#maiser

Ah, good ole Rivayle. A dusty bowl in the middle of nowhere, the last rest of every crook from here ‘till the horizon. Land of scorching heat, gunpowder, and death. No hope, dear souls, no hope for no sinner. People shrivel up and die ’round every corner. That’s life in the slums. In the slums, don’t forget! The glided folks from Golden Hills are another breed. Luxurious little pests for the ever-greedy Titan who keeps the wallets fat and the leashes tight. If you can’t claw their way up to some safety—unless the big boss suddenly wants you dead—the choice is simple. You die or kill to take what you need to live.

Following until now? Good, now you can forget it. Because me and my partner—we will rock this world from the bottom. And all the above won’t matter. Not a single detail.

“Lost in thought, Maiser?” My partner—Baron, that old wolf—sighs. “Rest up that big brain, will ya? Don’t want to fry it from too much use.” His hands are firm on Val’s steering wheel; his stare is firm on the road. Sand and dust for miles, only one building to shake up the scenery. The Titan Icey’s garrison, in the middle of the road to Golden Hills. We’ve been poking in his side for ages. Now it’s time to strike big.

“No worries, Baron!” I laugh, tilting my trusty li’l hat to keep my eyes from the scorching sky blaze. “My mind’s sharper than a pack of needles!”

“Than needles? No way. Sharper than a haystack? Maybe.” He pulls Val’s brakes, and the wheels screech before stopping. “Remember the plan?”

I nod. We get in, deal with the patrols, then finish with the troops inside. Plant a mark on our backs and take the heat off our helper. She gathers her goons and stabs her co-Titan in the back. And when the dust settles over Icey’s corpse, we stab her.

Val’s parked away, and we go the last part on foot. Sneaky, sneaky, so that the guards don’t catch onto us. Two uniformed sticks stand before the door. Eh, we aren’t in for a big party. We need to raise some hell and make Icey keep us in mind.

“I take the one further; you deal with the nearby one.” Baron nods; we have a plan. Smirking, I whisper a quick “Accelerate.” Faster than a bullet, I dash to my target and grip his hands behind his back. The dust cloud hasn’t risen when he cries out.

“Do you know what are you doing?” Does he take their words with their freedom? If I got a penny whenever I heard that line, I could have long since retired at Golden Hills.

The man wiggles, trying to push himself free. His arms strain and he struggles to tear himself from my grasp. Mm, it’s always fun when they fight—when they still hope they’ve got the foggiest chance. And after they get it through their heads that they’re doomed and stop, I want to play them the saddest song on the world’s smallest violin. Not that I can play, but the thought counts, doesn’t it? ’Sides, it’s more than they have ever spared for other people.

He huffs, smashing his shoulders into my back. “Ouch!” They’re better trained than the street rats, that’s for sure. Take their firearms, and they become as docile as doggies. But not now, dear gods, no. No time for games; I gotta move fast.

“Better have some prayers prepared, bud.” I lean close and breathe into his neck. My grasp releases and he bolts forward, one hand reaching for his gun.

Mm, the struggle. Everyone’s doing their darnedest to survive, even those crooks. Man, it does give me hope for Rivayle. Too bad his future has run out. “Wrong choice.” I pincer his waist, his wrists pinned to his body, and raise him.

“It’s you!” he screams, horror drawing on his face. His useless struggles speed up.

“A smart one, aren’t you?” I take my last chance to gloat, digging fingers deeper into his skin. “Maiser and Baron, the big bad wolves of the West, coming here to clear the vermin. Our menu? You and your boss.” The hair sliding down my tongue is the worst part; so tasteless and thready. But I better gulp him down fast, or I’ll be hearing how the so great Icey will crush us.

His legs tremble and kick—he can’t move much more. Defiant to the end? Too bad it won’t save you, bud. Listen, if you were some lowlife street rat fighting his hardest to survive, I might have spared you. But Icey’s troops? Sorry, but you might as well be dead. Our helper’s not a gentle flower when she fights. Or ever.

