Allen Apple checked his clipboard like it was the sacred scroll of Snackland productivity.

“According to my calculations,” he muttered, adjusting his tie that was somehow both too tight and too loose at the same time, “everyone here is currently underperforming by… fun.”

He looked up.

And immediately regretted existing.

Because across the room—no, across the kingdom of chrome trays and steam—stood Obesseus.

In full.

Buffet.

Mode.

We’re talking triple-stack plate architecture. We’re talking gravy waterfalls cascading like destiny itself. We’re talking a chocolate fountain that had been reclassified as a personal hydration source.

Obesseus turned slowly, a breadstick in each hand like edible nunchucks.

“Who… interrupts… the Feast?”

Allen swallowed.

This was not in the training manual.

Still, he stepped forward, trembling with corporate courage.

“Obesseus, I’m going to need you to clock in for overtime.”

The room went quiet.

Even the mashed potatoes stopped bubbling.

“Over… time?” Obesseus repeated, like the words were foreign. Dangerous. Possibly illegal.

“Yes,” Allen said, flipping his clipboard dramatically. “We’ve implemented a new point system. Every bite you take must now be logged under ‘approved consumption hours.’ You are currently… twelve thousand bites over budget.”

A pause.

Then—

Obesseus laughed.

Not a chuckle. Not a giggle.

A full, echoing, buffet-rattling laugh that made the sneeze guards tremble.

“YOU TRY TO PUT A TIMER… ON HUNGER?”

Allen, sweating now, nodded weakly.

“Y-yes. It’s very efficient.”

Obesseus took a slow step forward.

Another.

Each step sounded like a drumbeat of destiny… or possibly just someone dropping meatballs.

“I do not clock in,” Obesseus said, dipping a roll into gravy like it was a ritual. “The buffet… clocks around me.”

Allen tried one last time.

“Look, if you just sign here, we can get you on a structured meal plan. Maybe limit you to two plates per hour, with a scheduled snack break—”

The breadstick nunchucks spun.

FAST.

Allen blinked.

The clipboard was gone.

Replaced with… a plate.

A full plate.

“Eat,” Obesseus commanded.

“I—I don’t think that’s in my job descr—”

“EAT.”

Allen took a bite.

And something changed.

The spreadsheets in his mind… softened.

The numbers… melted.

The concept of “overtime” began to feel like a distant, ridiculous myth.

“Wait,” Allen said, chewing slowly. “This is… incredible.”

Obesseus nodded.

“Welcome… to unlimited.”

Behind them, the overtime sign Allen had taped to the wall… slipped loose.

Fell.

And disappeared beneath a tidal wave of macaroni and cheese.

Grant the Grapefruit burst through the doors at that exact moment, soaking wet.

“Sorry I’m late! I got stuck refereeing a gravy wrestling match between two sentient biscuits—”

He stopped.

Saw Allen.

Eating.

Smiling.

Free.

“…I miss anything?”

Obesseus grinned.

“Only the end… of overtime.”

And somewhere, deep in the halls of Snackland Press, a spreadsheet cried softly… before being eaten.