Taking on a bet with Moneybags, a fully grown Spyro may have bitten off more than he can chew. Enjoy!
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For years now, Spyro had taken to the skies, traveling in his balloon to map out and document all the wonders he had seen in the travels of his youth— it was his great talent for the Artisan dragons, mapmaking. And after so many years of adventures, now he was fully grown, Spyro loved nothing more than returning home, down in the bowers of the Artisans' Castle, gathering his friends to show off exotic gifts and tell more wild stories of all he had seen.
The tall and broad-shouldered purple dragon was sprawled across the bench at a table in Gavin's coffee shop, many of his friends and dragons gathered around as he continued. "Oh, you wouldn't believe the things they've got going on over at the Bamboo Terrace these days. They've been churning out the coolest things with fireworks. I brought a few, we can put on our own show!"
Nestor, the leader of the Artisans, nodded. "Oh, you wouldn't want to save them for a special occasion? They must have cost you a fortune!"
"That's the thing! Over at the terrace, they're dirt cheap, and with some of the upgrades I want to put on the balloon, I can move loads of cargo. We could even set up a little something— Dragon arts would sell pretty good over there, I can tell you that much." Spyro said with a broad grin.
"Think they might want to buy some coffee blends? I've been trying to offload some," Gavin asked, setting down a large cup for Spyro. "I'd kill to cut into the market, but Moneybags' shops have completely cornered it."
At a nearby table, none other but Moneybags himself sputtered— the bear nearly choked on his coffee, mortified about what he was hearing— the dragons were supposed to be his most valuable customers, given they needed so much material to do all their jobs— and now, Spyro was inspiring them to start looking elsewhere.
"Ahem, ahem!" Moneybags leapt from his seat, the well-fed, portly bear pushing his way to the front of the crowd gathered around Spyro. "Spyro, my boy, I couldn't help but overhear… You seem to have done quite well for yourself."
"Oh, well, hey, I've been trying!" Spyro responded with a warm chuckle.
Moneybags' smile thinned as he looked over the dragon. "You know, you might be the second most impressive traveller I've heard of."
"What? Second best?" Spyro sat up, letting out a small scoff. "Who do you think is a better adventurer than me? I took out Gnasty Gnorc, Ripto, the Sorceress— who's got a better track record than that?"
"Ah-ah, I said traveller, not fighter— and, why, Magnus, of course." Moneybags said.
Nestor furrowed his brow; when it came to Moneybags, he usually smelled a rat. "Spyro, perhaps you want to start your work on the balloon, hm? This is just a stopover for you, after all."
"Hold on, Nestor— what'd Magnus do that I haven't?" Spyro asked.
"Oh, I wouldn't want to set you up for failure," Moneybags said airily, waving Spyro off. "You just enjoy your next little trip."
"Hey!" Spyro leapt to his feet. "I don't fail. What is it that Magnus did? I can take up his challenge!"
Moneybags' smirk curled. "Why, he ate around the world, of course— he went after the most exotic dishes in the world, in a record-breaking eighty one days. He catalogued each and every one of them. It was an invaluable cookbook back in the day."
"What? Well— I can do that!"
"Mm— doubtful. You don't have Magnus'... constitution after all, Spyro, my boy."
Spyro snorted as he stepped out from behind the table, steam shooting out of his nostrils. "I'll show you constitution! You want to make this interesting, Moneybags, or are you just blowing smoke?"
"Oh, now Spyro, there's no need to get hot-headed…" Moneybags said in a casual air. "What would you want from such a wager?"
Spyro stroked his chin. "Alright, alright— how about you pay for all my upgrades to my balloon? It'll cost a fortune."
"Very well, done. But… If I win," Moneybags' smirk took on the cruelest curl. "I want the balloon." The bear tried to hide a chuckle— no more balloon for Spyro, all this talk about exploring and finding better deals than what Moneybags offered the dragon.
Spyro hesitated as the bear held out his hand. Nestor approached, putting a hand on the younger dragon's shoulder to stop him, but Spyro grabbed Moneybags hand, shaking it firmly. "You're on!"