The shoulders slide next, then the torso and the arms. He’s not struggling anymore; I must have crushed his spirit. Or he does believe his boss’s gonna avenge him. No matter—without the extra trouble, I gobble him quickly, slurping his legs. My belly’s bulging out, round and firm like a cannonball. It feels tight, stretched to fit Icey’s goon. Doesn’t hurt at all, though, and it’s still nothing too big. My shirt’s pressing it into some shape, it along with my pants.

Good think Baron’s been taking me on practice runs so often. I’m a big eater, no lie there—gotta be with our line of work and methods—but Baron’s a wildly different beast. ‘Spurred On’ doesn’t take him as a customer anymore—not after he almost cleared them out of food and business, then tried to finish the meal with one arguing patron.

“How was lunch?” Baron asks. “Took your sweet time, huh?”

“We aren’t all bottomless wells, bud.” Baron’s belly has rounded out, the firm ball visible on his much lankier figure. I swear, where does he pack those calories? He says it goes to his magic, the lair, but I’m eating less, and I’m still growing a tad pudgy. “What’s your secret?”

“Ages of practice, long before we met. You’ll catch up one day.” He walks to the door, his packed belly dragging him forward. “Going in?”

“Going in,” I nod.

The door opens wide but not as wide as my mouth. A swarm of flies could fly in with no trouble for their effort. “Hey, Baron.” I tug the fringes of his sleeves. “Didn’t Nath say to expect a private party?” The mother of all headaches crashes into my brain, pointier than a bullet to the forehead.

Troops swarm inside the stone nest’s hallway, each one armed to the teeth. Hands are firm on the hostlers; one wrong movement and the place will explode faster than a gunpowder chest thrown in a bonfire. My poor stomach grumbles; it knows what this means. Sorry bud, work won’t go as smoothly as planned. But does it ever?

“You still trust the Bloody Queen?” Baron asks, his expression deader than a body six feet under. “She’s gonna help us, but she’s never making it easy. Told you to bring your appetite.” Man, sometimes I envy you. How you can take such shocks and not flinch an inch, I’ll never understand.

“You know me.” I lick my lips, my hollow confidence flicked on and gleaming. “Good ole trusty Maiser, accepts any word as the gospel.” Once you stop having faith in the world, it stops having faith in you. Why then leave the bed and go do good?

“I don’t know how a fool like you is still kicking. Maybe your handsome face keeps you alive.”

“Stop it, bud, you’ll make me blush.” Not fair, man, not fair. You can wax poetic about the charming me, but I’ve never seen your pretty smile without the magic fog over it. I wish Nath would tell me what she finds when she breaks the spell, but she’s more tight-lipped than both of us. And speaking of magic: “Don’t you think the goons should have already blasted us full of holes?”

“They can’t kill what they don’t see. We’re the Specter of Rivayle. No one catches us unless we want it.” His lips curl into a smile. “You won’t get to play with them, but with so many partners, it’s better to dance in the shadows.”

Oh, you’ve hidden us from them. Great job, man, but the next time a little warning would be nice. My head always feels like splitting open when you do your spells. “Business before the joy, huh?” I whistle quietly, pleading with my eyes.

“Staying alive before the joy.”

Oh, I almost believe you. But you’re right; we can’t go belly up and let Icey and Nath walk off free. Someone must bring Their Haughtinesses down. Still, it doesn’t sit well in my stomach. If I stuff myself beyond bursting, I’ll need my stress relief. “What about the last few?”

I know, I know, partner. I’m unbelievable. No need for the sighing routine.

“If you can lift your huge gut off the ground by the end, you can play your Big Bad Wolf show.” The foggy smile twists in a smirk. “Care trying your best?”

“When am I not?” I clasp hands. “Let’s dance, partner!”

