The #Broken_Dagger Forum

OOC Note: Fairly comical little post here resulting from a fairly comical little rp scene last night. . . . Not out to irritate folks! -P.P.

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It occurred to him some time this morning between three and four a.m. while Treadwell was sprawled out, sweating and topless in his bed--that is, somewhere during the slow, long, painful bloating of the belly, the kicking he'd been feeling in his guts all night, the increasing tenderness of those flabby breasts, and the gorging on a platter of pickles and apricots.

His body was acting like he were, of all things, a pregnant woman?

With this realization came rational thought. This was no result of being punched in the face and ending up with a swollen, bruised jaw. This was no result of something he'd touched at supper. There could only be one explanation, and that explanation involved the three of eight candies he'd eaten, two given while in the inn and one of six given later. They were apparently drugged somehow to trick someone's innards into acting as if he or she were carrying a baby some eight or nine months along, it seemed. It was a cruel practical joke, a nasty prank, playing off his earlier quip to Aslovakia of not knowing when he was due.

Oh ho ho ho! Of course, all this had the roly-poly councilor worried! However, he was plotting revenge! So, while lying there without any form of shirt or nightgown (they simply didn't fit right now; he was swollen all around, looking as if he'd put on maybe another thirty or forty pounds around the middle overnight!) and smoking yet another cigar, Aloisius Horatio Treadwell was doing what he did best: scheming. At around four-thirty, he was waddling out of bed, both hands holding an aching tummy that was still kicking away, to write a letter to Captain Thomas Daniels concerning the fiend who'd done this to him.

He spells everything out in lush, warm, long-winded detail as only an actor turned magistrate turned governor turned councilman turned would-be mother could. He describes the bloating, the swelling of and subsequent leaking of a milky substance from the breasts, the frequent wobbling to the restroom for reasons both urinary and vomitive, the kicking from a nonexistent babe in the belly, and the devouring of some of the oddest combinations of food ever heard of, even from him! Then, with a parting jest of asking the man to come witness his delivery within the next day or so, he scrawls his name out and toddles out the door of Emlyn Ackerman's cottage to hand the letter to a lad nearby to be taken to the Captain. Of course, the letter-carrier is likely scarred for life after seeing a swollen, shirtless, grumpy Treadwell with little more than a quilt knotted 'round his waist to cover his lower half. Poor child.

Five candies remained, and those were going to go untouched--evidence, yes. He'd give himself roughly a day for this to be over with. The first candy had been eaten around ten last night, the second minutes after, and the third some time between one and two this morning. If he's not feeling better by mid-day tomorrow, he looks forward to locking Miss Aslovakia into a prison bedchamber without a midwife and then force-feeding her the candies in her own inmate's gruel!

Treadwell let out a long siiiiiigh, rubbing at his slowly shrinking tummy. Yes, the swelling was finally going down, the kicking wasn't nearly as frequent or as hard, those flabby man-boobs were becoming a little less painful to touch (and, mercifully, had decided to quit occasionally leaking out what proved to be a very sweet, sugary sort of milk), and everything seemed to be returning to normal, or as normal as Tready could be at his usual size. Today hadn't been totally bad; he had, after all, been completely pampered by Ms. Ackerman and her fat orange feline, Oscar. Treadwell reckoned, however, that there was maybe an hour or so left for everything to fix itself; this was at about midnight.

By one-thirty he would be back to his baggy, bloated self of three hundred fifty pounds, give or take a couple. His clothes would finally fit again; in fact, the old butterball would give a hoot of delight and a joyful laugh at actually being able to squirm into his shirt and vest and, thankfully, trousers again! It would take the usual wiggling, of course, but those porky legs and limbs would find their ways into trousers and sleeves as they should. Treadwell would end up sitting up on the edge of his bed, patting his finally calm, fat--with no extra bloating or pushing or kicking!--tummy and smoking a cigar.

There's only one catch, though.

He'd sent a letter to Captain Daniels earlier this morning. That was fine; Aloisius still intended to act on that information. What troubled him was that *boy* who'd taken the letter to the captain. One look from the scrawny red-head at the impossibly swollen, overgrown--even for Treadwell!--councilor had nearly scared the boy to death. Of course he hadn't looked at the letter; that would have meant a sound flogging. However, this didn't stop him from spreading the news, news that Treadwell was as of yet unaware of: old Councilman Treadwell had simply blown out another half a foot or so on all sides overnight! Poor, poor Tready. Whether it's true or not, it would be good fodder for the poorer folks in town; such could certainly be likely even though it didn't look like it had happened!