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Warning: The following fic contains fat ponies, extreme obesity/immobility, and depictions of a slobbish life. If that turns you off, turn around. Also, this is a side story based off the fic Small Town, Big Business. If you haven't read that fic yet, you won't understand what's going on here.
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Looking at Thunderlane's home, it would be impossible for one to tell that his house and garden had once been his pride and joy. Just two months ago, the outside and inside of the house had both been kept clean and presentable, the grass outside trimmed and neat, a row of flowers carefully cultivated along the strip of grass closest to the road. Thunderlane, with the help of his little brother Rumble, had made sure that their house was kept as clean and pleasant as possible. They had kept their house a home.
Then Hotshot's Grill had come to town, and Thunderlane and Rumble had both taken their first fateful bites of Hotshot's poisoned food. Now, there was no time for home improvement, and it showed in the dilapidated house they now lived in.
Starved of attention and care, the grass had grown to nearly a foot in height, the rows of flowers choked by weeds and vines growing in thick masses all across the lawn, resembling a patch of the Everfree Forest more than it resembled a garden. The house's exterior was cracked and dirty, the windows covered with thick layers of dust and grime. Inside, the house was positively filthy, with thick dust covering the floors, walls, and mountains of empty food containers, wrappers, cups and dirty plates that lay haphazardly around the place. The light was dimmed from the dirt covering the windows, the air stifling from said windows not being opened in weeks. Said air was filled with the appalling combined stench of sweat, leftovers and stomach gas.
Inside the living room, amid a large pile of spilled food and other assorted litter, an enormous charcoal mound of fat lay on the crushed remains of a couch, emitting heavy wheezing breaths in between sloppy munching and slurping. This was Thunderlane—all seven hundred-plus pounds of him. Once the embodiment of physical fitness, the former storm organiser of the Ponyville weather team was now in a truly sorry state. His legs hadn't been used for so long that all muscles had atrophied, his mind so clouded by blubbercup that he cared for nothing but eating.
"Mmm..." Thunderlane moaned, as he raised an oat burger, dripping with fat and grease, to his blubbery lips, the simple act of raising his hooves to his mouth being enough to make him break out into a sweat. He took a bite and chewed sluggishly, his flesh wobbling and sliding from the only movement he knew anymore, day in and day out. Chewing, chewing, and more chewing.
As he ate, ketchup, mustard and grease dribbled down his chins, adding a new layer to the thick, dry mess of sauce and foodstuffs that covered his chest and the top of his vast belly, forming a great abstract blob of yellow, red and brown. Various bits of old food were also stuck in between his thick rolls and folds of fat, with burger buns and hay fries poking out from between the heavy charcoal folds.
This was Thunderlane's usual morning routine. Once Rumble had gone to school (after eating his own breakfast, and giving him a cursory wash with some wet wipes), he'd eat for about an hour, consuming roughly six thousand calories in the process. When he was done, he'd pass out. He'd be woken up a few hours later by the arrival of the delivery pony with even more food. Half would be saved for Rumble when he got back, and the other would be devoured by him. Once Rumble returned, he'd eat his own food, after which a second delivery would come. Finally, they'd both gorge themselves senseless, and then fall into fitful sleeps for the night.
Thunderlane gasped for air, his enormous stomach churning as it digested the first thousand calories he'd eaten that morning. He closed his eyes, before feeling a poke on his vast thigh.
"Rumble? That you, bro?" he mumbled, slowly turning his jowl-hefty head to look at his brother. Rumble, while nowhere near as enormous as Thunderlane was, was still huge for his size, his belly almost dragging across the floor. The fact that he still retained his mobility meant that he now acted as his helpless brother's caretaker, feeding him, washing him and checking him for pressure sores in between bouts of gorging.
"Yeah, it's me," Rumble nodded, wheezing. "Just checking you for sores down here. You need anything before I go?"
"'m fine, thanks..." Thunderlane said, closing his eyes again. "Going to school?"
"Yep. I'll see you later, okay?" Rumble squeezed Thunderlane's portrait-sized cutie mark by way of a hug.
"Later, bro. Have a... ugh... have a good one." Thunderlane's head fell back as he panted for air, already exhausted from the strain of simply speaking. He heard Rumble's heavy breaths as he waddled out, and the front door shutting, before he summoned all of his energy to reach for yet more food.
