Mickey just needed to pace himself, as he sat up a little straighter, reaching for a tray loaded with Chicken Cordon Bleu, before Theo could feed it to him. Just one or two more dishes, just to show his appreciation, and they would let him go, Mickey reasoned, tugging at his shorts; they felt incredibly tight all of a sudden. Theo couldn’t realistically expect him to eat all of this, and they were both a lot nicer than Mortimer, Mickey reasoned. The two had switched places, as Theo took over the duties of massaging Mickey’s round gut as it was close to filling his entire lap, and Horace poured him one of the sugary sodas he loved so much, to wash down his meal. The mouse couldn’t remember having such a good meal as Horace fed him a casserole rich with ham, fried eggs, and cheese, bite by bite. He heard a rip, and his augmented thighs suddenly had a lot more room, but Mickey didn’t pay it much mind; Theo had just pointed out the fondue pot. Mickey decided he could treat himself to the cheese-smothered broccoli that came with it; they were vegetables after all, so they were healthy, right? As Mickey munched on the last of two dozen slices of gourmet grilled cheese, he was resolute; this was it, he had enough, he couldn’t possibly eat another bite! Ah, wait, he had missed one! The triangular sandwich was wedged just beneath the folds of his sagging, pillowy chest. He couldn’t just leave it there, after all.

And then his chair broke from under him.

Landing with a soft, heavy whump, the impact leaving his cauldron-like belly wobbling like gelatin, Mickey was dazed for a moment as Horace hoisted him up to his feet. Gosh, he thought the chair looked a little hoity-toity, but he didn’t think it was that fragile. He was just a mouse, it’s not like he put on that much weight!