Chapter 1: The Shake That Broke the Scale
The neon sign at the Park’s snack bar buzzed like a dying insect, casting a sickly green light over the concrete. Inside, the air was thick with the smell of burnt popcorn and the sweet, chemical tang of blue raspberry slushie syrup. Rigby slapped a crumpled five-dollar bill onto the sticky counter. “Hit me.”
Behind the glass, the vending machine hummed. A single can of MuscleMax™ Mega Mass Gainer shake glowed in its slot, its label a riot of explosive graphics and bold, sarcastic letters promising BULK WITHOUT THE BURN.
“That’s your third one today,” Mordecai said, not looking up from his phone. He was leaning against a rusted metal support beam, his feathers looking dull under the awful light.
“So? It’s efficient.” Rigby snatched the can as it clunked into the tray. The metal was already cold and slick with condensation. He cracked it open, the hiss sounding unnecessarily loud. “Why grind at the gym for months when you can just drink your gains? It’s science, dude.”
Mordecai finally glanced over, his eyes narrowing. “Let me see that.” He took the can from Rigby’s paw. His brow furrowed as he scanned the tiny nutritional facts panel on the back. A low groan escaped his beak. “Rigby. This has nine thousand calories.”
“Exactly.” Rigby took the can back and brought it to his lips.
“Per serving.”
“I’m having a serving.”
“The serving size is half the can. You’re drinking two servings. That’s eighteen thousand calories. Of mostly sugar and, like, suspicious ‘proprietary blend’ oil.” Mordecai’s voice was climbing, edged with real concern. “This isn’t a shortcut. It’s a heart attack in a can. A really expensive, chalky-tasting heart attack.”
Rigby chugged, his throat working hard. The shake was thick, coating his tongue with a vanilla flavor that tasted like someone’s idea of vanilla, assembled from a diagram. He finished with a gasp, crushing the can in his fist. A trickle of the milky liquid escaped the corner of his mouth. He wiped it with the back of his paw, already feeling a sluggish warmth spreading through his gut. “You’re just jealous ‘cause I’m gonna get jacked faster than you.”
“I’m not jealous. I’m terrified for your digestive system.” Mordecai gestured vaguely at Rigby’s torso. “You’ve been on this ‘shake diet’ for a week. You’re not jacked. You’re… puffy.”
Rigby looked down. His usual scrawny frame did feel different. Tighter. But not in a good, defined way. His fur felt stretched, his skin taut and uncomfortable underneath. He’d skipped his belt notch this morning. He burped, and the taste was purely artificial sweetener. “It’s water weight. It’s part of the process. You gotta bulk before you cut. Everyone knows that.”
“What exercise are you pairing with this revolutionary bulk?” Mordecai asked, his tone flat. He nodded toward the lone piece of equipment in the corner of the snack bar’s patio: a bench press so rusted it looked like a modern art sculpture, its weight plates frozen together in a single, immovable lump.
Rigby avoided his gaze. “I’m… letting the nutrients settle. Strategic resting.” He felt a cramp twist in his side and winced, placing a paw over his stomach. A sheen of sweat broke out on his forehead, dampening the fur there. The neon lights seemed to pulse in time with a new, sudden headache.
Mordecai saw the wince. His frustrated expression softened, just for a second. “Look, man. This isn’t you. Since when do you care about being jacked? You’re Rigby. You trick people into doing your work and you nap in tool sheds. That’s your brand.”
“Maybe I want a new brand,” Rigby muttered, but the words lacked their usual defiant energy. He felt incredibly heavy. The thought of walking back to the house felt like planning a mountain expedition. The cramp tightened again, sharper this time.
“Let’s just go for a run. Right now. We’ll sweat some of this… mass gainer… out of your system.” Mordecai pushed off the beam, trying to sound encouraging.
“Can’t. Too full.” Rigby’s voice was a dull mumble. The world felt slightly tilted. The buzz of the neon wasn’t just a sound anymore; it was a vibration he could feel in his teeth. He looked at his paw. It looked bigger. Swollen. His fingers seemed stubby, the claws blunted by the newfound puffiness.