Baron throws himself down the main lobby, and I sneak into a hallway. Accelerating, I grip the closest goon. She tenses when two arms coil around her, and her mouth goes down my throat before she can scream. No trace of her but the growing bulge ‘round my waist. Man, I hate it when we’re rushing the job. It’s much better when it goes nice and slow, giving them a chance to sink in their horror before we swallow them. Not to sound like Nath, but fear? Fear’s fun. Yeah, I’m a wretch like the Queen; that’s what I am. Why else would I go down the outlaw’s road?

It’s time for the next sweet meal. Good thing my “Accelerate” dulls the pain when I move; otherwise, I’d be a cramping mess on the floor. The two victims wiggle all over my poor, taxed stomach, and each squirm makes me wobble on my legs. Ugh, not good when I need to jump from ambush. Baron, partner, I pray you’re having better luck!

At least fate’s smiling. I catch solitary goons patrolling around. If I had to devour an entire group, the first victim still kicking when I start the next… My stomach groans. No worries, bud, I’d never put myself through that hell. Not unless they can see me and scram, try to run only to end as the hungry outlaw’s meal.

Hey, now that’s an idea! Might finally let me outeat Baron; the old wolf’s always beating me and has the gut to prove it.

Not that I’m doing too shabby now, not at all. The gulps go down more slowly than before, not as impatient. I’m doing my best to finish quickly, swallow the troops before anyone catches us and brings Icey’s wrath too early. But damn it if it’s not difficult with a large, sloshy gut that wobbles on each step. And the more goons I take care of, the worse it gets. My poor belly spills forward, the skin creaking, and I can almost hear it splitting open.

I’m looking like a caricature: a slim body, a gut as gigantic as a barrel, and a still-munching mouth. My belly rolls forward just under my chest, a giant sack filled with all kinds of squirming meals. Gods, it’s hurting, but in such a good way!

I smack my lips as I waddle to the next door. That’s the way, Maiser! Let the gluttony take over. ‘Sides, once you deal with the troops, you can have your fun and play with the food as you love it. Indulge the hunger, devour the cowering bastards, and make a damn splendid show for a finish.

And I’ve found the next one, quickly gulping him. Pop, pop, pop! There go my buttons, snapping one after another. My growing gut explodes out of the tight vest, sloshing low towards my knees. The buckle pushes into it, pressing more sharply than a knife. Whenever I move, my belly digs into it, and the tender skin hurts like hell on earth. But there’s no time to complain! I’ve got to grit my teeth and finish the job. Don’t fear, Maiser; you’ll manage. Just think about how many people you will find, how your stomach will grow, how you will get nice and full. How your belt might as well blast off any moment now.

What’s worse, the prey keeps wiggling. “Guys,” I scream, “hasn’t your classy boss taught you any manners? If you don’t stop-Ugh!” My cheeks turn greener than seaweed; my face is wet with sweaty effort. Whoever has said eating is easy, I’ll devour them whole. It’s a chore, the most tiring chore of them all. But not without its joys.

My hands slide across my belly, hefting its spilling bulk. Can’t walk otherwise, not when my massive weight drags me forward. One wrong move and I’d be crashing on the ground. Sick gurgles are coming from my middle—consequences of the heavy meal. Each uneven, heavy step makes me sick to the core. I waddle widely, swinging like a pendulum: left, right; left, right. And the prey doesn’t stop kicking, not for a moment.

“Won’t y’all stop already? Guys, it’s impressive how tough you are, but I’m working here!” I slap the tight drum, hoping they’ll quieten a little. Just the opposite; the goons fight more lively, their elbows and knees smashing into my belly walls. Kicks and punches thrash inside me, struggling for a way out. I press a hand to my lips, stifling a groan, and lean on the wall. Baron will forgive a quick rest this one time, won’t he? For all his big talks of evilness, he’s a softie when you get to his heart.

A softie that will shoot you dead before you blink, but still a softie.

The wall squirms when I rest my weight onto it. No blame; I’d have cried, too, if someone that heavy pressed onto me. Maybe my eyes were bigger than my stomach this time. Now I’m enormous, larger than any ball I’ve ever seen. Can’t believe I’ve gotten so large without popping. If I fall now, I won’t stand up, not until my taxed stomach finishes digesting this.

