Another collab between myself and  LordOfGee of guess fucking who- Melascula with a monstrously fat ass... cula.

But really though, imagine running a fairly large tavern in a well-to-do and all your regulars just... disappear. Gone for days on end. Your stock may be full, but your coin purse is dry - the only thing more pressing on your mind than making ends meet is the mystery of just where the hell they all went.

And then, just over a week later, as you make your way to the bar, you see her - more fertility goddess than woman, wider than most doors and with a stomach large enough to cast shame upon expectant mothers the world over, although any question of her humanity would've already been shattered by the otherworldy black miasma that swirled about her body, coiling and brushing up against her body like a constrictor about to wrap around its succulent, voluptuous prey. In a bizarre twist, it would seem you've caught *her* staring at you. This does not make you any less uncomfortable, especially as her feet begin to hover mere inches off the ground as she levitates over to you. In an instant you know exactly what's become of your regulars, but for the sake of your wellbeing, you play dumb for now.

...

It had been a few weeks now since your mysterious benefactor, Melascula of Faith, of the Ten Commandments (or simply Mel, as you had come to know her) graced your tavern with her dubious presence. After a... rocky first impression, the two of you managed to get along famously, as Mel would swing by each afternoon at dusk to grab a bar stool or four and sit down for a round of sampling every wine, gin, beer, ale, whiskey, rum, vodka, sake, brandy, and any mixture of the previous you could offer, paying and tipping generously for every shot, glass, mug, and bottle she'd empty. Each evening, you'd stare utterly dumbfounded as Mel's stomach, already laden with enough doughy flab to fully sink up to your elbow in (and she'd let you), grow more and more swollen as she'd gorge herself on enough alcohol to kill an army. As she grew progressively more inebriated, she'd open up more about herself, laughing, crying, and exchanging stories with you that would endear her all the more to you. Each night, she'd wink and float out the door, either unaware or uncaring that her gargantuan sloshing stomach dragged against the floor, or that that monstrous flabby moon of hers, reaching a paleness and fullness the one in the sky could only look down upon in envy, was on full display for the bar (read: you) to witness. And of course, every morning, you would hear of more disappearances, and Melascula would have just a *bit* more difficulty fitting through that pesky front door. You offered to build a bigger one, but Mel insisted not to replace it until it was well and truly broken.

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