A wave of nausea hit him, hot and sudden. His mouth flooded with saliva. He clutched his stomach, a low whimper escaping him. The confidence from ten minutes ago was gone, replaced by a deep, primal discomfort. This wasn’t the satisfying fullness of a big meal. This was wrong. This was his body screaming at him in a language of cramps and heat and tremors.
“Rigby?” Mordecai was in front of him now, hands on his shoulders. “Hey. You okay? You’re green. I mean, greener than usual.”
“I don’t feel so good, Mordecai,” Rigby whispered. The admission cost him. His vision swam at the edges. The garish snack bar colors bled into each other.
“We’re going home. Right now.” Mordecai’s voice was firm, no room for argument. He slung one of Rigby’s arms over his shoulders, taking his weight. Rigby tried to help, but his legs were like sacks of wet sand. They stumbled out from under the neon glow and into the cool darkness of the park.
They’d only gone twenty paces when Rigby’s body decided it had had enough. He lurched out of Mordecai’s grasp, stumbled to the side of the path, and vomited violently into a hydrangea bush. It wasn’t food. It was a thick, pasty, beige sludge that smelled intensely of fake vanilla and regret.
He stayed there, on all fours, heaving long after there was nothing left. Spit hung from his lips. His whole body shook with the effort.
Mordecai stood a few feet back, silent. When the sounds finally stopped, replaced by ragged, shaky breaths, he spoke. His voice was quiet. “Bulk without the burn, huh?”
Rigby didn’t have a comeback. He just knelt there in the dirt, feeling the cold night air on his sweat-soaked fur, staring at the vile puddle in the moonlight. The promise on the can felt like a cruel joke. His body ached in a deep, unfamiliar way. Not the ache of worked muscle, but the ache of a system in shock, poisoned by a lazy dream he’d swallowed by the gallon.
He tried to push himself up. His arms trembled, the new, soft bulk on them useless. He collapsed back onto his haunches, a pitiful sound catching in his throat. The path to the house stretched ahead, impossibly long. The shake sat in his stomach, a leaden, toxic trophy. For the first time, a real, cold flicker of doubt cut through the fog in his mind. What had he done?
Mordecai helped him to his feet. The walk back was silent, save for Rigby’s labored breathing and the occasional, mortifying gurgle from his stomach. Every step was a conscious effort, his body feeling alien and cumbersome.
Back in their apartment, Rigby collapsed onto the couch. The springs groaned a familiar complaint. He stared at the ceiling, one paw resting on his bloated middle. The taste of fake vanilla still haunted the back of his throat.
“Dude,” Mordecai said, handing him a glass of water. “That was a sign. A big, neon, puke-shaped sign. You’re done with that stuff, right?”
Rigby didn’t answer. He took the water and sipped it, wincing as it sloshed inside him. He was miserable. But quitting felt like admitting he was an idiot. And the can’s promise, that glowing lie from the vending machine, still held a sickly allure. What if he just hadn’t pushed through the initial phase? What if the jacked version of himself was just a few more cans away?
The next morning, the cramping had dulled to a persistent ache. He felt hollowed out, but also… lighter. In a bad way. Wasted. He found the crumpled receipt in his pocket, with the tiny 1-800 number for “Mega Mass™ Customer Satisfaction.”
He called from the bathroom, leaning against the sink, staring at his puffy reflection.
The line rang twice before a pre-recorded voice, too cheerful for the hour, listed menu options. He pressed zero. A man named “Chad” answered, sounding like he was smiling.
“Yeah, hi,” Rigby croaked. “I’ve been using your Mega Mass Gainer? The vanilla one? And last night I, uh… I had a bit of a purge event.”
“Right on, brother!” Chad said, his voice booming with forced enthusiasm. “That’s totally standard. You’re in the adjustment window.”
“Adjustment window?”