How’s poor Baron handling this? I click my tongue, rubbing my belly. Why am I worrying; he must have guzzled his way through the entire garrison. That man’s putting the glut in gluttony. Don’t think he’s ever complained that he’s full, only that he’s hungry. A bottomless pit, that’s what he is.

Not that I’m dragging behind him. The practice’s paying off; people aren’t calling me the Big Bad Wolf of the West for nothing! Just gotta pace myself, that’s all. I make my first step: my gargantuan belly must have rested enough—

“Ouch!” Suppose not. But I can’t idle while Baron’s glutting himself. I already hear his mocking voice: “Did as good as you can, Maiser.” Nope, never again! He can’t push himself for my sake all the time. We’re a team—we split everything.

My walk slows down. I stop, groan, and rub my belly every few seconds, soothing the poor beast. Its gurgles even a bit, not as loud and sick; it purrs like a content, fed animal. No one’s squirming inside me anymore, but my gut’s so darn heavy that I don’t wanna move a muscle. Pain jabs my sides whenever one foot goes before the other. Thank my lucky star no one’s around to catch me; my headache’s disappearing, so Baron’s magic is wearing off. Has he focused on eating and forgotten the good ole me?

Then I’ve got to deal with the vermin myself. There aren’t more goons left here, are they?

I reach the end of the hall. Good news: not a single troop left on this floor. Bad news: there’s one upstairs. My gut roars, and a jolt of ache sears through it. Why did it have to be climbing? A long walk I’d have survived, but steep, uneven stairs, where one Accelerate will crash me through?

“Nah, Maiser—” I shake my head “—you can handle this. No worse than being shot.”

I take the first step. Oh, I was so wrong. My bulky belly drags me down. Not only does it hurt, but the sloshing mass inside throws me off balance whenever I move. My legs rise higher, my knees press into the taut mass and compress it. A sound after a revolted sound comes out of its depths. I’m panting, one hand rubbing my head and the other my middle. Almost there, Maiser, keep it calm. The rotten wood creaks and croaks under my stumbling. My feet crunch, hoping to grip the floor. If I fall, my gut’s rolling all the way to Rivayle.

“Finally-hic! over!” Huffing and puffing, red all over, I reach the second floor and pat my belly. Gods, I am such a pig—to be so stuffed that I can’t move. I tenderly lick my lips. It’s not bad when Baron’s tending for me after a job, his swollen belly pressing into mine: more than we, the crooks, deserve.

But here, where one wrong step might end with a hailstorm of bullets? No, thanks, I’d rather be my nimble self.

Gunshots come from a nearby room, bullets piercing through the sticky fog. My rest is over; Baron has gotten himself into a gunfight! The troops can’t match him—they could never, but if he’s in poor condition like me, he’d need every bit of help.

Walking stuffed is hell, but running? That’s the devil himself. My gut wobbles left and right, hurting as if someone’s been poking it with knives all day. I press my navel, rustle my belly, and hunch forward. Moment, please, Baron, till I catch my breath! More pressure collapses onto my stomach, and it lurches over the belt, my entire weight resting on the stubborn buckle. Gah, if I must gulp one more of Icey’s troops…

By the time I open the door, they have danced the dance. Smug as hell, Baron’s leaning on the wall, patting his gut and panting like a sick dog. The goon is sitting in the middle of the room, bound and gagged.

“Finished your part?” My partner smirks through the sickly huffs. “Got sidetracked helping a lady cross the street?”

I don’t reply. My mouth is stuck open, and my eyes are glued to Baron’s hefty belly. Every goon I’ve missed, he must have guzzled. His coat and vest split open, pieces of fabric clinging over his shoulders. His shirt’s ridden up to his chest, showing his stretched middle. The belt is undone under the fleshy dome, the buckle’s place marked. His skin screams in red, taut over the bloated stomach, and bumps form and disappear across the rough surface. The goons are fighting to get out. But good ole Baron doesn’t as much as flinch, only rubbing the huge ball gut.

