Chapter 1: The Commercial
The couch sighed under them, a familiar cloud of worn cushions and faintly sour fabric. Mordecai’s long, blue-feathered legs were draped over the armrest, one foot twitching to the arrhythmic pulse of the TV. Beside him, Rigby was a raccoon-shaped lump buried in a bag of Cheez Dodger Dust, his fingers leaving orange prints on the remote.
“Change it,” Mordecai muttered, not taking his eyes off the ceiling. “This is worse than watching paint peel.”
“It’s the atomic blender channel,” Rigby said, crunching. “It’s educational.”
“It’s a guy in a lab coat blending a cinder block. My eyes are bleeding.”
Rigby grumbled and thumbed the button. The screen flickered through static, a cooking show where something was on fire, a dating show where someone was crying, and then landed on a blast of neon graphics so sharp it made the dim room feel sticky.
“WHO TOLD YOU YOU COULDN’T BE A GOD?”
The voice boomed, a sonic wave of pure testosterone. On screen, a man who looked carved from granite and oil flexed, his bicep swelling to the size of a toddler. The camera cut fast—explosions, beautiful people screaming on a beach, a slow-motion punch that shattered a watermelon.
Mordecai’s foot stopped twitching.
“Seriously?” Rigby said, but he didn’t change it.
“For decades, the fitness industry has lied to you,” the voice intoned, now smooth, conspiratorial. “They want you weak. They want you small. They don’t want you to have THIS.” The granite man kissed his own pectoral muscle.
Mordecai thought of Margaret. He thought of the way she lifted boxes of park supplies like they were empty, the casual strength in her wings. He thought of his own lanky frame, all angles and feathers, failing to cast anything resembling an impressive shadow.
“Introducing BULK BLAST,” the announcer yelled. “The revolutionary nano-molecular muscle catalyst. No gym required. No diet. Just drink, and let science do the fighting.”
Rigby sat up a little, Cheez Dust forgotten. “No gym?”
“None!” A scientist appeared in a fake laboratory, holding a beaker of glowing purple liquid. “Our patented formula triggers hypertrophic saturation at the cellular level. The body you deserve is only a sip away.”
The screen split. A scrawny, sad-looking weasel chugged a shake. A graphic of a spinning DNA helix flashed. Then, the same weasel, now bursting out of his shirt, veins popping, surrounded by admiring women.
Rigby thought of Eileen. Smart, kind Eileen, who always talked about ecology and the structural integrity of birdhouses. He imagined her looking at him not with friendly amusement, but with wide-eyed wonder. He pictured himself not as the guy who needed help reaching the top shelf, but as the shelf.
“Call now,” the voice purred. “Operators are standing by. Do it for you. Do it for… them.”
A phone number burned itself onto the screen. The price, slashed in red, flashed like a siren.
Mordecai was already reaching for his phone, a cheap brick of plastic and dreams. “Dude.”
“It’s kinda late,” Rigby said, but his eyes were fixed on the before-and-after of a guinea pig who now had six-pack abs.
“It’s never too late for self-improvement,” Mordecai said, his voice tight with a sudden, crystalline hope. He punched in the numbers. The ring was muffled by the infomercial’s triumphant soundtrack.
“You think it really works?” Rigby whispered.
“Scientists made it,” Mordecai said, as if that settled it.
A voice crackled on the line. “Bulk Blast, you bulk, we blast. What’s your credit card number?”
Two days later, a box sat on their coffee table, displacing a tower of empty soda cans. It was unremarkable, brown cardboard. They stared at it.
“Should we… do a ritual or something?” Rigby asked.
“It’s a protein shake, not a summoning.” Mordecai sliced the tape with a nervous claw.
Inside, nestled in unsatisfyingly plain packing foam, were two large plastic tubs. One was labeled ‘Arctic Blast,’ the other ‘Volcanic Fury.’ The powder inside was a unsettling, chalky purple.
They mixed them with water in their least-clean mugs. The liquid swirled, viscous, with tiny sparkling particles that fizzled and died. It smelled like a candle shop and regret.
“To the new us,” Mordecai said, his voice less certain now.
“To not being scrawny losers,” Rigby added, with more conviction.
They clinked mugs and drank.
It was profoundly sweet, with a chemical aftertaste that coated the tongue. Mordecai gagged. Rigby shuddered, his whole body convulsing. “Tastes like gym socks and victory!”
“Tastes like a mistake,” Mordecai coughed, but he finished it, scraping the last gritty dregs.
For a moment, nothing happened. The fridge hummed. A car alarm went off outside.
Then, a warmth started in Mordecai’s gut. Not a pleasant warmth. A spreading, internal blush, like he’d swallowed a heating pad set too high. He looked at Rigby, who was patting his own stomach, a confused look on his face.
