed must be looming, and if Mim were earnest about keeping up her end of the bargain, freedom was just a modicum of willpower away.    Mim made a summoning gesture across the room. A panel in one of the consoles opened and from it glided an automated platform which configured itself into a kind of dais with a wide padded tulip chair in the center of it, and on this Mim sat slightly elevated above Lina as she maneuvered next to the recliner.    Mim looked down at Lina matter-of-factly. “You and I are going to have a conversation, my dear. And you will speak to me civilly.”    Even to her own surprise, Lina had no retort, and instead she simply listened attentively. It seemed the brazenness had been rooted out of her, and she now found herself abashed and obedient.    “First, Lina, we need to get you in the proper mindset. Now let's just see whether you've been learning and absorbing everything all this while.”    Mim made a few gestures in the air, and a mesmerizing hum began to fill the room. The lights dimmed and the lounger began to reconfigure itself, so that Lina was soon in a recumbent position.    “Tell me, Lina…” Mim continued in a slow and deliberate tone. “Do you know where you are?"    “Fatropolis.”    “That’s right. And what is the law in Fatropolis?”    “No skinnies allowed.”    “And what are you, Lina?”    “I'm a skinny.”    “So what must you do now to rectify this situation?”    Lina tensed. She was overcome with restlessness and yet equal parts powerlessness, and she could not budge. She dutifully replied to Mim. “I must attain my highest weight.”    “And what will you be when you have attained your highest weight, Lina?”    “I'll be…” Lina swallowed hard. Even now, as her mind gave way to Mim’s urgings, despite her conditioning and the relentless subliminal messages to which she had been subjected, Lina had difficulty even uttering the word. That word. Certainly it was unthinkable that she would ever use such an adjective to describe herself. She looked to Mim, who nodded and with a silent glance seemed to give Lina permission to say what Lina did not want to say. “I'll be fat.”    It was such a peculiar word to say: Fat. Somehow Lina spoke the word with a strange emphasis, gave it a sharp spin, like a recalcitrant child uttering a curse word, It was just as that moment that Lina's belly began to rumble.    Mim grinned in a manner most unsettling. "And now, Lina,” she said, “let us begin.”

It might seem that way, but no...just haven't had much time to devote to it recently. But, I promise, there is more on the way.

