Rocket's Holiday Rush- Part 3

Rocket's months-long binge continues as he sees all the vast amount of food put on display for Thanksgiving, ready to stuff himself into the biggest butterball turkey of the season. Enjoy!

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Peter Quill cursed under his breath. "Where the Hell is our main thruster valve?" The ostensible leader of the Guardians of the Galaxy was peering into the Milano's main engine with a flashlight and a screwdriver in his lips, trying to repair an engine that had malfunctioned every day for nearly three weeks.

"The same place our fuel tank regulator, gravity controller, and airlock chip have gone. He took it." Gamora replied, arms crossed.

"I am Groot," the tree-like alien nodded emphatically.

"How does he keep doing this?!" Peter gasped, looking back at the engine. "He hasn't been small enough to squeeze into this panel since two days after Halloween!"

Star Lord groaned, running a hand over his face. "Okay, so. We've got a crazed raccoon on the loose obsessed with earth food. He won't diet, he won't listen to reason, he won't let us leave Earth, so… what do we do?"

"I am Groot."

"What? Just… let him eat? How is that an answer to our problems?" Gamora demanded. "Him stuffing himself since we came to this backwater planet- sorry, Quill- is the problem."

"I am Groot?"

"Well, yeah, no, we don't really have any other options," Peter muttered. "Okay, so… we just let him run wild, get this out of his system, or eat so much he gets a heart attack- that'll slow him down, at least." He frowned. It was only a couple of days before Thanksgiving as it was. "Hey, where exactly is he, anyways?"

"Bahaha! One butterball stealin' another, I can't believe this worked!" Rocket chortled. "Just- huff- gotta- hrk- get this bad boy… whew… somewhere safe to eat!" He wheezed, huffing as he waddled away with a turkey as big as his own belly. The alien raccoon had stuffed himself as much as any Thanksgiving Turkey, and his angrily growling belly demanded more. The effects, by this point, were jaw-dropping- he had trundled into morbid obesity, his round, billowing tank of a gut close to dragging on the ground as his fat-swaddled legs as big as hamhocks kicked up against it, making it bounce with each waddling step. Every part of him was puffed up and inflated, round and soft. His doughy chest wobbled against his multiple chins, and his lard-swaddled arms jiggled as he hoisted the turkey aloft.

Finally, he reached a nook wide enough for him to squeeze in, along with his prize. Tearing off a turkey leg as big as his head, he greedily tore into the meat, rubbing the upmost curve of his belly. "Oh boy- this- hrrp! Is the life. I ain't ever leaving Earth! Especially not before Christmas…"