“You feel that?”
“Yeah. Kinda… tingly.”
The warmth intensified, settling into their limbs, a dense, heavy feeling. Mordecai shifted on the couch and felt the cushion depress differently under him. His park services t-shirt felt… snugger across the chest. He must have shrunk it in the wash.
Rigby belched, a long, low sound. “Whoa. That was industrial.” He rubbed his belly, which emitted a faint, liquid gurgle. “Stuff’s working, though. I feel… solid.”
Mordecai stood up. A wave of dizziness hit him, a head-rush that was deeper, fuller. His knees felt strangely pressurized. He looked down at his torso. His shirt was definitely tighter. The fabric stretched over what seemed like a broader, softer expanse. He poked his own belly. It yielded softly, a new layer of padding that hadn’t been there an hour ago.
“You look bigger, dude,” Rigby said, his voice laced with awe. He tried to stand, pushing himself up with a grunt. He seemed to roll forward onto his feet, his center of gravity shifting. His pants were tight at the waist, the button straining. “Oh man. It’s happening. It’s really happening!”
A giddy, nervous laugh bubbled out of Mordecai. He flexed an arm. There was no defined muscle, but the arm itself was thicker, the shape blurring under a softness that hadn't been there before. He felt heavier, more substantial. The doubt vanished, replaced by a swelling pride.
“Margaret’s not gonna know what hit her,” he said, his voice thick with anticipation.
He didn’t notice the way his new paunch tested the seams of his jeans as he sat back down. He didn’t register the extra weight that made the old couch groan a deeper, more final protest. He only saw the future, vast and muscular and bright.
Rigby was already back on his phone, texting Eileen. got some new workout stuff. gonna get huge. u wanna maybe see a movie later? He hit send, a confident smirk on his newly rounder face. He scratched at his side, his fingers sinking into a soft, rolling layer of fat that he chose to interpret as latent power.
Outside, the park was dark and quiet. Inside the house, under the glow of the TV, two bodies quietly bloomed, cell by saturated cell, fueled by a promise and the faint, saccharine taste of Arctic Blast. They were on their way.
They were on their way.
The next morning, the changes were undeniable. Mordecai’s park uniform shirt was taut across his chest and stomach, the fabric straining at the buttons. When he moved, he felt a new, gentle sway around his middle. Rigby’s pants needed a serious hitch every five minutes, the waistband digging into a soft, protruding roll that hadn’t existed yesterday.
“It’s working,” Mordecai said, turning sideways in the cracked bathroom mirror. He puffed out his chest, which now had a softened, rounded contour. He saw bulk, and his mind translated it to power.
“I feel huge,” Rigby agreed, voice muffled as he tried to suck in his gut to fasten his belt. He gave up with a gasp, letting it spill back out. “Just… solid, y’know? Heavy-duty.”
The mental image of Margaret’s impressed smile was a drumbeat in Mordecai’s skull. It drowned out the faint creak of his joints or the way his new weight settled with a dull ache in his lower back. Rigby was replaying a fantasy of effortlessly lifting a fallen tree branch for Eileen, his silhouette heroic against the sun.
They looked at the nearly full tub of powder on the counter. The instructions said one serving daily.
“But,” Rigby said, scratching the side of his neck, which felt fuller, “what if one serving is just, like, for maintenance? What if the real gains are in, like, a loading phase?”
Mordecai looked at his reflection again. He saw the blurring of his lanky definition, a softening of his sharp edges. He didn’t see softening. He saw filling out. Potential. “You think?”
“The guy on TV was gigantic. You don’t get that big by following the little lines on a scoop.”
So they mixed a second shake at lunch, right there on the park house steps. The afternoon sun was hot. The purple liquid was cloying, gritty, and left a metallic film on their teeth. Mordecai winced as he drank it, a cramp knotting briefly in his side.
The effects came faster this time.
A deep, internal bubbling, a feverish warmth that spread outwards from their cores. Mordecai felt his belly tighten against his belt, then relentlessly push against it. A sensation of expansion, not hardening, like dough proving in a too-small pan. He undid the top button of his jeans with a discreet, relieved sigh.
Rigby let out a long, rattling belch and patted his stomach. It jiggled visibly, a soft, quivering motion under his shirt. “Whoa. That’s the sound of muscle synthesis, dude.”
By the time they were picking up litter around the duck pond, the transformation was accelerating. Mordecai’s stride shortened, his thickened thighs rubbing together with a soft, persistent whisper. Each time he bent over—a task that required a slight grunt now—he felt a dense, heavy roll press against his diaphragm. His chest felt broad, but soft; when he moved his arm, he felt the shift of undefined tissue beneath the uniform.
