Chewing the Fat- Part 3

Are Fox's dates with Wolf starting to get out of hand? When McCloud's starting to get registered in the same weight class as small spacecraft, they might be- but there's no stopping it now! Enjoy!

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In the control tower of the Beltino Orbital Gate Space Station, one of the traffic coordinators frowned slightly. "Hey, Sergeant Catsby, take a look at this." The control tower manager stepped over to the monitor his subordinate was looking over, and a large, blinking red light. 

"What is it, Crockson?" Catsby sighed.

"I'm getting an odd read-out on hangar five— the scales in the floor seem to think there's another arwing that just docked, but the sensors haven't picked up anything flying through the gate. Do you think it's an infiltrator?"

The Sergeant took a long, deep sigh when he saw who had been authorized to dock in hangar five— Team Starfox. "No, no, Crockson, it's nothing to worry about. Here, I'll handle this… hand me your comm?" 

Catsby snatched up the comm. "Pilot Fox McCloud, paging Fox McCloud, please step off the loading area." He set down the comm. "There. See if that fixes things."

Crockson blinked with surprise as the weight indicator's alarm stopped beeping. "Uh… Wow. Is that… Are there problems with the weight sensors in hangar five?"

"No, Crockson… there's not. They were just recently calibrated." Catsby glanced at his underling. "You haven't seen Fox McCloud lately, have you?"

Down in hangar five, Fox felt his increasingly round, billowy cheeks growing warm. He was really glad they hadn't turned on the camera this time, at least— he had been trying to squeeze into the largest regulation size uniform available, and after his latest lunch with Wolf, that had now become an impossibility, judging by all the sounds of tearing cloth as he tried pushing his blubbery thighs into his jumpsuit. The fox looked over himself for a moment, from the enormous reams of his belly spilling out in huge waves over the top of the remaining cloth, his doughy chest hanging listlessly along the top crest of his gut, and the spare tire that used to be his neck. He glanced warily over at his arwing; he knew he didn't have a prayer of getting one of his globular ass cheeks into the cockpit, nevermind both of them. 

Finally, what strength he had in his lard-swaddled arms gave out, and he let his huge gut go, bouncing and wobbling tremendously and splitting the cloth further down until it reached his underbelly. If he got any bigger, he was going to start developing a gravitational pull of his own… and he had another date with Wolf in just one week.