First part in a series commission for  garethgryphon! This one featuring his tubby rat that'll be getting tubbier, Sigmund Erikson!

Character ©  garethgryphon
Story © c'est moi

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The rat drummed his fingers against the counter. It was another slow day. His motel, or, as he preferred, his “Inn,” was not exactly on a busy thoroughfare. Called “The Mousehole,” it was clean, cozy, and attached to a bar, “The Hole In the Wall,” run by his friend and business partner Mack, which kept Sigmund’s bills paid with the night crowd, but during the day, months after Tourist Season had tapered off? It left Sigmund with a lot of free time. Most of that time, when he wasn’t cleaning and making sure everything was just so, was spent on eating, and over the years, it definitely showed. Sigmund was, simply put, fat. There really was no other word for it; his ample belly always pressed up against the check-in counter, sagged over the waistline of his pants, and was always straining his shirt. Still, it wasn’t a hindrance in his line of work, usually. Barring his belly occasionally brushing against the room keys, he hardly noticed it; his figure wasn’t high on his priority list when he had to play host, manager, handyman, and room service. The rat worked hard, and though he would never admit it, he was dying for a break.

He was about to go on break when he heard the dull, loud roar of a truck horn. His ears perked up as a huge eighteen wheeler pulled into the parking lot, with a huge, cartoonish bull’s face plastered on the side.

“The Creole Shack.” Sigmund murmured. The Creole Shack, owned by a Louisiana magnate, Alexandre Du Gras, had been spreading across the tristate area like an epidemic. Sigmund had been to one a couple of times; at its worst, the Creole Shack’s food was decent, but at its best? Sigmund was pretty sure he could eat their fried chicken all day. The truck’s driver, a heavyset bear in flannel and baseball cap with a noticeable gut pushing against his shit, moved up to the desk, and leaned, his own bulk nearly connecting with Sigmund’s as both bellies spilled over the top of the desk.

“Howdy, bud. Listen, I’ve been drivin’ fer summat like sixteen hours, and I need t’get some sleep.” The bear jerked his thumb over his shoulder, indicating his truck outside. “Can I just pay ya fer th’ room, throw in a couple-a extra bucks, an’ ya can park m’truck? Iffin’ I can walk to th’ bed, I’ll be lucky.”

Sigmund arched a brow, brushing a bit of his curly, red hair back. “Uhm… sure, of course, sir. What’re you carrying?”

“Oh, uh… Creole Shack is beefin’ up its dessert menu. Got me a truck full-a biegnets.”

Sigmund perked up considerably. “Really?”

“Yeah… gotta try me one. Never would-a guessed they’re mass-produced. So… we’re good, bud?”

Sigmund nodded, “Of course, sir.” He leaned back, grabbing a room key. “You’re room 101- literally just around the corner. Less walking, better chance of you getting into that bed, right?”

The bear chuckled, “Heh. Here then, bud- I’ll trade ya, one key fer ‘nuther.” He said, grabbing the room key and tossing his truck keys on to the counter. “Oh, uh- just make sure to vent th’trailer- there’s a switch on the dashboard. Don’t want none-a them goin’ bad in this heat. There’s so much as a wrinkle or spilled box, and I hafta throw ‘em out. Thanks again!”

“Anything to get that five star rating on Bark, right?” Sigmund called after the bear as he lumbered to his room. Sigmund’s smile disappeared as soon as the bear disappeared, and the rat realized, he had absolutely no idea how to drive an eighteen-wheeler truck.

“It couldn’t be that hard. Right? Right.” Sigmund muttered to himself, grabbing the keys and moving outside.

The Mousehole was a low, sprawling building, only two stories high. Though only fifty years old, it was built in a faux Georgian style, as if it were from the American Revolution, all red brick walls, slate roof, and white stone corners. An old-fashioned wooden post showed the inn’s mascot, a cartoon mouse in a colonial outfit. The inn was situated on the left side of an inter-state highway, surrounded on all sides by thick forest. Right now, the only vehicles in the long, narrow parking lot were Sigmund and Murdoch’s cars, and the bear’s gigantic truck. The rat tilted his head looking at the truck; it was nearly as tall as the inn, and almost as long, too. Just how many beignets were in there?

Sigmund clambered up the tall cabin of the truck, panting slightly from the exertion as his belly bounced and slapped against the metal sides of the cabin. He slid into the driver’s seat, and frowned as he began brushing aside a small mountain of discarded food wrappers. Whatever virtues his new guest had, cleanliness was not among them. Sigmund bit his lip, looking over the complex console; this wasn’t exactly the same as his 2004 Ford.

“Okay, just… stay calm. You just have to move it over to the other side of the parking lot. No big deal.” Sigmund murmured to himself. He put the key in the ignition, and flinched as the monstrous vehicle roared to life.

“So far, so good…” Sigmund checked the cabin’s mirrors, and pushed the acceleration as lightly as possible with his foot. The truck gently lurched forward, and slowly moved across the parking lot. It was slow going, but the rat didn’t dare go faster. Curiosity was pulling at him, however, as he looked over the truck’s controls. One was marked as “Vent,” and, per the bear’s instructions, Sigmund flicked the switch. He heard a mechanical thump, and looked behind him; the truck’s trailer had a small opening, and as he pulled the truck into its parking lot, an intensely sweet, enticing smell hit Sigmund, making his nose twitch. It smelled like fresh honey and fried dough; two of Sigmund’s favorite things.

