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A Helping Hoof

The wolf's belly touches the floor, and he gives a heartbreaking wail. The swelling canine sinks to the floor, shaking with terrified sobs. Maybe you didn't want him to get quite this fat ... guilt and pity worm their way up inside you. He was about to kill you, you remind yourself. But somehow ... you just can't leave him like this and walk away.

Now the wolf looks like a small, round mountain, with a vast globe of a gut supporting two beachballs. His cheeks are beginning to overwhelm his muzzle, and his neck is a vast collection of rolls. His limbs are so fat that they barely bend anymore.

You cast around, looking for some way to help. Well ... ideas of rehabilitation and acceptance as a fat creature rise to mind, but you dismiss them. Besides, if he keeps growing he probably will explode. Or crush himself. Your eyes fall on the empty bottle, now lying on its side. You waddle over there, feeling sudden sympathy for the wolf. Boy, he's much fatter than you now, and you find it hard just to do this. You lean forward over your chins and nudge the bottle, inspecting the label. On the back, you come across some kind of warning sticker.

"Beware. Cursed bottle! Drinking from this bottle invalidates all life insurance, lucky charms etc. and the manufacturer denies all responsibility for problems that result from consumption from this product."

So ... is it the bottle that's cursed, not the actual drink? Or is this a separate curse, just for gratuity's sake? Maybe if ...

You try to stamp on the bottle, but your hoof just slips off the side. You try again, but it rolls away. Bull-like anger building in you, you lower your snout and charge at the bottle. Your fat bulk impedes you, and you move slowly. But you begin to build a terrible and unstoppable momentum. By the time you reach it, you're at a reasonable pace. The bottle is scooped up and held against your horns and your broad forhead. Snorting, you accelerate, because that's what your body tells you to do. There, looming in front of you, is one of the racks. You're now at a flat-out gallop despite your size, and with all the unstoppability of a tidal wave.

You ram into the rack at full speed. The bottle shatters into tiny fragments on the floor. As does most of the rack, which flies into the one next to it. You bellow in triumph, bucking and stamping on the pieces in bovine exultation. You swerve, you kick, you gore, and you feel intensely satisfied as things around you break and shatter. So this is how a bull in a china shop feels! Wow!

Calming down, you stop and look over at the wolf amidst the wreckage. You feel better, but what about him? Incredibly, his growth has stopped, and he's lying on the floor, sobbing with relief. He manages to struggle onto his side, despite his unbelievable bulk. Since you last looked, he's expanded all over by several inches at least. "Thank you." he whimpers pitifully. He flops back like a beached whale, trembling.

You look around, wading through puddles of wine, glass, and wood. Boy, you sure made a mess in here. Thirsty work, too.

Written by Lupine (edited by wanderer)

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