During a stopover with relatives and some good home cooking, Big Mac finds three months worth of eating turnovers and pies starts to catch up with him. Enjoy!
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"C'mon… c'mon…!" Big Mac grunted heavily, pulling with all his might. "Eeyup, got it, yup…. no, nope!" He let out a deep sigh, and winced as he heard another split of a seam along his long-suffering jeans. The equine hulk fell back on the bed of his room, the bed springs groaning loudly as he did. He was in Appleloosa with his relatives, and his Aunt Brown Betty had made sure to make him feel at home— he couldn't remember eating so well in ages. Perhaps too well; the past few months of chugging down apple cider, turnovers, and pies, now paired with his Aunt's incomparable cooking, seemed to have developed a fatal blow to his waistline.
The earth pony's sculpted abs had been obliterated, replaced by a round, red mass that was spilling out from his shirt and sitting in his lap. Big Mac had to finally recognize he had a problem— the seams of his jeans were splitting, and his shirts were riding up from the bottom and unable to cross his chest, as some of that extra weight had found its way to padding out his already overgrown chest.
Big Mac sucked in on his teeth as he caught his reflection in the mirror— and how his middle didn't even fit anymore. He winced as he turned, seeing the bloated, round heft to his buttocks filling out the strained denim. The rest of his musculature was undamaged, arms and shoulders just as impressive as ever— but he had to admit, he had a problem. And there was only one way an Apple pony dealt with a problem— head on.
"A'rright. Got two days 'fore I gotta move out on to the next fair… I'll go and work m'self in the fields, plough whatever they want me to plough, work myself hard as I can— I'll go out fer runs, I'll find ways to lift more weights… Yup. I, uh, let myself a bit bein' on the road, but I can handle this. I'll start dietin' too… can't keep over samplin' my product, afterall…" He muttered, running a hand over his mane. He nodded gruffly to his reflection, snorting resolutely as he stomped towards his door.
"Aunt Brown!" He called down the hallway. "I'm gonna be out in the fields, help Braeburn with ploughin' while I'm here."
"Oh, Mac, wait!" his aunt called back. "I was gonna surprise you with your favorite— I made them cinnamon apple pancakes you like so much. You can help Braeburn out after breakfast— my pancakes are best when they're nice n' fresh!"
Big Mac paused, looking back down the hall and already smelling the cinnamon. "Aw, heck…" he muttered, lumbering towards the kitchen. He was going to work out in the fields, he could start by burning off one last rich meal, right?
"Oh, uh, Aunt Brown? Ya mind mendin' my jeans? They tore again."
"Oh, just throw those city-folk clothes away, Mac!" his aunt replied. "We can getcha some real workin' clothes, good and sturdy— especially for a big guy like you!"
"Heh, yup… thanks Aunt Brown…" Big Mac muttered, pushing down the rising concerns. He'd worry about this after his pancakes.