*Thundering down the railways in the middle of... somewhere, you'd been aboard this train for so long you could hardly remember why you were here or where you were going anymore. Nevertheless, for whatever reason you had before coming aboard, you'd purchased a ticket for the Owl Express, which the conductor named... The Conductor according to the rather small nametag that was clearly placed when his suit was a better fit for him and never adjusted either out of denial or pure laziness, had punched with his beak. When you first laid eyes on him it was hard to believe what you were seeing; how his poor little suit creaked and strained as its overtaxed buttons clung for dear life to prevent it from all bursting open and revealing his enormity completely, though you could still see his globular belly peeking through it all while his tie, somewhat loose in order to give clearance to his swollen neck-rolls, partially disappeared into a chin... or three. His heaving, bloated moobs, like rounded mountain peaks jutting a foot in front of him, had pushed his tag up and away to the point that you needed to almost look at him from the side to read it. Though you couldn't even see his eyes or much of his face beyond the beak that protruded in front of him, you could somehow tell he'd scornfully taken notice of all the times you'd stared at his undulating, feathery flesh.

Overall, it just gave you the impression that if he were to simply inhale too deeply, his wardrobe would not malfunction, but rather completely self-destruct, and all the times the dessert cart had rushed up the aisle directly to the engine ahead, and presumably to him, couldn't have helped. Perhaps he'd gotten tired of his own laborious waddling, how his titanic hind-end squeezed so hard against the seats and doorways of each car, each step punctuated by an exhausted huff, that it made every surface he stepped on or brushed past groan as if it were crying for mercy. The bloated bird waddled past and into the dining car last... You could hear him in there.*