Part 19 Lina was in the throes of another vivid dream. She was just managing to get her bearings, and as she took stock of her surreal surroundings, she sensed that—very much as in the daily simulations to which Mim subjected her—either she had been shrunk down to a diminutive version of herself, or all of the objects in her environment were tremendous in proportion to her body. It seemed she was attempting to scale some sort of mesa. But the ground beneath her was muddy, and she could barely find purchase. No sooner had she made some headway when she felt herself sliding precipitously down the sheer and slick incline. In desperation, she at last thrust her hands through the pinkish claylike surface and deep into the spongy soil beneath. It was cake! She now realized that she was trying to climb a gigantic cake. The only way up was to carve out rough handholds and footholds for herself. As she ascended, she could not resist gobbling great clumps of the mountainous baked good. In this dreamworld, her inhibitions were gone, as was her willpower, and she savored the thick buttercream-based frosting. The flavor of the cake itself was both exotic and oddly familiar, although she could not quite place it. It was, in any event, irresistible and immensely satisfying, and Lina barely minded that she was a terrible mess, with frosting smeared over her bodysuit, on her face, and even in her hair. At last Lina reached the summit. The generous chunks of the dessert she had consumed sat heavily in her belly. She tried in vain to walk across the cake-plateau but only succeeded in sinking downwards with each step. She clawed at the surface, which now seemed to surround her like some confectionery quicksand. She frantically shoved handfuls of frosting and cake into her mouth, but it was no use. She was weighed down and sank farther into the sticky sweet morass. Panic was setting in when Lina was roused abruptly from her restless sleep, hazily aware of a dull pain in her belly, like a sustained hunger pang, intensifying into a full-blown tummy-ache as she lurched into wakefulness. Her hands slid down to her belly and recoiled. “Mim!” she shrieked. “Mim! Come quick!” Her corpulent captor arrived with surprising deftness and approached Lina’s sleeping-pod. “What is it, dear?” “I don’t feel good at all,” Lina groaned, clutching her curiously swollen belly. “Something’s happened to my stomach. I’m all bloated!” “Oh, that,” said Mim, placing her hand gently on the curved mound of Lina’s tummy and chuckling nonchalantly. “Honey, you had me scared half to death. That’s nothing to worry about. Your belly’s very full, that’s all.” “But I haven’t eaten anything!” yelled Lina. “Eaten, no. Swallowed, yes.” “Swallowed what? A beach ball?!” “Exactly!” said Mim. “Well, more or less.” Lina blinked uncomprehendingly, her hands still atop her tautly distended abdomen. Mim drummed her fingers lightly on Lina’s rounded belly and smiled. “Don’t you remember? The ‘vitamin’ I gave you before bedtime a few nights ago. I had to fib, dear. Otherwise you would have fought me on it. As you do with everything.” Lina sputtered with bewilderment. “Why would you do that?!” Mim took Lina’s hand and patted it reassuringly. “To get you ready, sweetie. For a proper stuffing. Inside that capsule was a tiny balloon that has blown up many times its original size. That’s why you haven’t even been able to eat your paltry snacks these last few days. There’s no more room in there.” Mim pantomimed the balloon’s distention. “Now it’s expanding and contracting in cycles. It will stretch your stomach, so you’ll be ready for your first gorging.” “I’ve told you already a hundred times!” Lina protested. “I am not going to let you forcefeed me!” Mim rubbed Lina’s belly in a circular motion. “It’s almost done. Then the balloon will disintegrate on its own and be safely digested. But you’ll be happy to know that it’s calorie-free. See how thoughtful I am?” “But you lied! I knew you would! You tricked me! You said you wouldn’t force me to eat!” “I’ve done no such thing!” Mim replied indignantly. “And I won’t. I will keep my promise. You’ll have your chance to hold out for the full 30 days, just as I said. It’s not long now.” “You’re an evil witch and a cheat!” growled Lina. “I am not,” replied Mim exasperatedly. “I’m just completely confident that I’ll succeed in getting you to eat real Fatropolitan goodies after all. But if you are going to eat, you are going to eat. So we’ve got to take the proper precautions and do it safely. It’s no good if you explode.” Lina gasped at the very notion. “Why are you doing this?!” “We need to address your malnutrition, Lina...urgently. We’ll have to resort to some drastic measures now, but remember, it’s only because you wouldn’t cooperate when you had the chance. But you still can choose to do so at any time.” In just the short while they had been talking, Lina’s belly seemed to grow more gravid. “Mim, please!” moaned Lina. “I’m about to pop! Please!” “You’ll do no such thing!” said Mim. “I am not about to let that happen. We haven’t come this far for nothing. When the balloon has done its work, you’ll have your flat stomach back...if only for a little while.” Lina looked down at her stomach worriedly and held it with both hands “Why don’t you go take a nice, warm shower?” suggested Mim. She handed Lina a small plastic canister. “Here. Be sure to rub this on afterwards. It will soothe your bellyache and keep your skin nice and elastic.” Lina took the container from Mim and examined it skeptically. “I’ll be back to check on you, my little balloon belly,” said Mim, patting Lina’s swollen abdomen derisively before she went on her way. “I must say, this nice round gut is adorable. It suits you. But soon you won’t be filled with just air. Soon I’ll have you piling on a fresh, thick layer of lovely fat all over.” “Never,” said Lina sullenly. Mim smiled. “Never say never.” While Lina was in opposition to Mim in principle on every issue, she agreed that a long, leisurely shower might be just the thing to help take her mind off her worries. Ensconced now in the hot shower spray and rising steam, Lina did feel slightly less awful, but no less bloated. Her belly bulged conspicuously now that it was free of the bodysuit, which evidently had been acting as a girdle against her inflated gut. In every other respect, however, Lina was thinner now than when she had arrived, making her abdominal expansion seem all the more prominent. The shower stall’s nozzle jets squirted out a rich soap that seemed thicker, goopier, and pinker than Lina had remembered, though she had to admit she had not been paying excessively close attention to her shower suds of late. In any event, its texture was oddly reminiscent of the frosting in her dream, and its fragrance likewise starkly familiar. She lathered well, massaging the dense foam vigorously all over her stomach. That enormous dream-cake was somehow now front and center in her mind, and Lina realized with dismay that her mouth was watering. She was baffled as to why it was that, of all the temptations that had been dangled before her, she should feel herself caving to this one. She chided herself for craving something nonexistent--a mere figment of her night-time imagination. Her resistance was clearly wearing thin; she was weak and vulnerable. She clutched her belly again. If this was bad, how much worse it would be if Mim got her way! There was no telling what Mim would do to her. Lina lingered in the shower for quite some time, pondering her predicament and letting the hot water soothe her overblown belly. It was an uncomfortable day, to be sure. Though she had not had much in the way of a daily itinerary during the entire span of her captivity, having endured many successive days of non-activity, today seemed particularly unproductive. Lina was more restless than ever. She lay in bed and tried to fall back to sleep but was distracted by the slow, rhythmic rising and falling of her stomach. There was a vague pulsation deep in her core. After some time, Lina puttered over to the recliner, having decided that today she could do with the distraction of vids, which normally only annoyed her. The post-shower lotion had numbed her tummy, although there was still the definite and persistent sensation of fullness to capacity. With a bit of shifting about and the recliner’s automatic adjustments, Lina was able to find an optimal position, but her attention kept being diverted to her overfull gut. If this was a preview of what being fat would be like, Lina resolved, it would not do at all. Unable to do much of anything except lie still and grasp her belly, Lina was left to contemplate the unpleasant possible outcomes of what was surely another one of Mim’s cruel machinations. She found no compelling reason not to believe that Mim was misleading her. Maybe the balloon in her stomach would not dissolve after all and she would be stuck like this...filled up but starving. Maybe Mim would give her the false choice between having the balloon popped and being fattened. Or, perhaps, the balloon would deflate just as Mim had said...leaving Lina’s belly permanently stretched out and poochy. She thought of the darts that caused Daesti’s bottom to widen so rapidly. Though the effects may have been temporary, as Mim claimed, it hardly mattered...Daesti did not remain thin for long. Lina’s thoughts turned to the cam view Mim had made her watch of the newly plumpened Daesti lazing about, the picture of flabbiness, heedlessly scooping food into her mouth. Lina knew that was ultimately the fate Mim wanted for her as well. Lina knew that eventually she would need to make a decision about Daesti. If Lina could manage to win her freedom by Mim’s rules (or escape, if not), she would have to leave Daesti behind. Once she reached safety, she would need to appeal to some outside authority to notify them that Daesti was being held hostage. But how to explain that she was being fattened up? And for what purpose? By then, surely, Daesti would be a fat girl in body and mind and likely would see herself as a pampered guest and not as a prisoner at all. All of that would be its own mess and Lina hardly had the wherewithal at the moment to plan a course of action. She would worry about it when the time came. Right now she would need every ounce of willpower and determination to contend with whatever tricks Mim had up her sleeve.

Thank you for bringing this to my attention. I'm generally willing to cut some slack, this being such a narrow genre in which to write, but...wow.