Big Mac's starting to notice comments about his weight- but he's still strong as ever, so he can afford another apple fritter before moving on. Enjoy!
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"Woah— I wouldn't mind grabbing one of those pies, big guy. You look like you're a fan, am I right?"
"Ah, I don't know… What would you recommend? I mean— You look like you've tried everything here plenty of times."
"You know, my mom always told me, never trust a skinny chef— that definitely applies here— if you can't keep your hands off this stuff, it must be good!"
Big Mac was starting to get a bit irritated as he roamed through the towns out west past Appleloosa. Aside from all the travel really starting to wear on his hooves, people had started making comments that struck him as strange. He was used to people calling him big— he had always been big and strong, it was everything he based his identity on. But these comments hit different— they kept talking about how much he clearly had eaten, as if some of them could judge. The more people kept commenting on it, the more Big Mac felt like he had to ask— was he getting fat?
No— no, it was the customers who were wrong.
Okay, so he had been indulging more than he ought to be on the Apple products— Granny's fritters, ciders, and pies were really, really good, and if he was expected to carry it all across Equestria and beyond, he could eat the surplus— he'd been making a killing, and the farm was going to have a tidy profit from this.
And true, Aunt Brown had to refit his jeans and overalls half a dozen times before he left Appleloosa, but clothes were going to take a lot of wear and tear on the road, that was to be expected. So there was a bit more— well, more than a bit— girth in the way, and he was having a little trouble seeing his feet past his own waist— but when he was hauling wagons all day, that didn't count as cardio to burn off a little— only a little— pudge. When he got back home, he'd start running with Sugar Belle, and it would all just melt off. Besides, his arms had never been bigger, which Sugar Belle would be only too happy to see.
The beefy muscles in his arms were bigger than some ponies, and he could still haul enough weight to move a small mountain of apples— and that burnt a lot of calories, apples were fruit, they were healthy, so this was just a temporary thing, Big Mac kept telling himself. Besides, at the moment, sales were continuing to go through the roof— maybe some ponies found a big, husky farm-fed boy as a selling point, a little bit of wholesomeness, make things look cuddly— but as he flexed his arm and he pat down a bicep nearly as round as his stomach, Big Mac told himself he was drawing a line in the sand. It was time to diet— by the time he reached Los Pegasus, he would be back in fighting shape and trim. …And one last of the fritters as a final treat to help motivate him along the road. He needed to keep his strength up, after all.