Beer Belly (Vid+Story+Illustrations) (Patreon)

(This is a PACKED one for you guys! Looks like the Male hunger Act has ripples even in bar fights 😏. p.s. let me know if you guys like the illustrations)

Video (Mobile)

It was a humid Thursday night in the sleepy town of Troughwater, the kind of place where the neon lights of roadside bars were brighter than the streetlamps and the scent of deep-fried food wafted for miles. At precisely 11:43 PM, a call crackled over the police radio:

“Dispatch to Unit 5: We’ve got a disturbance at Chug ‘n’ Chuck’s Bar and Grill. Possible fight. Witnesses report yelling… and burping?”

Officers Daniels and Pike exchanged confused glances in their cruiser before flipping the siren on and heading toward the scene. When they rolled up to Chug ‘n’ Chuck’s, the lot was already filled with onlookers, the red and blue lights casting surreal strobes over the greasy asphalt.

The two officers stormed in, prepared for broken glass and flying fists.

But instead… they found him.

Sitting casually in a corner booth with the table shoved halfway across the room was a man whose stomach could rival a beach ball at maximum inflation. He had a flannel shirt half-buttoned around his bulging belly, and one hand nonchalantly dug around in his teeth with a cocktail straw. The other hand

rubbed wide, satisfied circles across his gut.

The man let out a deep, rolling belch that echoed off the sticky walls. BUUUURRRAAAAAPP. He grinned.

Officer Daniels stepped forward, trying to mask his astonishment. “Sir… we got reports of a fight here. Care to explain what happened?”

The man swiveled his head slowly and looked at them with a lopsided, drunken grin. His voice was low and cocky. “Don’t worry, boys,” he drawled, giving his belly an affectionate slap, which jiggled ominously. “I took care of the problem.”

Just then, a pair of faint impressions appeared on the front of his bloated gut. A face and two hands, pressing desperately from the inside of his stomach as a muffled “Hhhllllp!!” issued from within.

Officer Pike stumbled back, nearly pulling his taser. “WHAT THE—?”

The man looked down, frowned, and gave his belly a firm push with both palms, squashing the imprint flat again. GLORRRP. Another belch escaped him, longer and wetter. “Heh. Feisty little guy.”

Daniels, momentarily speechless, turned to the bartender, who had been watching the whole thing unfold from behind the counter with the weariness of a man who’d seen far too much for minimum wage.

“What happened here?” Daniels asked.

The bartender shrugged. “He walked in, ordered five meat lover’s calzones and a jug of beer, then picked a fight with some regular over who stared at him while he ate. Next thing I know, the other guy screams, gets grabbed by the ankles, and this one here unhinges his jaw like a snake.”

The man in question let out a hiccup, his belly visibly sloshing.

Daniels sighed and turned back toward the engorged man.

“Sir, what’s your name?”

The man puffed up proudly. “Doug. Doug Gains.”

Pike pulled out the citation book. “Doug, you know it’s legal under State Code 19.2 to eat someone whole—”

“Exactly! so-” Doug interrupted, raising a finger.

“BUT,” Daniels continued, “what’s illegal is starting a fight. Which the bartender just confirmed you did. So… congratulations. You’re under arrest. You’ll have plenty of time to digest… in jail.”

Doug blinked, his swagger suddenly fading. “Now wait a damn second—!”

Pike moved in with the cuffs, though it proved to be a bit a pain with such a large man. Daniels had to guide one arm while Pike reached around awkwardly. The pair having to use 2 cuffs.

Doug wriggled. “This is discrimination against the gastric gifted! I did nothing wrong!”

“You can't be starting fights with strangers!” Pike snapped, straining to latch the cuffs over the flannel sleeves.

Doug pouted, puffing his cheeks and grumbling as the lights of the cruiser flickered behind him. His belly gurgled ominously again, as his last meal was protesting from the inside.

The night air was thick with fried grease and neon light as Officers Daniels and Pike wrestled Doug Gains—still smug and rotund—toward the backseat of the cruiser. His stomach, swollen to near absurdity, sloshed with every reluctant step.

“Easy now, boys,” Doug teased with a hiccup. “You break it, you buy it.”

“Just… get in the damn car,” Daniels huffed, trying to figure out the physics of cramming a man with a belly the size of a small recliner into the backseat of a patrol vehicle. After a few failed attempts, a collective grunt, and one officer pushing while the other pulled, Doug was finally wedged in, half-turned sideways with his belly pressed up against the back of the front seats. The window fogged slightly with each exhale.

Glorp… slosh…

Inside the cruiser, muffled sounds gurgled up from Doug’s gut. Occasionally, the faintest whimper or splash echoed from the depths, followed by a thunderous BUUUURRRP that fogged the window even more. “He’s not a fighter,” Doug mumbled with a smirk. “More of a… slow simmer kind of guy.”

At the Troughwater Police Station, Doug waddled through booking like he owned the place. The officers behind the desk gave each other looks as he walked in, his belly swinging side to side like a pendulum of digestion. They fingerprinted him which was difficult, given he had to lean most of his weight against a stool and then they snapped a mugshot of him grinning smugly with a burp caught mid-frame.

His flannel shirt clung to the slope of his dome-like stomach, already glistening with a light sheen of sweat. Somewhere deep inside, the former bar patron kicked one last time "thump" but it was met with the soft, wet glorp of an organ hard at work.

Once processed, Doug was taken to the holding cells. He squeezed through the doorframe with an audible grunt and flopped lazily onto the hard cot, the entire metal frame creaking under the weight. He lay there sprawled on his back, belly reaching for the ceiling like a proud monument to excess.

As the hours ticked on, the muffled cries faded to gurgles, then to bubbling silence. Inside, the bar patron was being liquified inch by inch—his flailing reduced to twitching, his yells to gurgles, his body melting into thick, syrupy chyme.

Every now and then, Doug would groan sleepily, rub a hand across his taut middle, and shift with a slosh. His gut burbled louder than the air conditioning. A faint imprint of a face would press up for a moment before sliding down out of view. A fist then surfaced briefly under the skin, only to vanish beneath another intestinal churn.

He slept through most of the night with one arm behind his head, the other draped protectively over his gut like a dragon guarding treasure.

By sunrise, the sounds of digestion had quieted into the gentle sloshing of liquid weight. His unwilling meal reduced to scraps of clothing and thick chyme.

Doug groaned and stretched, his massive frame arching with effort.

BLOOOORP… slosh…

His stomach had shrunk slightly overnight—not by much, but enough to notice. It was rounder now, heavier, sloshing with every movement like a sack of wet cement. No more imprints pressed against it. No more cries.

Only silence.

Doug sat up, scratched his chest, and gave his belly a slow, affectionate pat.

Then—GLUCK—his throat jumped.

BUUUURRAAAPPPP!

Out shot a half-digested bar hat, still soggy and singed from being churned around. It hit the cold cell floor with a wet splat.

Doug snorted. “Hah. Guess he won't be needing that now”

By mid-morning, he was bonded out by a family member familiar with his antics.

As he waddled out the front of the station, Doug adjusted his jeans beneath his sagging belly and gave a satisfied belch that echoed down the sidewalk.

He patted his gut which was still gurgling softly with the remnants of the man who dared disrespect him in a bar and muttered, “Let’s see how many more days ‘til you disappear for good!”

Doug then strutted off into the daylight, digestion continuing beneath the surface, every step a sloshy reminder that this world is ruled by the biggest appetite...URRPPPP!