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Gastrode's Hungry

"Well, here he is, Gastrode," huffs the dragon as he drops you hard onto your rump, shaking the tunnels.

"Thank you," says Gastrode, waving the other dragon away.

The other dragon turns and walks away. Gastrode sets his eyes upon you.

"Why, hello, wolf," he says courteously. "I suppose you're wondering why you're here."

You remain silent. He continues.

"Well, Mr. Wolf, I am a gourmand of sorts, and an adventurous one, at that. I wish to consume every dish ever created. So far, I've consumed many of the world's dishes, but not all. And that's where you come in..."

You stare on in horror.

"You see, I have yet to sample werewolf fat, or werewolf at all. So, Mr. Wolf, you are to be one of my meals. Well, eventually, at least. Most werewolves don't get nearly as fat as you do, so this is the only time I'll have access to an abundant amount of werewolf fat as an ingredient. You, Mr. Wolf, will be my personal supply of werewolf blubber; you will be kept alive, and fed constantly, so as to produce vast quantities of werewolf blubber. You will periodically be 'harvested' for said blubber, Mr. Wolf; to this end, an incision will be made in your belly through which your fat may be vacuumed out for use in many dishes."

You continue staring on in horror.

"This cycle will continue until one of two things happens: One, if I grow tired of the taste of your fat, which could very well happen after the first harvest," he explains, "Or two, that my desire for the taste of your flesh grows far greater than my desire for your fat."

You gulp.

"I'm sure you know what happens after one of those two things happen. At that point, you will no longer be kept alive as fat-producing livestock, and will then be prepared as a feast for me. The method of preparation has not been decided yet; you could be either spit-roasted, fried, stuffed, what have you... The point is that you will be eaten."

You start to shake in fear, or jiggle, as it were. Gastrode licks his lips. "Yes, excellent showing," he remarks. "Cheer up, Mr. Wolf; you could very well be kept alive for years upon years. You could possibly be immortal; one of my wizards could cast such a spell on you, as has been on me. You'll be my personal 'larder,'" he pauses to chuckle at his pun, then resumes, "Forever!"

"Anything to say, Mr. Wolf, before I call my servants to carry you away to your 'personal quarters?'" he queries, sarcastically, you guess.

You begin to open your mouth as if to protest, but you don't; you can't really think of anything to say, or, at least, nothing that can help you out of this predicament.

"Nothing, Mr. Wolf? Very well, you are dismissed." He claps twice. "Servants!"

Eight dragons, each considerably smaller than the dragon that initially brought you to Gastrode, emerge from a tunnel. They stand at attention before Gastrode, awaiting an order.

"Yes, Your Majesty?" says one of the dragons. Apparently, Gastrode is a king.

"Please, take Mr. Wolf to his 'prepared quarters,' and set him as instructed by the crew awaiting you," Gastrode instructs. At this point, you're rather curious as to what your "quarters" are.

"Yes, my liege." The dragons bow, and step away. They encircle you, and, without warning, flip you on your back. They heave you into the air over their heads, and carry you into the tunnel they came out of. Your belly catches on the ceiling for a moment, stopping the consort from proceeding with you.

However, one of them leaves, and returns with a bucket of lard. He smears the fat all over your belly, and pushes hard on one of your spherical buttocks. After a moment without movement, another dragon comes out from under you and pushes on your other buttock. Within moments, you pop free. The dragon returns to his position under you, and the party continues onward.

Your stomach growls, sending all of your fat into a violent quake. Momentarily, the dragons lose hold of you, but manage to catch you before you hit the floor. They seem somewhat irritated. One of them speaks.

"Damn, this fat-ass sure is a lot of trouble..." says a dragon, whom you think is the one who smeared lard on your belly.

"Yeah, he is..." says another, one you recognize as the second dragon who pushed on your rump.

They all agree, with a chorus of "Yup"s and "Mmm-hmmm"s and "That's right"s.

"Just look at its gut! I bet fatty here wouuld pop if we jabbed its belly hard enough!" says Lard-Smearer.

They all laugh as they carry you onwards.

Written by Speak no Evilz

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