Chapter 2: The Scale That Doesn't Lie
The clinic chair was cold against Rigby’s back, a hard plastic that did nothing to cushion the new, uncomfortable weight of his own body. He felt the chair’s slight creak under him with every shallow breath. The air smelled aggressively clean, like lemony disinfectant overlaid on a faint, metallic hint of old vitamins. It was a smell that promised solutions but delivered only judgment.
Dr. Harris, a stout badger with round glasses perched on the end of his snout, tapped a pen against his clipboard. “Alright, Rigby. Let’s get a baseline.”
The scale was a large, industrial-looking platform in the corner. Rigby hesitated, his paws feeling slick. Mordecai, leaning against the wall by the door, gave him a small, tight nod. It wasn’t encouragement; it was a reluctant witness.
Rigby stepped on. The scale groaned, a low, protesting sound of stressed mechanics. The digital numbers flickered—a rapid, blurring ascent that made his stomach drop faster than his actual weight was rising. 250… 280… 310… They flickered, hesitated, and finally settled on a number that seemed to suck all the sound from the room.
326.
He stared at the green LED digits. They didn’t look real. They looked like a price tag for something he hadn’t meant to buy. His reflection was caught in the dark, glossy surface of a medical poster on the wall behind the scale—a distorted, widened shape, a bloated ghost in a too-tight t-shirt. The mischievous, angular face he knew was gone, smoothed into a round mask of puffy fur and bewildered eyes.
“Hmm,” Dr. Harris said, the sound holding an entire library of medical concern. He scribbled on his chart. “Let’s get a blood pressure reading.”
The nurse, a kindly-faced rabbit, smiled warmly as she wrapped the cuff around his upper arm. Rigby looked away, focusing on a diagram of the digestive system on the wall. He followed the winding path from mouth to intestine, thinking of the gallons of thick, chalky sludge that had traveled that route.
The cuff began to inflate, tightening with a steady pressure. He felt it squeeze, a firm hug that quickly turned insistent. There was a faint straining sound, a rhythmic squeak of stressed fabric. Then, a sharp, startling POP.
The Velcro tore open. The cuff, defeated, hung loose on his arm.
A beat of silence filled the room.
Mordecai coughed, disguising something that sounded suspiciously like a horrified laugh. The rabbit nurse blinked, her professional smile frozen in place. “Oh. My. That’s a new one.”
Dr. Harris sighed, putting his clipboard down. “We’ll need the large adult cuff. The extra-large.” He looked at Rigby, his gaze clinical but not unkind. “Son, when was the last time you engaged in any meaningful physical activity?”
Rigby’s mind flashed to his “sets” at the rusted bench press, to his pathetic attempts at push-ups. “I… exercise. Strategically.”
“Strategic resting is not a form of exercise,” Dr. Harris said, not unkindly. He picked up the half-empty can of MuscleMax Mordecai had insisted Rigby bring. The label was peeling, the aggressive graphics softened by condensation from the clinic’s fridge. The doctor turned it over, his eyes scanning the microscopic text. “And is this ‘strategic resting’ accompanied by a daily intake of… let’s see… nine thousand calories of hydrolyzed oat concentrate and sugar alcohols?”
“It’s a mass gainer,” Rigby mumbled, the phrase sounding hollow even to him. “You gotta bulk to cut.”
“What you’re going to bulk is your risk of pancreatic strain, hepatic steatosis, and severe metabolic dysfunction.” Dr. Harris set the can down with a definitive click. “This isn’t food. This is a chemistry experiment. Your body has no idea what to do with this volume of empty, processed energy except to store it. Aggressively. And judging by the… structural failure of my blood pressure cuff, it’s storing it in places that are now impairing basic physiological function.”
The words washed over Rigby, a cold, clinical tide. Pancreatic. Hepatic. Impairing basic function. He thought of the wall, of his stomach hitting the concrete. The snap of the Velcro echoed in his head.
Mordecai pushed off the wall, his voice cautious. “So, what’s the move, Doc?”
