"Hey, Mark!" Another voice calls. "What're ya still doing here? We need our booth set up in just a few minutes!"
You and the pig- apparently named Mark- turn around to see an even bigger porcine lumbering towards you. He towers over you, and has a few inches on the smaller pig. There's little doubt this one's a full on razorback boar; large tusks jut out from under his mouth, and his leathery skin is covered in wiry brown hair. A gut bigger than your entire body bounces with each ponderous step, preceding the boar by a good foot, making the boar nearly as wide as he is tall. But his arms, legs, and chest look solid as oak trees, and nearly as wide. There's not a lot of definition, but the slightest bend in his arm makes rock-hard biceps larger than your head surge up. He arches his brow quizzically as he sees you; he's actually pretty handsome, with chocolate-brown eyes and a large, manly chin, his hair in a military-style buzzcut. The way he carried himself, he had an air of authority, and you felt yourself standing up straighter the longer he looks at you, like he's a drill sergeant about to start bellowing orders.
"Aw, bro, I was just making a new friend- look at him! He's all sticks and bones!" Mark says, patting your shoulder as his soft gut presses against you.
The larger boar glares, placing his hands on his wide hips. "Mark Densin, get yer fat ass in that van of yers, and get those hot dogs and burgers down here, or I'll tan yer hide!"
"Right, sorry!" Mark says with a small salute, giving you an apologetic look as he rushes off.
The larger boar shakes his head. "Ugh... little brothers, am I right?"
"Uhm... I wouldn't know, I think..." you mutter, rubbing the back of his head.
The boar eyes you, then juts out his thick, leathery hand. "Name's Trevor Densin, but most people 'round here call me 'Tank,' on account-a my time with the city defense force."
Yeah, sure, that's why, you think as your gaze glances again at his huge tankard of a gut. You take his hand, which completely envelops you; your whole body jumps as he shakes. "I'm, uhm..."
"Ya'll feelin' alright?" Tank asks. "My brother ain't lyin', ya look deathly ill, friend. Here, let's getcha somethin' to drink at least."
Tank's huge arm presses against your back as he guides you, like he's afraid you're about to fall over. "Keep with me, Red," he says, on account of your red fur, you suppose. "Won't do none to have ya pass out on one-a Zaftig City's best holidays."
"Holiday?" You echo, quirking your head.
"Psht, don'tcha know? Summer Festival starts today!" Tank gestures ahead, where the city's huge park has been taken over by a colorful array of tents and booths. Rides have been set up- most of them, you notice, curiously low to the ground- and a huge stage dominates the center of the festival.
"I-I wouldn't know," you mumble, still being guided by the boar. "I'm from out of town."
"Aha, that explains it." Tank chuckles, nodding to the people around you- he's caught you ogling the plus-size citizens, ranging from a little tubby to outright landwhales, huffing and puffing to move under their own power. "People 'round these parts a little heartier than where yer from, ain't they?"
"You can say that..." you concede, trying not to stare as you spot another fox five times your size greedily devouring a gallon bucket of fried chicken, holding it as dearly in his fat-swaddled arm against his heavy, doughy chest as if it was his firstborn child.
"Heh." Tank leads you to his own booth, which has rather cutesy cartoons of Tank and Mark's faces flanking big, bold lettering that reads "Densin Bros. Eats" "Well, Zaftig City's a good place. Good people. Densin family's been here from the start. My great grandaddy was the tenth mayor during the city's bicentennial, and his grandaddy was mayor before that," Tank says with pride, smiling and tugging at the lapels of his long-suffering shirt.
"So... where is Zaftig City, exactly? Worldwise?" You ask, cocking your head as Tank steps behind you, preparing something from a vat.
"Jeez, ya really are lost, ain'tcha Red?" He comes back with a huge glass of lemonade, setting it in front of you. "That should perk ya right up. Zaftig's an independent city state, sandwiched right between the US and Canada. Best damn farming anywhere, and there ain't no better place for food!"
"So... is that why everyone's so..." you puff out your cheeks, holding your arms out in a circle.
"Heh." Tank gives you a mysterious smirk. "Drink yer lemonade, Red, it's on the house."
You remember that gnawing feeling in your stomach, and take your first sip; the taste is almost overwhelming. It's almost too sweet, but that sharp, lemon-y tang, and a sprig of mint, you think, has you finish off the whole glass, feeling oddly refreshed, if still starving.
"Feel better?"
"Yeah, thanks so much, Tank." You grin up at the boar, nodding, then you feel like the wind's knocked out of you as Tank slaps you on the back.
"Good!" he grins, helping you to your feet. "Now go get some vitals in ya, Red. Ya still look like stiff breeze'll knock ya down. Go to any ol' booth, take yer pleasure. If they ain't handin' out free sample, ya'll just tell 'em ol' Red sent ya. But I want to see ya back here with some room in yer gut- yer gettin' a genuine Densin bros. burger if I have to hunt ya down and force it down yer gullet!"
You stumble out of Tank's booth, then shrug as you look around, craning your neck for something that strikes your fancy...
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