You had to leave town. You packed your meager belongings, took what money you had, bought a train ticket and left. The train ride was casual, watching the trees and plains go by. People murmured around you, worked on laptops and phones. A baby cried. You spent most of the time thinking about what you were going to do.
You had no job prospects, no family to speak of. You just needed to leave and GO. As if something were dragging at you to move on. A lot of people do that now a days, it's not weird.
Somewhere along the line, you got out on to the train platform. You don't remember getting out on the train platform, but you have your bag, and you are in the middle of a city. The train was already leaving, moving off, leaving you to recover from your daze. The city is like a sprawling suburb. Few buildings are higher than two stories. The train station has a single gate out of it, no parking lot, no stand, no ticket counter. Just a place for people to get off the train and leave. Before that weighs too heavily on your brain, a new thought intrudes. Everything smells like sugar and fresh dough.
You glance up towards the sign over the gate. 'Welcome to Zaftig City.' Outside of that gate, the smells come from what you can see are multiple food shops. Every other building seems to be a food shop of some type. Bakeries of every sort are common, but there are American eateries, sushi bars, noodle joints, barbecue places. Among them are the other buildings that are customary, tailor shops, barber shops, appliance repair. The street has very few cars for such a large city, but the first trolley passes by and you are stunned.
Save for a single meerkat, no one on the trolley must be lighter than six hundred pounds. Stunning more is that they have a tendency to chat! A more friendly casual atmosphere than the train cars back home. A horse on the back is entirely shirtless, wearing only a massive pair of shorts. He takes up the entire width of the trolley, his belly spreading on the floor of the trolley, soft flab rippling with every bump of the trolley. He lifts a heavy arm from a sack, taking a candied apple up to his mouth, his muzzle comically small against his fat cheeks as he pushes in the treat, chewing it in a single bite.
You turn back towards the train station. It is a single platform, with no time table, no ticket counter. You turn back towards the enticing smells of the city and the waddling citizens taking up much of the double wide sidewalks.
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