466, Kilmer Avenue.
Yes, that’s the house number, and yes, that’s the street name, but you still aren’t getting out of the car. You look at the name printed out on your sheet and back at the house again, then again, and again and again, scrutinizing each number and letter that quite concisely matches your directions, but again you triple, quadruple and quintuple check, scared to approach the house with its nicely tended lawn, its white picket fence, and its overall crystal-perfect definition of nuclear suburbia.
This wasn’t the home a high school bully would get. This was where a pair of newlyweds would move to raise their children. Bullies had to live in some seedy neighborhood or a ratty apartment downtown, or anywhere else somebody who made you throw up in the cafeteria deserved to go.
Allowing yourself one last look, you read the home’s number again, and it’s the exact same number as when you checked five seconds ago. Realizing that the neighbors are probably staring at a strange parked car still running at the street curb, you shut off the engine and step out the door.
You stand align with the path to the patio steps, puttering over all the insults or comebacks you hated yourself for not hurling at him when his hulking arms were holding you to the lockers with that shitty smirk on his beak. Six years of petty fantasies of getting payback, countless nights of anger repressed since the day that asshole was rewarded for the shit he pulled with a high-school diploma had led to this day, the last few seconds before seeing those red eyes again. If it ended with a fight, a war of insults, or just stomping on his talons and walking home with the last blow dealt, it would be the end of the Creston Wrencast saga.
You memorize the golden ones, the quips you really wanted to speak in the moment, take one last breath, then put one foot ahead of the other. Up you go to the red front door, a looming slab of wood way too redundant for a towering, hulking beast like a senior Creston...six years he must’ve spent lifting weights and chugging protein shakes to become even more of a behemoth. Eh, it can be more than fists that win a fight, and you’d been training with words since graduation. Licking the roof of your mouth, flexing out your fingers, and cracking your neck, you hammer your fist on the door.
“Coming!”
Oh, god.
It’s that voice.
That voice that was laughing when you were locked alone in the girl’s room, tied to the flag pole in a blizzard, or dangled by his claws, screaming as you were held upside-down a hundred feet in the air as he flapped high above the schoolyards.
His voice.
The damn near entire house buckles and groans with the very foundations flexing under the movements of his host...you were right. He’s massive.
Fucking massive.
“Oh, god.” You whisper, your attempts to cure the shakes all fail miserably as they come back renewed, the air hot and loud as it goes in and out of your lungs, “Oh my god...oh my god, oh god, oh god oh god oh god ogodogodogodogodogodogod...”
The full immensity of the homeowner’s mass approaches the doorway, some tons upon tons of bodily strength that could gruesomely end as much as they pleased the life of a mere human that rubbed them the wrong way, all about to open the last barrier between you and your worst tormentor. It peels from the frame...and the training is gone. Just like back in the hallways, your body just gives up, a childish squeak escaping you as your arms clamp around your head, a perfect stress ball for a hormonal eighteen-year old with a taste for blood.
The door pulls away entirely, opening up the sounds caused by Creston’s bodily mass warping the very foundations of his house. Damnit, this was a mistake. It’s just going to happen again. It’s gonna hurt, it’s gonna be embarrassing, and a single sob comes out as your legs seize and let you fall to the wooden floor, anticipating the first blow...
“...you okay?”
You open your eyes just a peek, getting the briefest sight of Creston after six years. There’s that shade of blue, the same as the blur when his fist was about to land in your face, but nobody hits you. You allow another, now much longer look at him...but down at the floor, there’s somehow so much and too little to see of him.
You get the courage to unfold and rise, and with more and more of Creston visible, you slowly fill with shock, seeing you were never staring at him to begin with...well, not entirely him. It was his stomach.
Stretching your feet and vision to re-acquaint yourself with the Corvisquire’s face, you note an extra two feet that inflate the once eight-foot bird to a definite ten, likely due soon for an eleventh. You recognize those red eyes, that gray beak, and that hat of scruffy black hair that you’d last seen on graduation day, but you’re now forced to see them over cheeks injected with twenty pounds of lard each, his round head sinking like quicksand into a doughnut-shaped chin infesting his neck.
Where was once a Herculean set of trapezoidal muscles now sits fat-addled shoulder each spanning over a yard wide...nay, there had to be some incredible muscles to allow himself to stand upright, let alone maneuver about his own home, but the bulk of his feathered arms is instead wobbling, round adipose around the bones that renders his wings absolutely useless for flight...if they even can still be defined as wings, and sitting somewhere above brow level is a chest draped by a capacious gamer shirt with breasts hanging inside like a set of pillowy sandbags, too swollen and round to even be mistaken for feminine.
Just gazing upon Creston’s face is enough to make you feel fifty pounds heavier, a MASSIVE compliment when only his fingers and talons are what aren’t wider than your waist...and that’s only the chest up. To think that even a fat Pokémon could get to such a size, a feat accomplished by a muscular health-demon like Creston floors you as everything below the chin, his torso, legs, stomach...good god, his stomach, are bloated and rounded to such caricatured degrees that it traps him in his own house like a ship in a bottle, even when the door is so blatantly widened to accommodate his size. Sitting a mere breath’s distance from your face, his wrecking-ball like belly leaps off his torso in a leviathanic globe of feathers and adipose, avalanching with a magnitude of perhaps ten tons that permanently merges its underside with a greedy amount of the floor below, the legs supporting them containted only by parachute-sized shorts that conform entirely to the skin of the blobby legs and buttocks they are trying to contain.
The obese raven rolls his eyes, having gotten perhaps his seventeenth stare in the week. “Can I help you?”
“C...Creston Wrencast?” You shake out instead of any of the brilliant one-liners you’d rehearsed for days in the mirror.
“Yeah, that’s me.” If a bit more slow and breath-y, his voice is the same as that old, smooth baritone. “Do I know you?”
“Y-You don’t...” Another chance for a quip, and it’s shot dead on sight. “You don’t r-remember m-me?”
“Remember you from...” The question goes mute when his own brain answers it for him. His eyes adjust to the size difference, seeing the dwarfed figure before him past the size difference and acknowledging that you’re not the teenager he’d assumed of you, that you’re a few years past high school...eight years.
“...oh my god.” He utters quietly, face flush with awe and shock as you watch the memories come at once through the quivers of surprise that overtake his blobby features. “...Ian? Ian Spetzer?”
The motherfucker, you think. Four years of torturing you, and he doesn’t remember your name? You want to explode at him, punch him right in that fat gut of his, leap up and claw at his face...
...but then you remember that is your name. Damn. The bastard’s so fat that you’d forgotten your own name.
“Yeah.” You peep out. “That’s me.”
Creston...
Choice 1: ...is overwhelmed by guilt, and bursts into tears.
Choice 2: ...towers over you menacingly, and stomps forward to grab you!
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