“Absolutely. See, your body is used to processing weak, everyday nutrients. The Mega Mass formula is so dense, so pure, it forces your system to expel the old, inferior fuel. You’re essentially pissing and puking out the bad stuff to make room for the gains. It’s a purification process.”
Rigby looked at himself in the mirror. The puffiness seemed less like failure and more like… transition. “So it’s normal?”
“Textbook. It means it’s working. Your body is making space. Once this purge cycle is complete, the real synthesis begins. That’s when you’ll see the density.”
“Density,” Rigby repeated, the word feeling solid in his mouth.
“Total density. Don’t stop the protocol, my man. That’s key. You stop now, you reset the adjustment window. You gotta power through.”
“Power through,” Rigby echoed. A weird energy, part desperation, part renewed stupid hope, flickered in his gut.
“Attaboy. Bulk on!”
The line went dead. Rigby put his phone down. He splashed water on his face. Chad made sense. It was science. A purge. He wasn’t sick; he was cleansing.
Mordecai was eating cereal when Rigby shuffled into the kitchen. “You look like you died,” Mordecai said, crunching.
“I’m adjusting,” Rigby stated, heading for the fridge. His voice was stronger now, fortified by Chad’s bro-science. He pulled out another sleek, intimidating can of MuscleMax.
Mordecai’s spoon froze halfway to his beak. “You have got to be kidding me.”
“My body is purging bad nutrients. Making space. It’s part of the process.” He cracked the can open. The sound was a declaration.
“The ‘process’ nearly killed a hydrangea last night!”
Rigby took a long swig. It tasted worse today. Cloying. But he forced it down. “You wouldn’t understand. You’re not dedicated.” He wiped his mouth, feeling a small, performative burn in his biceps as he lifted the can. See? Working already.
He decided to exercise. To “synergize the nutrients,” as Chad had probably said at some point.
His attempt consisted of walking to the park’s rusty bench press. He stared at the fused weight plates for a full minute. He wiped a paw over the flaking rust. Then, he bent his knees, gripped the cold, gritty bar, and attempted to lift it. He grunted, his back straining, his toes curling in his sneakers. The bar didn’t budge. Not a millimeter.
He stood up, panting. “Good set,” he muttered to himself.
He did three more “sets” of staring at the immovable weights, pretending to strain. He did five half-hearted push-ups on the grass, his arms trembling, stopping when his nose touched the ground. He called it a day. He was sweating, but it was the clammy, sick sweat of a body struggling under a toxic load, not the clear burn of effort.
For a week, the pattern held. The can in the morning, the mid-day “cleansing event” (which was just a violent, heaving struggle in various bushes), the pathetic pantomime of exercise, and another can before bed. His fur lost its luster. Dark circles settled under his eyes. He moved slower, talked less. The mischievous glint was gone, replaced by a dull, inward-focused ache.
He caught Mordecai watching him sometimes, a silent question hanging in the air. Rigby would just shrug, or pat his stomach, which was now a soft, unyielding mound under his shirt. “Gaining,” he’d say, the word tasting as false as the shake.
One afternoon, he tried to jump onto a low wall he used to clear easily. His legs, heavy and weak, refused to spring. He barely got his paws over the edge before his stomach slammed into the concrete, knocking the wind from him. He lay there for a second, splayed, the rough stone biting into his soft middle. The sky was a bright, mocking blue.
From behind him, he heard Mordecai’s voice, quiet, stripped of its usual teasing edge. It was just plain sad.
“Rigby, man,” Mordecai said. “This isn’t density.”
Rigby closed his eyes against the sun. He could feel his heart thumping a strained, sluggish rhythm against his ribs. Chad’s voice in his head warred with the concrete truth of his own body, lying defeated on a wall. He rolled onto his side, pushed himself up, and walked inside without a word. He went straight to the fridge. The last can of the twelve-pack glistened under the fluorescent light, a cold, metallic promise. His hand hovered over it.
He was so tired.