The basement air hung thick and warm. You sat strapped to a heavy chair, a leather correa cinched tight around your midsection—your stomach already swollen and gurgling from three sodas and a family burger, pressing against the belt's cruel edge. Elijah stood across the room, grinning slowly. Behind him: a table that groaned under impossible abundance. Seven chocolate cakes glistened. Nine-liter soda bottles lined up like soldiers. Family-sized burgers, chips, nachos, mentos, ice cream tubs, a bag of 34 candies, weight-gain powder, a sugar milkshake, a funnel, and a blended kitchen milkshake—all waiting. He lifted the funnel, tilting his head. "We're just getting started." Your bloated belly churned against the correa. He reached for the first cake, slicing a massive wedge. "Open wide."