END
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Looking at Thunderlane's home, it would be impossible for one to tell that his house and garden had once been his pride and joy. Just two months ago, the outside and inside of the house had both been kept clean and presentable, the grass outside trimmed and neat, a row of flowers carefully cultivated along the strip of grass closest to the road. Thunderlane, with the help of his little brother Rumble, had made sure that their house was kept as clean and pleasant as possible. They had kept their house a home.
Then Hotshot's Grill had come to town, and Thunderlane and Rumble had both taken their first fateful bites of Hotshot's poisoned food. Now, there was no time for home improvement, and it showed in the dilapidated house they now lived in.
Starved of attention and care, the grass had grown to nearly a foot in height, the rows of flowers choked by weeds and vines growing in thick masses all across the lawn, resembling a patch of the Everfree Forest more than it resembled a garden. The house's exterior was cracked and dirty, the windows covered with thick layers of dust and grime. Inside, the house was positively filthy, with thick dust covering the floors, walls, and mountains of empty food containers, wrappers, cups and dirty plates that lay haphazardly around the place. The light was dimmed from the dirt covering the windows, the air stifling from said windows not being opened in weeks. Said air was filled with the appalling combined stench of sweat, leftovers and stomach gas.
Inside the living room, amid a large pile of spilled food and other assorted litter, an enormous charcoal mound of fat lay on the crushed remains of a couch, emitting heavy wheezing breaths in between sloppy munching and slurping. This was Thunderlane—all seven hundred-plus pounds of him. Once the embodiment of physical fitness, the former storm organiser of the Ponyville weather team was now in a truly sorry state. His legs hadn't been used for so long that all muscles had atrophied, his mind so clouded by blubbercup that he cared for nothing but eating.
"Mmm..." Thunderlane moaned, as he raised an oat burger, dripping with fat and grease, to his blubbery lips, the simple act of raising his hooves to his mouth being enough to make him break out into a sweat. He took a bite and chewed sluggishly, his flesh wobbling and sliding from the only movement he knew anymore, day in and day out. Chewing, chewing, and more chewing.
As he ate, ketchup, mustard and grease dribbled down his chins, adding a new layer to the thick, dry mess of sauce and foodstuffs that covered his chest and the top of his vast belly, forming a great abstract blob of yellow, red and brown. Various bits of old food were also stuck in between his thick rolls and folds of fat, with burger buns and hay fries poking out from between the heavy charcoal folds.
This was Thunderlane's usual morning routine. Once Rumble had gone to school (after eating his own breakfast, and giving him a cursory wash with some wet wipes), he'd eat for about an hour, consuming roughly six thousand calories in the process. When he was done, he'd pass out. He'd be woken up a few hours later by the arrival of the delivery pony with even more food. Half would be saved for Rumble when he got back, and the other would be devoured by him. Once Rumble returned, he'd eat his own food, after which a second delivery would come. Finally, they'd both gorge themselves senseless, and then fall into fitful sleeps for the night.
Thunderlane gasped for air, his enormous stomach churning as it digested the first thousand calories he'd eaten that morning. He closed his eyes, before feeling a poke on his vast thigh.
"Rumble? That you, bro?" he mumbled, slowly turning his jowl-hefty head to look at his brother. Rumble, while nowhere near as enormous as Thunderlane was, was still huge for his size, his belly almost dragging across the floor. The fact that he still retained his mobility meant that he now acted as his helpless brother's caretaker, feeding him, washing him and checking him for pressure sores in between bouts of gorging.
"Yeah, it's me," Rumble nodded, wheezing. "Just checking you for sores down here. You need anything before I go?"
"'m fine, thanks..." Thunderlane said, closing his eyes again. "Going to school?"
"Yep. I'll see you later, okay?" Rumble squeezed Thunderlane's portrait-sized cutie mark by way of a hug.
"Later, bro. Have a... ugh... have a good one." Thunderlane's head fell back as he panted for air, already exhausted from the strain of simply speaking. He heard Rumble's heavy breaths as he waddled out, and the front door shutting, before he summoned all of his energy to reach for yet more food.
END
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If Hotshot hadn't been stopped, how long would it have taken for all the money to completely dry up?