He snapped his fingers as he remembered the truck’s cargo; “The beignets!” Sliding out of the cabin, he almost winced as the smell grew stronger in the open air; his sweet tooth was his biggest weakness. It was practically calling to him, coaxing him closer with the olfactory equivalent of bedroom eyes. The rat was able to pull himself away from the smell, but then, a small notion entered his mind as he was walking back to the inn; he had the keys.

“I… I can’t. It’s not right…”

Not ten seconds later, and Sigmund had turned around, hurriedly trotting up to the trailer. “Well, maybe I’ll just check to make sure he doesn’t have to throw any of them away…”

It took some effort to heave himself up on to the bed of the truck, and even more to hoist up the gate, but when it was finally open, Sigmund’s eyes went wide. The trailer was roughly the size of a small house, and was stuffed, from top to bottom, on either side, with cardboard boxes, each one packed full of the mass-produced beignets. The smell was overwhelming; it smelled almost too sweet, and they had to be packed with artificial sweeteners, but Sigmund didn’t care. His nose twitched as he was assaulted with the overwhelmingly sweet aroma, and followed it to two boxes that had fallen over during the drive. The Beignets were wrapped in plastic, two to each package, and each one fitted into a small, cardboard pocket. Some of the plastic wrappers were ripped.

Sigmund rubbed the back of his head, “Well…” He licked his lips, “Just… one, since it’s already open…” looking over his shoulder, he nibbled on the flaky pastry, and the second the smallest morsel of the beignet hit his tongue, he was hooked. It was sweet almost to the point of aching, but that was just perfect for the rat. He practically inhaled the rest of the beignet and its companion, and didn’t even pause for thought as he grabbed the second package. And then a third, and then a fourth. Sigmund paused only once, about a half hour into his gorge. In a matter of half an hour, his sticky, honey-stained fingers were scraping against the bottom of the first box, and he was panting from the effort. He shook his head, feeling giddy from the huge amount of sugar, but the taste was still just as fresh as the first bite. His breathing was shallow, however, as his shirt clung to his bloated frame, bits of mahogany-colored fur sticking out between strained buttons, and pants that creaked with every move of his augmented thighs. As Sigmund finished off yet another beignet, he grunted, reaching around his nearly spherical belly, and as he bended forward to unbutton his shirt, he heard two sounds simultaneously; the clatter of a plastic button hitting the floor, and the sharp rip of cloth, as his pants split right up the middle of his posterior.

“Maybe…” Sigmund gulped, the aftertaste of artificial sweeteners, corn syrup, and honey strong on his tongue, “Maybe I’ve had enough…”

No sooner had he said that, than he was leaning against another box, and waited for it to collapse under his weight.

“Oh no! What a terrible accident… well, these can’t be sold anymore…” and Sigmund was already picking up packages of slightly flattened beignets, tearing them open with his teeth and tucking in with renewed vigor, now that he wasn’t being squeezed in on all sides.

The rat lost himself in a gluttonous daze; for hours, he practically absorbed them. No part of his body was left unaffected, and soon, he was on his fourth box, showing no signs of slowing down. At least, not in terms of eating. As far as moving? Sigmund didn’t notice at first, because he was used to his belly bumping up against things in his day to day minutiae, brushing against his desk or knocking keys off the key board. But soon, he noticed his belly was brushing against other things- like his knees. Panting and sweating with the sheer tonnage of sugar and sweetener pulsing through his body, Sigmund literally crawled to a slow, his belly pressing down on the metal floor of the trunk. With some effort, he lurched on to his back, thick rolls of back fat preceding him and jiggling as he settled on the floor, breathing heavily. His rich mahogany fur was stained with powdered sugar and honey, swipes on his belly where he had wiped his hands, and all the way up to his elbows. His shirt was practically nonexistent; what remained were a few scraps of cloth, a thin strand traversing the fatty expanse of his back and wrapped around fat-swaddled arms, pinching his shoulders. There was no way his shirt could reach around his chest alone; it had swollen up to a pair of pillows as big as the ones in his rooms, sagging over the sides of his heaving flanks. His belly was packed tight with beignets, swollen up to the size of a small car, it felt like. A few more beignets, and Sigmund guessed that feeling his belly brush up against both sides of the trailer wouldn’t be out of the question. He couldn’t see his tail, or anything below his waist, but he could feel his long, pink tail wiggling under his expanded bottom, slapping against either of his doughy thighs, splayed out to make room for his boulder belly. He licked his lips, hitting puffy cheeks, and his chin hitting other chins.

“Ugh…” he groaned, trying to rock himself up into a sitting position, but the trailer rocked dangerously with him. He feebly waved his arm, and groped for his phone, wedged between his thunder thigh and meaty love handles. He just barely managed to wrap his sausage fingers around his phone, and quickly dialed Mack.

“Hey… hey Mack…” Sigmund gasped, still catching his breath. “Can you come out to the parking lot? I need help moving, uh…” he glanced up at his own swollen belly towering over him, “…something. Yeah, thanks.”

Sigmund sighed, laying his head back down. He spotted one more packet of beignets, just a few inches out of reach. “…Just one more.”