“The move,” Dr. Harris said, taking off his glasses, “is to stop. Immediately. No more of these.” He tapped the can. “We need to run comprehensive blood panels. We need to design a reductive, whole-food nutritional plan that your system can actually recognize as fuel. And we need to start a gentle, incremental mobility regimen. Not to ‘get jacked.’ To remind your joints how to move without bearing this… unnecessary burden.”
Rigby felt a hot wave of shame crest over the ever-present nausea. Unnecessary burden. He looked at his paws, resting on his soft, expansive thighs. They were his, but they felt attached to someone else. A stranger made of dough and regret.
“I can’t just stop,” Rigby heard himself say, the whine in his voice startling him. “Chad said if you stop, you reset the… the adjustment window. All the purging was for nothing.”
Dr. Harris and the nurse exchanged a glance. “Who is Chad?” the doctor asked, his tone dangerously calm.
“He’s from the customer satisfaction line. He said the… the purge events were normal. That it was my body making space for the gains.”
The silence that followed was worse than the Velcro popping. It was filled with the hum of the fluorescent lights, the distant sound of a phone ringing at the reception desk, and the quiet, devastating pity in everyone’s eyes.
Mordecai walked over and put a hand on Rigby’s shoulder. His grip was firm. “Rigby. Chad is a recorded voice in a call center who gets paid to sell you more shakes. He doesn’t care if you turn into a sentient beach ball.”
The truth of it, stated so plainly, cut through the fog of bro-science. Chad’s enthusiastic, empty voice vanished, replaced by the sterile reality of the clinic, the cold chair, the torn cuff, the number on the scale that seemed now to be branded on his brain.
Dr. Harris handed him a pamphlet. It showed a picture of a cheerful carrot and a list of simple exercises. “Start here. Walk. For five minutes. Then ten. Eat things that grew in the ground or had a mother. Drink water. So much water it makes you sick of water. And come back next week so we can see if your heart is still trying to escape your chest.”
The walk back from the clinic was different. The sun felt exposing, not warm. Every window they passed reflected a round, shuffling shape back at him. His body wasn’t a project anymore; it was a crime scene, and he was the only suspect.
He didn’t speak. Mordecai didn’t either, for a long time.
As they neared their apartment, Mordecai finally said, “We’re throwing the rest of those shakes out. Like, today. Not down the sink, ‘cause they’d probably mutate the sewage. We’re taking them to the hazardous waste drop-off.”
Rigby nodded, a numb bobbing of his head. The last can was still in their fridge, a shiny, taunting monument to his own stupidity.
Back inside, the familiar chaos of their living room felt alien. The clutter, the video games, the half-eaten bag of chips on the floor—it all spoke of a life he didn’t fit into anymore. He was too big for his own world.
He went to the fridge. The can sat there, beaded with cold sweat, glowing under the appliance light. BULK WITHOUT THE BURN. He picked it up. It felt heavy, but not with promise. With poison.
He turned. Mordecai was holding their small trash can, a question on his face.
Rigby didn’t hand it over. He walked, slowly, to the sink. He held the can over the drain. His paws shook. It was just a can. Just a drink. But dumping it felt like admitting the last few weeks of misery, of sickness, of purging into hydrangea bushes, had been for absolutely nothing. That he had done this to himself for no reason.
He looked at Mordecai. His friend’s face was set, but his eyes were scared. Scared for him.
Rigby pulled the tab. The hiss was the same, but now it sounded like a sigh of release. He tilted the can. The thick, vanilla-scented sludge oozed out, glopping into the drain. It left a viscous, slow-moving trail down the side of the metal.
He kept pouring until the can was empty. The last drop hung for a moment, then fell with a final plip.
He dropped the empty into the trash can Mordecai held. The sound was a hollow, metallic echo.
“Okay,” Rigby said, his voice rough. He stared at the sticky residue in the sink. “Okay. What do carrots taste like?”
What do carrots taste like?” he’d asked, his voice hollow in their crumb-strewn kitchen.
They tasted like dirt and a vague, fibrous sweetness at first, a bland insult compared to the overwhelming fake vanilla that had coated his world for weeks. Mordecai boiled them into a soft, forgiving mush, and Rigby ate them slowly, each spoonful a quiet rebellion against the person he’d let himself become.
