The Belly of the Factory

Chapter 1 – Morning at the Bacon Factory

Arthur stood in front of the mirror in the changing room behind the kitchen. His blonde hair still hung a bit messily over his brown eyes, but his confident smile was already in place. He leaned closer, wiped a smudge from the corner of his mouth with the back of his hand, and pulled his polo tight across his upper body. It took a small grunt of effort to fasten the buttons, each one resisting before finally slipping into place.

The Bacon Factory logo—a cheerful pig holding a fork—was printed broadly across his chest. Because of his size, the pig appeared stretched, its round belly stretched further across the fabric, as if it had eaten just a little too much bacon itself. Arthur chuckled at the sight, amused by the irony.

At 1.75 meters and 167 kilos, Arthur filled the polo to the last centimeter. The fabric strained across his rounded belly, pushing out in front of him like a proud declaration. The lower buttons were under pressure, threatening to pop at any moment, and the waistband of his pants dug into the soft fat of his hips. Every movement made the seams quietly creak, as though the clothing itself protested the task it was asked to perform.

Yet Arthur raised his eyebrows in the mirror and grinned widely. “Perfect,” he muttered, satisfied. “If I look like this, at least they know the food here is good.” He flexed his arm slightly, not in a bodybuilder’s way, but in the way a man might remind himself of his own presence, his own weight. He wasn’t shy about who he was. In fact, in this place, size meant something.

He pushed open the door to the kitchen, and the warm air of the fryer hit him immediately, wrapping around him like a heavy blanket. The sound of sizzling oil and popping fat filled the space, so familiar it was almost soothing. The sharp crackle of frying bacon mixed with the low hum of the ventilation system and the clattering of pans.

Within minutes, a red flush appeared on his cheeks, and sweat beaded along his temples. He wiped it away casually with his forearm and grabbed a full tray of bacon. The strips glistened, pink and white with fat, waiting for heat. With a practiced flick, he threw them onto the glowing hot griddle. A loud sizzle answered back, filling the kitchen with its hungry song. The smell of salt, fat, and meat thickened in the air until it seemed to cling to the walls themselves.

Arthur’s large hands moved slowly but powerfully. He had developed a rhythm that seemed both lazy and purposeful: firm enough to get the work done, relaxed enough to show he wasn’t worried about anything. Flip, press, flip again. He handled the bacon like a craftsman with wood or clay—no wasted movement, no hesitation.

Every gesture radiated a certain nonchalance, as if he fully belonged there. The kitchen, with its steaming fryers, smoky griddles, and air that shimmered with heat, was his domain. When he stood at the griddle, grease popping around him, he wasn’t just a cook; he was part of the machinery of the Bacon Factory itself.

Suddenly, his father appeared in the doorway. A man with the same round jawline, the same solid build, but with graying temples and a gaze that could be both stern and proud. He leaned against the frame for a moment, arms crossed, simply watching his son in the thick of the kitchen. His eyes moved from the sweat on Arthur’s forehead to the taut buttons of his polo.

Then he nodded approvingly.
“You look good, son. A big boy is a healthy boy,” he said with a smile and a voice that carried both love and pride.

Arthur felt a warm glow run through him, unrelated to the heat of the kitchen. He grinned widely, adjusted his polo once more, and pushed his chest forward. The buttons protested softly, but he didn’t care. On the contrary, it was part of the charm.

The comment lingered in his chest like a spark. His father had never been a man of long speeches, but those few words meant the world. They weren’t just about appearance; they were about belonging. In the Bacon Factory, where food was abundance and comfort, Arthur’s body wasn’t a flaw—it was proof. Proof that the place lived up to its name.

As he flipped another tray of bacon, Arthur allowed himself to imagine how customers might see him. They’d sit at their tables, the scent of frying meat drifting in, and catch a glimpse of him through the service window. A man whose belly pressed proudly against his uniform, whose smile carried the same warmth as the food. To them, he wasn’t just Arthur. He was the Bacon Factory come to life, a walking mascot that required no costume.

Secretly, he loved the role. When children giggled and pointed at the pig logo on his shirt, then at him, he played along. He’d give a little wink, puff out his cheeks, or pat his belly dramatically, sending them into laughter. It was silly, but it gave him joy.

Still, beneath the pride, there was a quiet voice he didn’t often acknowledge. At night, when he undressed, the marks of the waistband carved into his skin, or when he had to catch his breath after climbing the short stairs to the office, he sometimes wondered. Was it really pride, or was it the only way to keep from feeling shame? He buried those thoughts quickly. Here, in the steam and smoke, there was no space for doubt.

His father stepped into the kitchen, rolling up his sleeves. “You’ve got the morning rush soon,” he said. “Better keep that grill hot.”

Arthur nodded. He knew the rhythm by heart. At 10:30, the first regulars would start arriving—the retired men who ordered double portions, the mothers who brought their kids for a ‘special breakfast,’ the young workers who wanted grease before a long shift. By noon, the place would roar with voices and clattering plates.

He liked that chaos. The louder the restaurant got, the more alive he felt. Every plate of bacon that left the kitchen was a small victory, and every satisfied customer was a reminder that he was part of something that mattered.

He flipped another strip, pressed it against the griddle with his spatula, and listened to the hiss. The smell grew stronger, richer, filling every corner of the kitchen. His belly growled softly in response, and he chuckled. “Guess I’ll be doing quality control later,” he muttered.

His father laughed from across the room. “That’s my boy.”

Arthur’s smile widened. The words were simple, but they made him feel larger than life. Bigger than the shirt that barely held him, bigger than the walls of the kitchen. For in that moment, surrounded by bacon and oil and the approving eyes of his father, Arthur wasn’t just cooking. He was the Bacon Factory itself.

And as the aroma of fried fat filled the room, he felt a deep, quiet pride: he was not just feeding others. He was a living promise that the food here was good, abundant, and worth every bite.