So, here's the second of the 1,000 watcher raffle stories I promised, this one for  wolfgonewide! Follow Dave, a fatty, nerdy pigeon, as he realizes his biggest (literally) fantasies!

Story © c'est moi

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Dave took a deep sigh, leaning back in his desk chair as it groaned under protest. For an avian, he stuck out; no one in his family had quite been as fat as him. Dave insisted that his size was mostly due to his fluffy, grey plumage, but feathers can only add so much. Filling his lap was a very real gut, a great, grey, doughy boulder, with a shirt stretched so taut over that mass it was as tight and wide as a timpani drum. A perpetually sedentary creature, Dave had gone noticeably pear-shaped, with hips and posterior that threatened to fill his seat to bursting, and chunky love-handles running over the top of his shorts.

However, today, he had reason to be a bit more energetic. If there was one thing that could get Dave excited, it was fantasy. The walls of his room were plastered with orcs, elves, and wizards from half a dozen franchises, covering films, video games, and tabletop games. Figurines of knights, paladins, and dwarves dominated his shelves, and a small collection of half-decent replica weapons sat in the corner. His fellow geeks and nerds had set up a LARPing session, and Dave, the biggest fantasy fan amongst them in more ways than one, wanted to outdo them all. His character was Barrigan the Bloody, a chaotic neutral, half-orc, level 12 Barbarian. He had created Barrigan on a lark, but playing a Conan-esque Barbarian had been more fun than he expected, and for this LARPing session, he wanted to really impress with a great costume. Today was his lucky day, and as he stared at the craiglist bid, he was convinced there had to be a catch.

“Authentic 11th Century parade armor, belonging to one Count Emicho of Leiningen… asking price… ten dollars?” Dave frowned. “Who sells something like this for ten dollars?” he muttered, looking over the fine print. “Comes with authentication documents… in excellent condition… one size fits all?”

Dave looked down at his gut, giving the giant bowl of jelly a decent shake. “Well… that’s going to have to be a priority…”

He looked back at his screen, and tapped his fingers against the keyboard. “It’s only ten dollars…” he muttered. Even if it was a scam, he wasn’t losing a fortune. This was hardly giving over your credit card to a Nigerian Prince, after all.

A week later, Dave found out just what ten dollars can get you. A giant wooden crate arrived for him, and inside was exactly what he ordered. The parade armor was a coat of chainmail with a metal breastplate emblazoned with a hawk emblem etched into it, spiked pauldrons, metal shinguards, and a full helmet, complete with a black feather plume. The pigeon dug out every piece of armor and laid it out on the floor, and frowned.

“One size fits all my flabby ass,” Dave grumbled. He knew he should have had a back-up plan; the LARPing session was going to begin in just a few hours. The armor was designed for a man with a clearly thinner waist than Dave… and noticeably wider shoulders, as well. Still, with some considerable sucking in, maybe he could pull it off. An hour, probably two pounds lost in sweat and tears, and a struggle to suck in his gut later, and finally, the armor was on. Dave felt like he was about to be cut in half by the metal girder squeezing his waist, but it was on. Taking a few tentative, waddling steps, Dave checked out his reflection in the bathroom mirror.

“Right…” Dave gasped. “Fits like a glove…” he said, as if saying so would convince his stomach to stop feeling like it was being strangled.

“What pitiful excuse is this?” A deep, booming voice echoed in Dave’s head, the phrase sounding oddly familiar.

“Mom?” the pigeon-holed pigeon asked automatically.

“How hast thou come across mine armor, you pork-bellies knave?” the disembodied voice demanded.

Dave gulped, trying to shake the voice away. Clearly, he was just having a hallucination brought on by a lack of air. “I- I didn't hear anything!”

“Dare ye insult Count Emicho of Leiningen, Crusader Lord and Scourge of Germany? Answer me, knave!”

“I- I bought it online! I have a receipt!” Dave cried, trying to tear the armor off, but it was good and stuck now.

“Purchased it? Then you are no thief… very well. I shall grant us the power of mine armor.”

“W-what's that supposed to mean?” The pigeon whimpered.

There was an unearthly chuckle. “Thou shalt see soon enough, unworthy vessel thou art. But not for long…”

Two of Dave’s friends, the elven ranger Co’if’edha’iar of House Ha’iar-Gelle and the mage Presta Diga of the Sorcerers of Tation were getting restless. The LARPing session had technically already started, but without Barrigan the Bloody as their tank, they had no idea how were they supposed to face up against Tom, or as he was now known for the next few hours, Lord Darkanon the Lich.

“I give him five minutes,” Presta muttered. “Then we make him walk home.”

Co’if’edha’iar scoffed. “Betcha he’s at McDonald’s.”

The mage shook her head. “No, it’s Saturday. Burger King.”

“Hark, vagrants!” a new, booming voice echoed across the field. Co’if’edha’iar and Presta swerved around, and their jaws dropped. Standing before them was a massive specimen, clad in armor that was only just able to cover his muscular bulk. His chainmail was stretched to the breaking point over bulging arms, biceps larger than the heads of the two LARPers. The hawk on his tabard was warped over a meaty pair of pecs, each one the size and hardiness of a knight’s shield, framed by lats that spread out like wings and mountainous shoulders that made the pauldrons almost superfluous. He towered over the ranger and mage on tree-trunk sized legs, the armor creaking with every step.

“...Dave?” both of his friends gasped simultaneously. “What happened to you? Where’d this armor come from?” Co’if’edha’iar demanded, reaching for the chainmail.

“Don’t touch one of such noble blood, you lowly rogue!” Dave boomed. Which was odd, as he meant to say, “Yeah, I know, isn’t it awesome?”