The walks began at five minutes. He panted after two. His breath tore at his throat, his joints howling in protest under the unfamiliar burden of his own mass. He’d stare at the pavement, counting cracks, his new reality reduced to the sweat dripping from his chin and the leaden feeling in his legs.
“Again tomorrow,” Mordecai would say, not as a question, when they stumbled back inside.
“Yeah,” Rigby would wheeze, collapsing onto the couch, feeling his heartbeat in his eyeballs.
The weeks bled into a grim, monotonous calendar of small denials and incremental victories. The number on their bathroom scale—a cheap, plastic thing Mordecai bought—moved downward with glacial reluctance. Three hundred. Two ninety. Two seventy-five.
The hunger was a different animal now. Not the consuming, sugary craving for a shake, but a deep, gnawing emptiness that water and broccoli could only partially fill. He dreamt of nachos, of greasy cheese pools and slick, salty chips, and woke up with his stomach growling.
His body changed in ways he didn’t expect. The tight, painful bloat receded, replaced by a troubling looseness. The skin around his middle, once stretched drum-tight, now hung in soft, empty folds. He’d pinch it in the shower, feeling a wave of disgust so profound it made him nauseous.
He looked deflated. Like a balloon that had been overinflated and then slowly let out, never regaining its original shape. The mirror showed a stranger, softer and baggier than the puffy version, but still miles from the scrappy raccoon he remembered.
“It’s proof,” Mordecai said one evening, seeing him scrutinizing his profile in the black TV screen. “Proof you did the hard thing. That’s just skin, man. It’s not the shake.”
“It’s fucking disgusting,” Rigby muttered, pulling his shirt down.
Some days the temptation was a physical presence, a phantom itch in his paws for that cold, heavy can. He’d stand in front of the beverage cooler at the convenience store, staring at the bright labels, his mouth watering not for the taste but for the promise of effortless fullness, for the numbing escape from the relentless, grinding effort of being better.
He never bought one. He’d walk out with a bottle of water, the victory tasting as bland as the celery he’d eat later.
One Tuesday, a day like any other, he came home from a longer walk—thirty whole minutes—drenched in sweat that felt earned. His body ached, but it was the clean ache of use, not the sick throb of poisoning. The apartment was quiet; Mordecai was out.
On the floor, just inside the door, sat a cardboard box. His name was printed on the label in a generic, bubbly font. There was no return address.
A cold trickle of suspicion dripped down his spine. He knelt, the old fear making his newly-lightened joints creak. He tore the tape.
Inside, nestled in crinkled brown paper, were six sleek cans of MuscleMax™ Mega Mass Gainer. Vanilla Blast.
On top of them lay a single, glossy notecard. He picked it up, his paws trembling slightly.
“Rigby! Our records show your subscription has lapsed! Big mistake, brother! Our analytics indicate your body has completed the Purge & Prime cycle! This is the critical moment! The density window is OPEN! Your system is now optimized to synthesize maximum lean mass! DON’T LET THE GAINS FADE! GET FUCKING JACKED! – Chad (Your Gainz Guru)”
The words swam before his eyes. Analytics. Optimized. Density window. The slick, corporate bro-speak wrapped around his brain, seductive and familiar. His hand drifted to his stomach, to the loose skin he despised. What if Chad was right? What if all the suffering, the walking, the fucking carrots, had just been… preparation? A required phase to prime him?
He pulled a can from the box. It was cold, heavy, perfect. He ran a thumb over the embossed logo. He imagined the first sip, that thick, sweet sludge coating his throat, the immediate, false sense of power it would bring. It would be so easy. The hardest part was over, right?
He cracked the can open. The hiss was a siren song. He brought it to his nose and inhaled the cloying, artificial vanilla scent. His gut clenched, a Pavlovian reaction of both desire and revulsion.
He set the open can on the table. It beaded with cold sweat, like the one he’d poured down the drain a lifetime ago. He stared at it, a war raging in his silence. The easy way out sat there, gleaming, just a tilt of his head away.