Rigby was sweating profusely. His face was rounder, his cheeks puffy, giving his eyes a smaller, beady look. He was breathing harder. “It’s like… my body’s in overdrive,” he panted, stopping to lean against a trash can. “Burning calories to make pure power.” He lifted his arm, intending to flex. The flesh of his bicep was loose, sagging slightly. He saw size, and beamed.
That night, the obsession solidified. They stood in their boxers in the living room, under the harsh overhead light.
“Pecs are coming in,” Mordecai said, pushing at the soft, pillowy swell of his chest. His fingers sank into it.
“My legs are tree trunks,” Rigby announced, slapping a meaty thigh. It wobbled, the impact sending a ripple through the cellulite-dimpled fat. He stared, fascinated. “See that? Density.”
The promise was now a need. A third shake was mixed before bed. They drank them like a sacrament, choking down the sweet, chemical sludge.
Mordecai’s body felt alien as he lay in bed. He was a prisoner in a softening shell. When he rolled onto his side, a slab of his own stomach followed a moment later, a heavy, warm presence. His breathing was shallow; the weight on his chest felt immense. He thought of Margaret, and the thought was a desperate spike through the fog of his discomfort. Just a little more. Just enough to be impressive.
Rigby, in his room, was flat on his back, snoring. A vast, rising dome of gut obscured his view of his own feet. Every snore ended in a faint gurgle, a digesting, churning sound from deep within his swollen middle. In his dream, he was bench-pressing Eileen’s car while she cheered.
In his dream, he was bench-pressing Eileen’s car while she cheered.
He woke up feeling like he’d been packed in wet sand.
A groan seeped out of him as he tried to roll over. The movement was slow, labored. His body resisted, a dense, unwieldy mass. His lower back let out a sharp protest. When he finally managed to sit up on the edge of the bed, the room tilted for a second. He felt enormous. Not powerful, but… burdened.
Across the hall, he heard a long, pained creak—Mordecai getting out of his own bed. It was followed by a thump and a soft, “Oof.”
Rigby stood, his feet sinking into the carpet. He waddled to the door, his gait a new, wide-legged shuffle to accommodate the heavy, swinging bulk of his gut. He found Mordecai in the hallway, leaning against the wall, breathing hard.
“You feel that?” Mordecai asked, his voice morning-rough. “The deep ache? That’s gotta be the muscle fibers, like, reconstructing. Micro-tears.”
Rigby nodded, clutching the doorframe. A profound, liquid gurgle echoed from the depths of his middle. “Yeah. My fibers are definitely tearing. It’s a killer.”
They moved to the bathroom, a slow, two-creature procession. The small space felt claustrophobic. Mordecai went first, turning sideways to fit past the sink. He caught his reflection and paused.
The change was no longer something he could blame on a shrunken shirt. His face was rounder, his jawline softened into the beginnings of a second chin. His neck had thickened, shoulders sloping into a torso that was now a single, barrel-shaped continuum from chest to waist. His blue feathers seemed strained over the new flesh. He blinked, leaning closer. He saw bulk. Immense, undeniable bulk. A thrill shot through him, drowning out the ache in his joints.
“Dude,” he breathed.
Rigby squeezed in behind him, his own considerable form pressing Mordecai against the counter. “Move, I gotta see.”
Mordecai stepped back, and Rigby faced the mirror. His raccoon face was nearly spherical, his cheeks full and ruddy. His eyes, small and bright, peered out from the puffiness. He raised his arms, flexing. The flesh of his biceps and triceps hung soft, jiggling with the movement. He sucked in a breath, trying to force a definition that wasn’t there, his face turning red with the effort. His gut, a pale, protruding sphere covered in thin fur, remained a solid, immutable fact.
“Look at the size,” Rigby whispered, awe-struck. He poked his stomach. His finger sank in deep, past the knuckle, before meeting a firm, inner resistance. “It’s not even fat, man. It’s like… stored energy. Pure potential.”
The rationalization was a life raft. They clung to it.
Breakfast was a labor. Sitting in the kitchen chairs was uncomfortable; their bodies spilled over the edges, compressing. Mordecai ate a massive bowl of sugar-frosted cereal, shoveling it in. “Gotta feed the machine,” he mumbled, milk dribbling onto the new, vast plane of his t-shirt.
Rigby tackled a family-sized bag of potato chips, the crinkling of the bag syncopated with his chewing. “Carbs for explosive growth,” he stated, crumbs dusting the swell of his chest.
A deep, shared lethargy settled over them after eating. The idea of going to work, of moving their new, monumental forms across the park, seemed Herculean.
