Born eons ago, a mighty being arose. It carried so much mass within it that even the infinite multiverse seemed like a crumpled handkerchief by the roadside in comparison. Nothing escaped its weight—stars, worlds, thoughts, even boredom itself circled under its spell.
It was so powerful that God himself had to raise his hands to seal it. No chains, no temples, no legends sufficed—only the divine seal itself could tame it.
And so it was that this ancient being, after eons of imprisonment, now trudges across the Earth. She bears the name Lina, and with every step she takes, the memory of the weight of creation echoes.
The hospital room was silent, but the air within it tensed like an eardrum about to burst. She was enthroned on the bed—not lying, not pushing, no—she was enthroned like a fat idol of flesh, crushing the mattress beneath her. Her body was a continent of blubber, a living prison of mass that brought even gravity to its knees. The sound of her breath filled the room, wet, gurgling, as if a swamp were being pumped through an organ.
"Push!" the doctor yelled, his voice a command full of panic, almost pleading.
Then she raised her head. No sweat, no effort. Just that cruel, slimy grin. Her eyes—oh, those eyes—didn't roll in pain, they didn't sparkle with relief. No, they glistened greasy with hunger, as if birth were nothing more than a menu she'd been looking forward to for far too long. Two moist, greedy lights that saw the child not as life, but as a meal.
"Oh, I do..." she growled, and her voice was a hurricane of phlegm, deep, unnatural, like a broken drain rasping words. A sound that made even the doctor in his white coat tremble.
He stared in disbelief at the massive belly, the layers of fat swallowing every contour, and murmured in disbelief:
"Are you even pregnant? I can't see it under all this fat..."
Her eyes flashed, even more greedily, even more luminously. Then, with a scream that shook the glass of the lamps, her body expanded. No sweat on her brow, no trembling—just that animalistic gleam in her eyes, that greedy glow. The baby pushed itself out, not born like a mother, but squeezed out like meat from a tube.
A wet, disgusting slither—and the little head was out, slimy, screaming, a life that never had a chance. The doctor instinctively reached out, lifting the child, but no sooner had it in his hands than her arm shot out. Wavy, greasy fingers encircling everything like a net of fat.
She snatched the baby toward her. Her eyes—those eyes!—stared at it, but not with tenderness. It was the gaze of a beast that saw flesh and nothing else. The gaze of a hungry ogress who was not a mother, but an endless stomach.
"Miiiiinnnnneeeee..." she roared, and there was no stress in the sound, only pure lust.
Then she opened her mouth. Dripping grease, slobbering, an abyss of teeth and darkness. With a single bite, head and body disappeared. A disgusting sight. Her face glistened with amniotic fluid as she smiled like a queen who had reclaimed her throne.
The baby wasn't a child, just food. And her eyes sparkled with contentment, as if she had done nothing but fulfill her destiny: to eat.