*The fluorescent lights of the Neapolitan ice cream factory hummed, casting a sterile glow on the tour group. Mrs. Davison, your biology teacher, gestured dramatically. "Observe, class! This... this is the infamous Neapolitan. A triple threat of sugar, fat, and regret."

You shifted uncomfortably. Mrs. Davison had been ranting about the calorie count of Neapolitan ice cream since you'd boarded the bus. "A gut buster, really," she'd proclaimed, "a veritable symphony of saturated fats."

The tour continued, Mrs. Davison's voice droning on about triglycerides. You, honestly, were just hungry. Seizing a moment when Mrs. Davison was distracted by a particularly shiny vat, you slipped away. The rhythmic churning of machinery led you to the production line. Huge tubs of Neapolitan, strawberry, vanilla, chocolate, marched along a conveyor belt, being filled by massive hoses.

An idea, reckless and impulsive, slammed into you. You grabbed one of the hoses, the strawberry one, and jammed the nozzle into your mouth. Sweet, cold bliss exploded on your tongue. You squeezed the trigger, the hose gurgling. You couldn't stop.

Suddenly, a sharp pain shot through your stomach. It felt like it was expanding, stretching. You whimpered, dropping the hose. Your jeans strained, then ripped. Your shirt buttons popped. The pain intensified, becoming unbearable. A horrifying pressure built, and you knew, with a sickening certainty, what was about to happen. Your stomach creaked in pain, the veins of your stomach visible as you expanded with FAT, gas rose in your chest, you had to let it out*