He’s immense, outlandishly huge—and if not for the danger, I’d have rushed over there to rub his belly.

“I’ve paced myself, Baron,” I say when my breath comes back to me. “Unlike your bottomless mouth. So—” my eyes focus on the captured goon “—what’s his deal? The Bloody Queen fancies interrogating the poor fella herself?”

My partner smacks the fleshy sphere, quelling the noisy prey. “She’ll find ‘nother plaything. This one’s all yours—a chance to play the evil predator.”

A slow gulp slips down my throat. My stomach will hurl if I as much as step the wrong way. I must look like a wretched balloon, set on popping. “Thanks, Bar. But this—” I pant, almost moaning “—is too much.” Red colors my cheeks, and I blush like a lady in love. “One bite and I’ll explode.” But I want it. To gulp down the goon. Won’t hurt that much, will it? I might have the room to fit him inside me. ‘Sides, how will I beat Baron without practice?

“Don’t worry.” My partner flashes me a smile—gentle, not like the grins he throws like bullets in battles. “No one’s sounded the alarm, and the next shift won’t be coming ‘til after three days. We’ve got plenty time to rest before we need to ditch this place.”

My stomach protests with a sick growl. “Sorry, bud.” I pat it and lick my lips. “But if I don’t push myself, Baron’s sure to leave me in the dust. From now on, I’m doing my best.”

I stagger towards the goon, my steps echoing over the flimsy wood. One stronger push and my weight might break the boards. “As for you, pal,” I say, squashing down the pain, “did you think yourself a lucky lamb? That the Big Bad Wolves of the West have spared you?” My arms unsteadily reach for his shoulders. “Too sad because your fortune’s just ended.” His legs wiggle, his torso shakes like a leaf, and he tries to shove himself away.

Sweat breaks on his head as I approach. I am slow, staggering, and he hopes to escape somehow. Too good to be the truth, pal, too good to be the truth. “Accelerate.” A moment flicks, and my hands clasp around his body, pressing him into my gut: where he’s ending soon. The goon whimpers, begging for his life. “Sorry,” I whisper into his neck, my voice almost animalistic. “We’re no church. There’s no mercy here.”

We’re just beasts, aren’t we? Nath’s finest attack dogs, the ones who do work too dirty for the Queen and too difficult for her usual bunch. I do feel wild when I’m forcing victims down my throat, gulping shaking heads, and twisting shoulders.

The goon’s head and neck are reaching my stomach, the enormous meal making it stretch. My girth presses forward, forcing its mass on the belt. It hurts like hell, but I push myself to finish the goon, stomach groaning in protest. The belt’s prong creaks and the leather stretches.

Soon, the prey’s gone to his waist in me. His head and neck reach my stomach. Each constriction of my neck slides him down, rounding me out like a blimp. One hand moves down to rub the growing mass. The other reaches lower, lingering on the belt. It’s trashing more than Mr. Goon in my mouth. I don’t bother with letting it open; there’s no way under that weight.

‘Sides, if it keeps getting tighter, it’s a matter of time before—

Snap! The buckle tears and my gargantuan gut spills forward, now unbridled. My pants bear the crashing wave of flesh, forcing it back a bit—but the freed room is enough, and I finish the goon with no effort. Fast, before the ache makes me stop. “Over and done!”

“Great show.” Baron claps slowly, and I focus on him. Don’t think about the pain, don’t think about vomiting the goons up! “Thought I’d be finishing him myself, but you did well.” His butt collapses on the ground, and his belly lurches forward, even grander. He’s been waiting for me before sitting—because we won’t be standing up for quite some time.

“What can I say? The best teacher gave me the ropes.” I stroke the taut skin. If I try to look down, I’d slam on the floor, but there’s no need. I know what I’ll see: a vast, sloshy gut full of prey. Finding my feet? I won’t see even my knees! Hefting my enormous mass, I waddle to the wall and crash near Baron. “And now I’ve made myself a damn fine blimp, haven’t I?”