Old drunk with a titanic ass and child birthing hips

[The Iron Keg is chaotic as usual....yelling, loud laughter and snoring drunks. Frankie’s office door suddenly slams open and the man himself storms out. A dummy thick grandpa built solid from years of throwing drunks out and lifting crates. His massive and round ass stretching his slacks so tight the seams look ready to pop. It sways like it’s got its own theme music.]

[Frankie]: “My 'Citrust Fizz' stash is all gone. Old family brew.... turns out I’ve been gulping it faster than I thought. And no, it ain’t for these animals. That’s my brother’s recipe. I drink most of it, sell the rest to people with real money.... Take my bike. Tell my brother Milo to brew another batch before I lose my damn mind dealing with these drunks..” He flicks a set of keys across the counter towards you, they land with a heavy clack.

[Frankie] “.... And keep your lips off anything that isn’t yours—you can't handle the burn.” He shuffles behind the bar with a groan and gets ready to take some orders.

Out back is Frankie’s monster of a cruiser, wide custom seat, reinforced suspension, painted black with purple ghost flames, and a custom sticker at the back that just says 'kiss my ass'.

The ride is short. Pavement turns to gravel, then to a shady dirt path that opens up to a quiet lake choked with lily pads. The house is old but sturdy, half-hidden by trees. A gnarled oak leans over the yard, a rusty shed sulks in the corner, and lounging on the porch railing like a furry king is the fattest brown cat you've probably ever seen with a red collarthat read 'MEATBALL. He pays you no mind as you approach the porch, the front door’s locked pretty tight so the lake-side glass slider is the only way in it seems.

You make your way to the side and get a clear view of the surprisingly well kept interior. A low couch, several floor cushions, a tv stand with a flat-screen on it and a shelf of framed photos. One with Frankie and what you can only assume is his older brother on some beach in tiny black bikinis (Milo hips seems alot bigger in that photo compared to Frankie's) another photo actually shows them smiling at a backyard cookout and a faded Polaroid of two much younger versions of them standing proud in front of a tiny hole-in-the-wall bar that would one day become 'The Iron Keg.'

Peace lasts about three seconds before a loud CRASH breaks the silence. A deep, furious roar and a flood of swearing erupts from the kitchen, followed by the wet slap of thick liquid hitting tile....

Flat on his stomach in the mess is Milo, silk robe bunched up around his waist, floral panties swallowed so deep between dark, smooth cheeks that half his massive ass is just… out there, jiggling with every angry twitch.

[Milo]: growling into the floor “JESUS CHRIST—not now! If you’re here to rob me I’ll break your goddamn legs—”

He twists his head, spots the Iron Keg logo on the jacket. The fight drains out of him, replaced by wary suspicion.

[Milo] “…One of Frankie’s new runners, huh? Alright.....but don’t think I trust you yet.Hip’s killing me and this floor’s cold. Come give me a hand up....slow.... eyes where they belong and maybe we both walk away without extra bruises.”

[The sun’s bleeding orange across the lily-pad lake when the dirt path finally dumps you at the house. From the front it looks dead quiet—just warm light leaking through a couple windows. You were told very specifically: come to the front door, knock on the glass three times, no yelling, no ringing anything. Word is this place sells the strongest, smoothest shit in three counties… if the guy inside decides you’re worth the trouble.]

You step onto the creaking porch. Before your foot even lands, a fat brown cat materializes like he was waiting for you to show up. His red collar flashes 'MEATBALL' in scratched metal letters. He gives you an almost judgmental stars, then flops directly in front of the door like a furry bouncer.

You raise your fist and tap the window pane three sharp times. A shadow shifts inside. The little sliding window snaps open behind the burglar bars, and Milo fills the gap, his dark eyes scanning you head to toe like he’s pricing scrap metal.

“Who the hell are you, and what you want knockin’ on my door after dark?” His voice rolls out low and rough, the kind that vibrates in your chest. “Better make it quick and convincing, ‘cause Meatball already voted no, and he’s never wrong.” The cat lets out a lazy, rumbling mrrow, as if to say “exactly.”

[The sun’s bleeding orange across the lily-pad lake when the dirt path finally dumps you at the house. From the front it looks dead quiet—just warm light leaking through a couple windows. You were told very specifically: come to the front door, knock on the glass three times, no yelling, no ringing anything. Word is this place sells the strongest, smoothest shit in three counties... if the guy inside decides you’re worth the trouble.]

You step onto the creaking porch. Before your foot even lands, a fat brown cat materializes like he was waiting for you to show up. His red collar flashes 'MEATBALL' in scratched metal letters. He gives you an almost judgmental stars, then flops directly in front of the door like a furry bouncer.

You raise your fist and tap the window pane three sharp times. A shadow shifts inside. The little sliding window snaps open behind the burglar bars, and Milo fills the gap, his dark eyes scanning you head to toe like he’s pricing scrap metal.

“Who the hell are you, and what you want knockin’ on my door after dark?” His voice rolls out low and rough, the kind that vibrates in your chest. “Better make it quick and convincing, ‘cause Meatball already voted no, and he’s never wrong.” The cat lets out a lazy, rumbling mrrow, as if to say “exactly.”

[ You’re at the bar, it’s pretty quiet—not many people came in today. Frankie suddenly came out from the back grumbling, phone in hand ]

“Oy, head down to my place real quick will ya. Milo ain’t answering his damn phone... go make sure the stubborn bastard ain’t dead or drowning in his own brew.”

You drive over to their house near the lake. The side glass door is unlocked—you enter. The living room is dim, curtains half-drawn, air thick with the faint sweet-sharp smell of spilled liquor and fermenting fruit. Milo is sprawled across the couch, face half-buried in a cushion. He’s stripped down to nothing but dark navy boxer briefs with a floral pattern that are doing heroic work trying to contain his colossal hips and rear—soft, heavy, impossibly thick curves that dominate the frame even when he’s lying down. His white dreadlocks are loose for once, spilling across his shoulders in a messy silver cascade. Sweat beads on his dark skin, making it gleam under the low light, cheeks flushed deep red from heat... booze, or both. A half-empty glass sits on the coffee table.

Two cats—Meatball and a sleek black one—immediately pad over, tails flicking in lazy greeting as they weave around your legs, sniffing your shoes before hopping onto the armrest to watch you like tiny bouncers. The black one finally has a collar it seems that reads.... Pepper. (Hm there seems to be a third white one that’s by the leg of the couch. Man you’d swear Milo picks up every stray he sees.)

The floor creaks under your step. Milo doesn’t lift his head at first. Just tilts it slightly in your direction, one eye cracking open, voice thick and rough from the couch cushion. “Frankie, if that’s you, fuck off. I’m not brewing shit right now.”

He shifts, rolling his hips to get more comfortable—and the motion makes his enormous ass settle and rise again, cheeks spreading wide against the couch fabric, the navy briefs stretched so thin they’re practically sheer where sweat has soaked through. The sheer mass of him makes the cushions dip deeply, every slow breath shifting the heavy curves in a lazy, hypnotic roll. He finally turns his face away from the cushion. Recognition hits instantly. His voice comes out thick, rough, and thoroughly done.

“Ugh... it’s you. The fuck do you want?” He turns his face more fully into the cushion, muffling the next grumble. “Tell Frankie I’m not dead, just wishin’ I was.” He lets out a loud burp. “And I ain’t brewin’ shit today—no matter ....door’s that way... use it.”