“We should… pace ourselves,” Mordecai said, staring at his empty bowl. “Let the Bulk Blast integrate.”
“Yeah,” Rigby agreed, already slouching further into his chair, which groaned ominously. “Active recovery. It’s a thing.”
They migrated back to the couch. The process of lowering himself down was a controlled collapse for Mordecai. He landed with a heavy whump, the cushions compressing violently beneath him, the frame squealing in a new, despairing pitch. Rigby followed, the two of them now occupying the entire piece of furniture, their sides pressed together, soft tissue mashing against soft tissue. The coffee table, with its litter of empty mixing cups and powder-flecked spoons, seemed infinitesimally small and far away.
Rigby found the remote buried in a fold of his own hip. He clicked the TV on. It was the same infomercial, looping eternally.
The granite man flexed. “ARE YOU TIRED OF BEING IGNORED?”
They watched, transfixed. Their bodies hummed with a strange, inner heat. Mordecai felt a dull pang, a stretching sensation deep in his belly, as if something were slowly inflating behind his navel. He shifted, trying to get comfortable, and a roll of fat settled over his belt line. He ignored it.
“You think,” Rigby began, his voice hesitant, “we maybe need more? Like, to really kick it into the next gear?”
Mordecai watched the before-and-after. The scrawny weasel, now a titan. He thought of Margaret’s smile, the one she gave Benson when he lifted a heavy log. A smile of pure, uncomplicated admiration. He wanted that smile. He needed it.
The longing was a physical ache, sharper than the one in his distending gut.
“The guy said it was a catalyst,” Mordecai said slowly. “Maybe… maybe we’re not catalyzed enough.”
A silent agreement passed between them. A pact.
With grunts and heaves, they pushed themselves up from the couch’s embrace. They moved to the kitchen, a slow, tidal movement. The plastic tub of ‘Volcanic Fury’ was on the counter, nearly half empty.
They didn’t bother with cups this time.
Mordecai scooped the clumping powder directly into his mouth. It coated his tongue, chalky and saccharine, sticking to his throat. He chased it with water from the tap, swallowing great, difficult gulps. Rigby did the same, leaning over the sink, his expansive backside blocking the light. Powder dusted his muzzle like purple snow.
For a moment, they just stood there, panting, waiting.
It hit faster than ever.
A clenching, searing cramp doubled Mordecai over. He grabbed the countertop, his knuckles white. A wave of nausea rolled through him, followed by a terrifying, euphoric surge of expansion. He could feel it—a visceral, cellular blooming. His skin tightened, then seemed to sigh and soften under a fresh, swift deposit of… mass. He heard the distinct pop of a seam under his arm.
Rigby let out a sharp gasp. He stumbled back, clutching his stomach. It seemed to be pushing outward, lower, becoming a heavier, more pendulous weight. His t-shirt, already strained, rode up, exposing a wide band of pale, doughy flesh that quivered with his pulse. His breathing became a wet, ragged sound.
The television’s volume seemed to swell in the quiet house.
“DON’T SETTLE FOR ORDINARY!” the announcer roared.
Mordecai straightened up, moving with a strange, ponderous slowness. He felt terrifyingly big. The doorway to the living room seemed narrower. He turned to Rigby, his own breath short.
Rigby’s eyes were wide, a flicker of primal fear in them. It was quickly smothered by a desperate, manic excitement. He looked down at his own body, at the sheer, gross volume of it. He let out a shaky laugh.
“Whoa.”
They didn’t speak. They shuffled back to the living room, their movements clumsy, amplified. The world had shrunk. The floorboards whined under their weight.
The infomercial showed the granite man on a beach, laughing, as beautiful people ran towards him in slow motion.
Mordecai reached the center of the room, drawn to the full-length mirror on the back of the closet door. He stood before it, Rigby lumbering up beside him.
They saw themselves.
It wasn’t the dream. It wasn’t anything close.
They saw two swollen, misshapen creatures, soft and vast, their forms inflated beyond recognition. Mordecai’s frame was a mountain of soft blue, his feathers barely visible under the layers of bloated flesh. Rigby was a sphere of fur and fat, his features small islands in a round face.
The truth, stark and horrifying, hung in the air for a single, suspended second.
Then Rigby puffed out his chest, or tried to. The action sent a ripple through his entire upper body. “Yeah,” he croaked, the denial thick and sweet as the powder on his tongue. “Yeah, dude. It’s working.”
Mordecai stared. He saw the sheer, unbelievable size. He saw the straining fabric, the distorted reflection. A deep, unnerving internal shift made him clutch his side.
He looked past the reality. He looked, and he saw Margaret’s smile.
A slow, dazed grin spread over his bloated face. “It’s really working.”