Chapter 1 - Prologue

Foreword
They say confession is good for the soul. I don’t believe in souls. I believe in mechanisms—desire, power, appetite, hierarchy, shame. I believe in the push and pull of hunger. I believe in what money reveals in people. That’s why I built Pigster. Not out of cruelty. Not even lust. But curiosity.
This isn’t an apology.
It’s an anatomy.

I. The First Pig
It began in Prague. I was 34, post-crypto crash, pre-revenge fortune. I was at a club—an elite one—where fantasies were traded more freely than currency. There was talk, idle and cruel, about “plumpers” and “gain scenes,” feederist forums, secret OnlyFans protocols. A Russian venture capitalist joked, “Why can’t you order them already fat?”
That’s when it occurred to me: Why not?
But not fat already. No. The gain is the journey. The transformation is the kink. Control.
Within two years, I built the prototype center—hidden in a privatized compound outside Riga. We called it The Sty.
The first “pig” was a drifter girl. American. Pretty, but not exceptional. She’d come to Europe to “find herself.” She ended up found by us. No connections, no bank, no questions.
She gained 85 kilos in 9 months.
She cried every day. She screamed. But there was no one to hear. Her screams were measured, catalogued, and delivered to the client—an aging billionaire from Singapore who had developed a taste for the grotesque and feminine. “It’s about erasure,” he told me in one of our encrypted calls. “I want to see her vanish into flesh.”
That was the first time I felt it: not guilt—wonder.
I had created a mirror. And rich people were lining up to stare at their own darkness.

II. The Business Model of Disappearance
Pigster™ became a closed-loop marketplace of annihilation.
You could order a pig. Customize the regimen. Select the level of humiliation. Pay in privacy tokens. Watch the reports. Visit, if you dared. No names. No faces. Just the art of undoing a person.
Some wanted the slow build—2 years to 600 pounds. Others? Blitzkrieg. We developed the Feeding Chair™, an innovation in mechanical stuffing. It could deliver 15,000 calories in one session using our proprietary “White Sludge”—a hormone-rich, fatty compound laced with appetite enhancers and mild hallucinogens.
The chair moaned like a mother as it filled them. They twitched. They wept. They bloated.
Clients came from everywhere.
A French perfume heiress who fed a ballet dancer she’d envied.


A Silicon Valley incel turned crypto-billionaire who paid 50 million for a TikTok star’s cousin.


A beloved feminist author—yes, the one you’re thinking of—who requested a beautiful blonde from her past. Said it was about “redistribution of privilege.”


One client, an oil prince, asked if he could watch the pig drown in her own fat folds. He was polite. Eager. “Just business.”
The staff never questioned it. They were paid triple-market rates. Our motto: Do not ask the pig’s name. Only the weight.

III. The Pigs and the Gods
Let me tell you what a pig is.
A pig is someone the world already decided didn’t matter.
We didn’t break them—we simply finished the job.
Most were lonely. Drifters. Addicts. Sex workers with too much debt. Artists who got too hungry. Orphans. Runaways. Failed actors. Former athletes discarded by their systems.
The act of fattening them was not just feederism—it was ritual cannibalism of potential. The clients wanted to eat their possibility. Make them dependent. Make them flesh only.
And the pigs?
Some fought. Most faded.
Some began to enjoy the numbness. One girl, Pig #934, smiled after every session. She said it felt like the world was hugging her. Tight.
Some begged to be made fatter. Others starved themselves until we implanted tubes.
One died in week 47. Her client demanded a full refund. We cremated her in silence.

IV. My Favorite Anecdotes
The Harvard Boy – A client requested his former Harvard roommate. Took months to track. When we brought him in, the boy cried for days. By the end of month 5, he had composed a symphony in grunts. It was broadcast as “Art Brut” at Art Basel under a fake name. Sold for $3.2 million.


Pig Fight Club – One Middle Eastern family commissioned two pigs—both teenage boys—and set them to compete in weight gain. The loser would be kept. The winner released. The loser gained more. He’s still with us. The other… didn’t survive the purge.


The Disguised Pig – A CEO of a major bank requested her own daughter after the girl had run away. The daughter never knew. She just thought she’d been kidnapped. She kept asking if her mother was looking for her. She was. Just not how you’d think.



V. Why I’m Telling You This
Because the world is catching up.
Pigster was never really hidden. It was just disguised as something worse: a metaphor.
Now, real services operate under government contracts. Rehabilitation centers. Detainment units. Body performance labs. The pigification of the poor is now bureaucratic.
Pigster was just the prototype. A luxury boutique of human annihilation.
Now it’s standard protocol.

I am not the monster. I am the mirror.
The rich are not unique in their cruelty—they are unique in their permission.
Everyone has fantasies. Only they have the funds to turn them into systems.
And the pigs?
The pigs were never just victims.
Some of them became icons. Art pieces. Fetishes. Gods.
Their fat was language. Their silence: poetry.
Their submission: the only currency this world still respects.

Appendix: The Pigster Tenets
Pigs must not be named.


Clients may never be identified.


Weight is sacred.


Disappearance is the goal.


Desire is the only real law.