The General approached the wide, welcoming office chair and turned to aim for the seat. It was a sluggish example of locomotion. His knees eased him toward his target until they couldn’t anymore, and with an animated bounce, he was parked for what would likely be a lengthy stay. He slumped back into the leather, grateful for its support as it was made to lean to its limit to accept the deliverance of his unexpected weight. The bulge of neck above his collar came to the backrest, allowing him to make way for as much bulk as possible, and as he cocked his head along the smooth material, his belly rose in line with his chin, absolutely insisting on headlining his presence despite the efforts of so many thick slabs of fat to draw the eye’s attention as they gradually settled over the strained armrests.
The palpably heavy sack barely wobbled once it found its place, content with the arrangement and unconcerned with the protesting rolls having to squeeze around it. Tired, it sagged well beyond the officer’s waistline, the greater reaches eventually spilling out of the bottom of his dress shirt and resting comfortably above a bloated apron. This lowest layer, this, bottom feeder, the General’s least favourite feature, drooped between his calves, ever-aiming to reach the floor, while pressing solidly against his flabby groin to remind him it was there. A constant reminder.
Buttons whined, but he ignored them. With a sigh, he eyed the messenger beyond the great mound. His distaste for the situation, conversation, and fit, was plain on his face. Moments passed as he formulated a response that didn’t’ include tearing his head off. He found his gaze continually being drawn to the cake sampler that was delivered in his absence, kindly sitting, beautiful, ample, unassuming, off to the side on his desk. The heavenly brain juices that the sweets would release sang for him, graciously fighting back the guilt sitting like a lump in some dank corner of his skull. He wrestled with just outright dismissing the idiot so that he could focus on the dish. This thought immediately made way to a rush of disgust. Duty demanded his attention and he was better off starving anyway.
‘Why am I only hearing of this now,’ he barked to scatter his musings.
Aside from the jolt of surprise, the soldier didn’t respond immediately, and this confused him, but he continued regardless.
‘Does the fleet have something better to do that I’m not aware of? Are we wasting her time?’ Topically, he found himself longing for water and couldn’t find any within eyeshot. ‘Even the presence of these carriers could make all the differen—why am I even explaining this to you?’ He huffed, practically puffing frustration out his ears. ‘Incompetent,’ he muttered to no one in particular. He shifted slightly to escape a pinch somewhere, shaking the chair.
‘General,’ the wrapped trooper finally piped up.
‘Yes,’ he retorted, still considering popping off his stupid, ninja head.
‘May I have one of your cakes?’ He pointed.
‘Wh…’ Amon squinted, perplexed by such an inappropriately timed question. He stared at the creature, eye twitching. ‘Excuse me?’
‘You have a number of cakes there,’ he said matter-of-factly, ‘I wondered if I could try one.’ His voice was sort of comical, but not intentionally, from the sound of it, and tinged with an accent. Amon wasn’t sure what to make of it.
‘N…’ He looked at the vast tray. No typical person would be able to consume that alone. As if on cue, sweat began to bead along his neck. His weight was visibly inescapable, and denying the request would signal that he planned to keep them to himself and eat them alone like a glutton when no one was looking, which was true—deplorable—but the messenger was being berated, not rewarded. Ridiculous. But he was flustered and sitting there saying nothing like a moron himself now, so he acquiesced and flapped a hand.
‘Fine.’
The trooper moved toward the desk and seemingly surveyed the options. There were many, all delicious looking, and his time focused on them left the General yearning for them again. He groaned internally, scrambling for a pocket with a cigarette in it.
‘Hurry up,’ he quaked, bringing a fresh stick and lighter to his lips.
‘Would you like one?’ He looked over (or so the turn of his head suggested).
The officer’s eyes shot toward the platter, interrupting him. He froze, unsure. ‘N-no, I’m fine.’
As if he hadn’t spoken at all, the man took to plating two small dishes with humble portions. The General made meager sounds of disapproval, but they lacked commitment and the trooper didn’t seem to care. He placed one serving on his side of the desk, and reached across to deliver the other to Amon. Without hesitation, he pulled up the nearest chair and sat himself down.
The big man on the other side of the desk sputtered, watching in stunned confusion as the messenger unwrapped the lower half of his face and quietly began to eat. He couldn’t help but peer down at his own precious serving, pleasantly awaiting him, probably four feet away. It was asking for him, and the soldier had offered and was partaking himself. Where was the harm?
Finally, he sat up, and while the chair creaked and worked to keep up with him, he wheeled forward until his belly prodded the edge of the desk. His centre of gravity shifted as the great mound rolled over the seat, mercifully supported by the sturdy oak furniture in front of him and counterbalanced by the rolls on his back. Swollen padding was pressed against his groin. A pang of upset barely appeared on his face as that goddamned drooping flesh met the cool floor.
As if to relinquish the distraction, the soldier reached and pushed the plate closer. Hesitantly, the General reached beyond his belly to receive the delicacy, reeling it back in to rest on bulging pectorals. Then he found himself glancing at the dining soldier for affirmation, and the realization annoyed him, so he took a breath and quickly just cut into the fluffy dessert.
The first bite was euphoria to his tongue, and he suddenly felt like weeping. It was all he could do to hide it with a sigh of relief, shaking his head ever so slightly as he savoured the soft mouthful of vanilla. But then he caught himself and hurried along, finishing the rest without ceremony. When the plate was clear, he leaned to return it to the desktop.
‘Are you finished,’ he said bluntly, trying to return to business, ‘I have a lot to do.’
The man wasn’t finished. He was taking his sweet time. Amon grunted incredulously.‘Can I get you a drink, General?’ he asked, and as he spoke, and unbuckled his cantina, and stood to round the desk, the officer realized that he was, in fact, a woman.