“Uh… right, well if we’re going into character, Barrigan’s a barbarian, not a noble, but, uhm, shall we get started, then?” Presta said.

“But seriously, what, did you squeeze yourself into a girdle? Is that all real?” the ranger asked, poking Dave’s arm.

Dave grabbed Co’if’edha’iar by the scruff of his neck, lifting him up while barely tensing his huge arm. “Dost thou need a lesson to improve thine manners?” Dave snarled. Which was odd, as he meant to say, “What can I say? My bulking program finally started paying off.”

“Hey, hey!” Presta tried grabbing on to Dave’s arm, but she couldn’t quite get a grip around all of that bird beef. “Save it for Tom- I- I mean, Lord Darkanon, okay?”

Dave drew a massive sword, dropping Co’if’edha’iar on the dirt. “A foe? I’ll seize this Lord Darkanon and cut him in twain!” Which wasn’t odd, but more than a little scary, as he meant to say, “Oh God, is that the name Tom chose?”

“Emicho, what the hell are you doing?” Dave demanded as he realized he literally didn’t know what he was saying anymore.

“Silent, thou bumbling fool! You have no ambition. You couldn’t kill this Lord Darkanon, so I shall do it for you!”

“I couldn’t kill Lord Darkanon because his real name is Tom and he bakes my Boston Cremes at Dunkin Donuts!” Dave screamed in his head as his new, mountainous body started lumbering into the park.

Dave struggled with Emicho’s will, struggling to tear off the armor even as he continued his forced march through the park.

Emicho’s voice laughed in his head. “Struggle all you want, knave! I have madest thou into a weapon, my weapon, and I do not let go of control so easily.”

“Uh…” Dave looked around in a panic, desperate to find a way out. His stomach growled, as he had missed breakfast, and losing two hundred pounds only to gain it back as muscle did leave a person peckish. It was then that he spotted, just past the trees, a collection of picnic tables laden with food, all the hotdogs, burgers, chips, soda, and donuts a hundred LARPer’s could eat. The armor was strained to a breaking point with as much strong muscle as Emicho pumped into him, so maybe…

“What art thou thinking, villain?” Emicho demanded.

“Just, uh…” Dave struggled, forcing his way to the food, driven on by his growling stomach. “Just need a little snack…”

Emicho growled in his head. “I know what thou art thinking!”

“Well, then I hope you like Boston Creme…” Dave muttered. The pigeon was fighting with every fiber of his being, and, step by step, he was inching closer to the food table.

“Hey, uh, Da- I mean, Barrigan…?” Co’if’edha’iar asked, arching his brow. “The lich is this way…”

Dave stumbled, suddenly jerked towards his friends, but then he struggled back to the food. “J-just need a pick-me-up snack…”

“Think of the power I could give you!” Emicho roared inside his head.

“Think of the cholesterol!” Dave countered, grasping for the first donut, and then slamming it into his mouth. He sighed happily; he forgot how good donuts were. Despite Emicho’s protests, Dave’s love of fatty, fried desserts was stronger. Dave was famous for how he put away donuts, grabbing two in each fist and shoving them in his beak.

“No! You gluttonous fool!” the spirit cried.

“You shouldn’t have threatened my friends- or the assistant manager of my Dunkin Donuts!” Dave defiantly shouted between bites. He had to take a breath, and he could feel his stomach tightening, pressing up against the armor. It was going to be an uphill battle, but the pigeon was practically born for a fight like this. It was a struggle at times, as Emicho would send the pigeon’s arms spasming in a bid to reassert control, but the spirit heavily underestimated how much Dave loved his donuts. Box by box, Dave regained control, and when he licked the last crumb of the last donut, there was the sound of ripping cloth and bursting metal links. Dave breathed deeply and looked down, and grinned as he saw a grey feathered blob the size of a beach ball sticking out of the burst chainmail.

“I’m starting to think I missed you,” Dave chuckled, giving his stomach a good pat.

“No! You fool!” Emicho cried. “My power’s damaged beyond repair!”

“Yeah? Let’s finish that off,” Dave shot back, and he reached for the main course. He half-way fell into a trance, grabbing hot dogs, burgers, and fistfuls of chips with reckless abandon. The more food he forced down his gullet, the faster his body broke it down to fat, slowly burying that new, hard muscle in blubber. The enchanted armor was not prepared to hold in so much bulk, even with Emicho’s “gift,” and slowly, the chainmail and metal was breaking away.

“So…” Dave gasped after the longest splurge of his life, his hand struggling to reach that last fistful of chips. “Waddya… waddya think about that, Emicho?”

There was no answer.

“Emicho?”

Trying to catch his breath, he looked down, and all he saw was grey feathers. Not a scrap of the armor remained on him, and as he looked around, he could see why. As he canted his head from side to side, he could feel multiple chins sloshing against his beak, and billowy, chipmunk cheeks just beneath his line of sight. He tried standing, but his legs, swaddled in their own industrial rolls of fat, were buried under a mountainous belly, a tidal wave of feathered lard that was firmly planted on the ground, crowned with a doughy chest that looked less like a pair of shields now, and more like sacks of grain on top of a boulder.

“Ugh…” Dave reached out with flabby arms, and triumphantly shoved those last defiant chips in his mouth before loosening an earth shattering belch.

“Oh my… Dave!” Presta shouted as she and Co’if’edha’iar rushed over. “What the hell did you do?! You ate everything!”

“Don’t… don’t worry, guys…” Dave let out a smaller belch. “Tom’s safe.”

“From what?” his ranger friend demanded. “Overeating?”

“No! Just…” Dave sighed. “It’s a long story. Can you hand me a soda first? I’m dying of thirst, here.”