The hum of the fluorescent lights in the 711 gas station was the soundtrack to your Tuesday night. You’d dragged Mae along, your good friend and platonic partner in crime, for a much-needed junk food run. Mae Borowski, the chillaxed dark blue cat with the red tuft of hair, ambled beside you, her faded skull-emblazoned orange sweater and loose dark blue jeans a testament to her rebellious, ‘whatever, dude’ attitude. She was, like, totally college-age, but still had the spirit of a high schooler who’d just discovered punk rock.

“Dude, they got those new spicy chips?” Mae drawled, scanning the rows of gaudy packaging with half-lidded eyes.

You shrugged, already making a beeline for the candy aisle. “Maybe. Just grab whatever, bro.”

You were barely two aisles deep, debating the merits of gummy worms versus sour keys, when you noticed the uncanny silence beside you. Mae was gone. Not unusual, she had a knack for vanishing into thin air, usually to investigate something shiny or questionable.

You slowly straightened, peering over a display of motor oil. Nothing. You took a few steps forward, past the rows of energy drinks. And then you saw her.

Mae was leaning backwards, practically horizontal, her mouth clamped directly onto the nozzle of the blue raspberry Slurpee machine. She was going to town, chugging the neon-blue ice slush like it was her last breath. Her orange sweater, already loose, began to stretch taut over her rapidly inflating gut. The blue liquid gurgled down her throat, her cheeks puffing out with each gulp.

She paused, taking a breath, her eyes locking onto yours. For a fleeting second, a look of “I’m now realizing this is a dumb idea” flashed across her face. Then, with a casual, almost defiant shrug, she patted her rapidly expanding belly. “Gotta commit, bro,” she mumbled around the nozzle, and went right back to chugging.

A low, delighted groan escaped her as her stomach swelled further. You couldn’t help it. You cupped your hands around your mouth, leaning in close, and whispered, "Go on, Mae! You got this, dude!" You kept your cheers quiet, wary of the unsuspecting clerk behind the counter, who was currently engrossed in a particularly riveting phone call.

The scene escalated quickly. Mae’s belly, now a bloated, bright blue orb, began to push past the aisle shelves. It grew with alarming speed, ballooning outward until it was as wide as freaking Shaquille O’Neal was tall, stretching so far it practically touched the opposite snack rack. She was taking on a disturbingly sickly green pallor, her face contorted in a mixture of extreme satisfaction and imminent gastric distress. She looked fit to puke, but still, she kept chugging, a true warrior of the gas station.

Finally, with a loud, sucking gasp, the Slurpee machine gurgled empty. Mae’s body was now entirely disproportionate, her tiny head perched atop a monstrous, blue, taut globe. She wobbled on her feet, somehow managing to stay upright.

The clerk, oblivious to the cat-shaped dirigible floating through his store, finished his call. You quickly grabbed a bag of chips and a soda, trying to look normal. Mae, moving with the sluggishness of a beached whale, somehow shuffled to the counter beside you, her bright blue gut preceding her like an advance scout. Her face was a shocking shade of green, and her pupils were dilated.

As the clerk scanned your items, Mae let out a small, wet burp. Her eyes widened, a desperate gurgle echoing from her immense stomach. She clamped her paws over her mouth, her entire body shaking. You quickly paid, grabbed her arm, and practically dragged her out the door. The second you were outside, she bent double, dry-heaving violently, her body still alarmingly round.

“Totally worth it, though,” she rasped, wiping her mouth, a faint blue residue on her fur. “Like, peak performance, bro.”