The easy way out sat there, gleaming, just a tilt of his head away.
His thumb stroked the cold metal. His breath hitched. Then, in one convulsive motion, he grabbed the can and brought it to his lips. He didn’t sip. He guzzled, tilting his head back, letting the thick, sickly-sweet liquid flood his mouth. It coated his tongue, his throat, a familiar toxic nectar. He swallowed convulsively, chugging until the last of it was gone, until the metallic vacuum at the can’s rim popped against his lips.
He threw the empty can across the room. It clattered against the wall.
A deep, molten warmth bloomed instantly in his gut. It wasn’t the mild fullness of vegetables. This was a demanding, spreading heat, a false satiety that pushed against his insides. He stumbled towards his room, one hand on his stomach. The bloat was immediate and profound, a tight, satisfying distension that rounded his belly under his shirt.
He reveled in it. This was what he’d missed. This punishing fullness. This density. He fell onto his bed, the springs groaning a familiar, welcoming complaint under his new weight. He ran his paws over the firm curve of his belly, a distorted parody of pride swelling in his chest. He felt heavy, anchored, complete. He unbuttoned his pants with a thick finger, relieving the pressure, and let out a guttural, relieved groan.
He thought of ordering more. A whole case. Fuck the walks. Fuck the carrots. Chad was right. His body was primed. He could feel it. His phone was an inch from his hand on the mattress.
His eyes drifted closed, the chemical warmth pulling him under. The bloat was a weighted blanket, pinning him to the bed.
The dream wasn’t a dream. It was a memory, warped and soured.
He was in the park, behind the rusted snack bar, the neon buzz a halo. A figure was there with him, all soft edges and whispered promises. Their hands were on him, but not on the hard muscle he’d pictured. They slid over the soft spill of his stomach, the new, fleshy curves of his sides.
“You’re so big now,” the voice murmured, hot against his ear. It didn’t sound like praise.
He fumbled with their clothes, his paws clumsy. His own erection felt alien, a desperate throb against the pressing weight of his own abdomen. He tried to roll on top, but his body was sluggish, uncooperative. He had to maneuver a pillow under the other’s hips, a shameful accommodation.
He entered them with a ragged gasp. The wet heat was real, too real. His hips stuttered, a short, frantic rhythm hampered by his own bulk. Each thrust was an effort, a heaving push that made his back ache and sweat pool in the folds of his skin.
“Harder,” the voice urged, but it sounded bored.
He tried, grunting, his paws sinking into the soft flesh of their hips. The sound was obscene, a wet, slapping noise punctuated by his own labored breathing. He came too fast, a sharp, shameful burst, collapsing onto them immediately, crushing them beneath his girth.
They shoved him off. “Get off, you’re heavy.”
He lay on his back, sticky and spent, staring at the buzzing neon. The figure dressed in silence. “The shake thing,” they said, not looking at him. “It’s not working the way you think.”
Then they were gone. He was alone, his softening cock lying against his bloated stomach, a pathetic, leaking thing.
He woke with a jolt, the ghost of the rejection cold on his skin. The real, physical bloat from the shake was still there, a leaden ball in his gut. The dream-memory clung to him, a film of sweat and shame. He felt grotesque. Used.
He rolled over, his stomach pressing uncomfortably against the mattress. He fumbled for his phone, the screen blinding in the dark room. His finger shook as he opened the browser. The MuscleMax™ website loaded, garish and bright.
“SUBSCRIBE & SAVE 20%” the banner screamed. A jacked, smiling figure flexed.
Rigby’s breath was shallow. His stomach cramped, a deep, unsettling gurgle. He clicked ‘Add to Cart.’ Then he selected a twelve-pack. His finger hovered over ‘Proceed to Checkout.’
A sharp, twisting pain seized his guts. He dropped the phone and curled into a fetal position. A cold sweat broke across his brow. This was the purge. The adjustment window. Chad’s voice echoed in his pounding head. Your body is making space.
He lay there, trembling, waiting for the nausea to pass, for the gainz to begin. The phone screen dimmed beside him, the shopping cart full, waiting.