Bigger Mac- July

Big Mac starts waddling back to Ponyville, but these days, he can always find a few extra minutes for a good meal- especially if it's something big enough to fill a clydesdale-sized glutton like him up. Enjoy!

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Big Mac wasn't entirely sure what to expect by the time he started returning to familiar climes— the summer fairs were over, and the products he had left to trade were going to be saved for later in the year— meaning he was going to return to Ponyville in just a few weeks. But before that, his relatives in Appleloosa were going to be the first to see the transformation from stud to prize hog. As the horse, winded from hauling the wagon and his own prodigious, sloshing weight, waddled up to his Aunt Brown's homestead, he was hit by a wave of shocked exclamations, teasing jokes at his own expense, and a lot of hoofs pressed against his belly, as many of his relatives couldn't believe this was all real— which, admittedly, Big Mac was having a hard time believing himself, and he had been living with it for months.

But he hadn't expected Cousin Cortland's reaction. A proper farmfed horse, Cortland used to be a racer— until a career-ending injury landed him on the homestead, surrounded by a prolonged "recovery" period and Aunt Brown's homecooking. He had been the Apple family's notorious "fat" relative— now, Big Mac was about twice his size.

"Hey," Cortland sidled up, his own gut pressed against Big Mac's for a moment, like a moon circling a planet. "You should check out a place in town, if you want a real meal, know what I mean, big guy? It's called The Trough— tell 'em Cortland sent you. Trust me, they're gonna love you over there."

"Uh…" Big Mac furrowed his brow, not entirely certain about Cortland's meaning. "Eeyup."

Still, after so many questions— and an increasing sense of anticipation about what they would say once he got back to Sweet Apple Acres— Big Mac needed some air, and some space, and he was usually able to think more clearly after some food, so he hefted up his great, round weight and made his way towards an unassuming building on the outskirts of Appleloosa Cortland had pointed him towards, and pushed himself inside, briefly pressed against an admittedly wide doorframe.

Cortland was absolutely right— The Trough was a restaurant unlike any he had ever seen— their menu was based on a customer's weight, featuring all the decadent foods that Big Mac had been trying to avoid. But the clientele, all of them large, rotund, gluttonous ponies— that he realized he was just like— were only too welcoming, and eager to see what a juicy apple like him could put away.

So Big Mac found himself settled down at a table, chomping through burgers larger than his head, with The Trough's clientele cheering him on as he stuffed his increasingly oceanic gut, the food so rich and dense he could already feel the extra padding stuffed into his enormous tankard of a belly, his cider keg-thick thighs, and a bench-breaking rear end so heavily cushioned, he might never feel a hard surface again.

Big Mac sank deeper into his own extra chins and cheeks— maybe he could worry about Ponyville tomorrow. Tonight, right now, he still had a half dozen super-sized burgers to get through; and he couldn't wait to see what The Trough had available for dessert.