The young dragon wasted no time outfitting his balloon and preparing for take-off. He looked down at the comprehensive list that Moneybags had provided, and cleared his throat. That small, very rarely listened to voice in the back of his mind said he should be more worried about the fact that Moneybags of all people made this bet. That voice was echoed by Sparx, the firefly incessantly buzzing in his ear that this was a bad idea.
"Nyeh!" Spyro waved his hand dismissively. "Relax, Sparx! Look, this isn't so bad— I just, uh…" the dragon slowly frowned as he unfurled the list— it reached down to his waist. "...Hm." Spyro furrowed his brow, tapping his chin as he looked over some of the items on the list. "So, how… how many is a gross in… 'Twilight Harbor Gross-Count Lambshanks'?"
Spyro really needed to sit down with Magnus once this trip was over— Magnus was big, to be sure. He was quite possibly the fattest elder dragon he knew— but he still had no idea where the Hell Magnus put all of the food that was on this list. The first one, Flambeed Cliff Town Sliders, were easy enough to get through— though according to Magnus' list, he did need to go through every twenty four combinations of the sliders' ingredients. Spyro also needed to drink down maybe a gallon of milk to handle the spice— even for a fire-breathing dragon, there were some spices grown in the Peacekeepers' lands that he just needed to get the taste out of his mouth.
"Ugh…" Spyro grunted as he slipped into the basket of the balloon, cradling a swollen, overstuffed middle. "Okay— Okay, Sparx, uh, start the flame, I… I don't want to move."
Sparx hovered down, buzzing in his ear, the dragon groaned, waving him off. "Sparx, enough. We got one down, I got… sixty five meals left, seventy nine days to do it. Just… get the fire going and start leading us to Tree Tops already. I'm going to sleep this off."
The first half of Spyro's journey went by at a hectic pace— Misty Bog Gumbo, Alpine Ridge Shepherd's Pie, Baked Wizard Peak, Hurricos Seafood Bakes, Spyro finished off every single dish on the list— but all that extra food had to go somewhere. It started out as something small and manageable he could work off or suck in, a small bit of paunch, but it only kept growing— his belly began to press up against the yellow scales lining his torso, then spilling over the top of his belt— he called in a few favors to have it resized, but it was of little consequence, because as Spyro continued to ignore Sparx's increasingly dire warnings about what he was doing to his own body, the dragon also underwent a second change— he started to relish the food, and his appetite slowly grew larger.
A mixture of the thrill of a new challenge, a fair bit of pig-headed denial, and the fact that the food was actually very good, left Spyro in a state slowly growing towards ecstasy as he reached for his next meal— a deliciously tender, heavily sauced rack of ribs, right from Dragon Shores. The meat melted in his mouth, and he was caught between savoring each bite and scrambling to get more in; this one, he actually went for more than was required from the list— the meals weren't stuffing him full like it used to.
Spyro's body had ballooned, almost filling the basket as he finished off the last rack, one hand idly rubbing his overfull, blooming ball of a gut, which now sank to the floor of the basket, his legs splayed apart just to make room for it. The dragon's enormous rear was struggling for room with his equally thickened tail, the lower half hung languidly over the edge of the basket. Hefty love handles wobbled and trembled as he reached around, sauce-stained fingers and claws preparing the various instruments of the balloon for take off.
"Ah…" Spyro smacked his lips, his head sinking slightly into his tire-like second chin, still idly rubbing the wide crest of his belly, his thickened arm pressed against his pillowy chest. "Okay. We're good for take off, Sparx— I wanna be at Aquaria Towers in time for the breakfast buffet."
Sparx buzzed in his ear about the balloon weighing too much to take off, and Spyro rolled his eyes. "Well, just drop some of the sandbags."The dragonfly urgently hissed in the dragon's ear, and Spyro's eyes went wide as he whipped his head to face Sparx directly. "Wait— what do you mean you got rid of all but two of them?" The dragon blinked uncomprehendingly, either truly oblivious or being willfully ignorant of Sparx's implications. "...Well, where are the two big sandbags you spotted?" He asked, not noticing Sparx landing atop his doughy chest. The dragonfly let out a small, high-pitched sigh— this time, he certainly had his work cut out for him steering Spyro straight— perhaps he could start rolling the dragon to his next destination.