D.T. Tucker | Updates

Operation Gravy Blockade has Launched!

D.T. Tucker — Tue, 9 Jun 2026 00:00:00 +0000

Today is a huge day in Snackland!

I’m excited to announce that Obesseus: Operation Gravy Blockade, the fourth adventure in the Obesseus series, is now officially available!

Award Recognition

Operation Gravy Blockade has already earned recognition, including:

• Literary Titan 5-Star Award

• Reader’s Favorite Award Winner

This launch also marks another major milestone:

🎉 One year ago, Obesseus: Lord of the Buffet was released.

What started as one wild food-filled adventure has grown into an expanding universe of characters, jokes, battles, and life lessons. Thank you to everyone who has supported Obesseus through purchases, reviews, recommendations, and encouragement.

Whether you’ve been here since Lord of the Buffet or are jumping into Snackland with Operation Gravy Blockade, thank you for being part of the journey.

The war against overtime has begun.

See you in Snackland!

D.T. Tucker

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Operation Gravy Blockade

D.T. Tucker — Thu, 4 Jun 2026 00:00:00 +0000

You’ve asked and I delivered! Obesseus Operation Gravy Blockade is available for preorder! Join Obesseus in fighting the battle against the forces of overtime! The battle begins June 9th. Preorder now or miss the gravy train!

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Obesseus: The Worst Hire in Snackland Press History

D.T. Tucker — Thu, 21 May 2026 00:00:00 +0000

The fluorescent lights of Snackland Press buzzed like angry bees trapped in a microwave.

Stacks of OVERTIME forms towered across Jeff Jelly’s office like unstable lasagna layers. His tie was crooked. His eyeballs twitched every time another printer spit out paperwork.

“MORE FORMS!” Jeff screamed.

A nearby intern fainted directly into a beanbag chair.

Allen Apple peeked through the doorway holding six clipboards and a stress ball shaped like a raisin.

“Jeff… Molly Mushroom still hasn’t answered your emails.”

Jeff slowly turned.

“That’s because Molly Mushroom fears RESPONSIBILITY.”

Allen blinked.

“She’s HR.”

“EXACTLY.”

Jeff slammed a giant red button labeled:

MANDATORY OVERTIME PROTOCOL

Sirens blared throughout Snackland Press.

A robotic voice echoed through the building.

“ATTENTION EMPLOYEES. FUN HAS BEEN TEMPORARILY SUSPENDED.”

Across town, Molly Mushroom sat peacefully at a tiny café sipping mushroom soup while her phone vibrated itself across the table like a haunted hockey puck.

JEFF JELLY CALLING

Decline.

Five seconds later:

JEFF JELLY CALLING AGAIN

Decline.

Five seconds later:

JEFF JELLY VIDEO CALLING

Molly sighed.

“Absolutely not.”

Decline.

Then came the voicemail notifications.

“Molly, this is Jeff. We need overtime volunteers.”

“Molly, this is Jeff again. Nobody volunteered.”

“Molly, this is Jeff again again. Allen cried.”

“Molly… where are you?”

She muted her phone and took another sip.

Peace.

Beautiful peace.

Then her hiring app dinged.

Molly frowned.

“Oh right. I forgot I left auto-hiring on.”

The screen displayed:

NEW MANAGEMENT APPLICANT APPROVED

Name: Obesseus

Experience: “BUFFET”

References: “GRAVY”

Special Skills: “SLAM-FU”

Desired Salary: “CHEESEBURGER”

Molly stared at the screen for a full ten seconds.

“…That can’t be right.”

Meanwhile, back at Snackland Press, the front doors exploded open.

Smoke rolled across the lobby.

Obesseus entered wearing a tiny necktie stretched to its absolute physical limit.

Behind him marched Grant the Grapefruit carrying a milkshake.

“Obesseus here for MANAGEMENT!”

The receptionist gasped.

“Who approved this?!”

Obesseus proudly held up the printed email.

It read:

CONGRATULATIONS! YOU ARE NOW MANAGEMENT.

Signed,

Molly Mushroom

HR Department

Grant nearly dropped his milkshake laughing.

“Oh no.”

Obesseus slammed both fists onto the receptionist desk.

“FIRST MANAGEMENT ORDER!”

Everyone froze.

Obesseus pointed dramatically toward the break room.

“REMOVE SALAD.”

Jeff Jelly burst out of his office like a panicked jellybean tornado.

“WHO ARE YOU?!”

Obesseus adjusted his tiny tie.

“OBESSEUS MANAGEMENT.”

Jeff snatched the paper.

His face turned pale.

Then red.

Then somehow purple.

“MOLLY MUSHROOM HIRED YOU?!”

“YES.”

“FOR MANAGEMENT?!”

“YES.”

“WHY?!”

Obesseus shrugged.

“MUSHROOM CLICK BUTTON.”

Allen Apple slowly backed away whispering:

“We’re doomed.”

Jeff immediately grabbed the office phone and called Molly again.

Straight to voicemail.

Jeff growled through clenched teeth.

“Molly Mushroom… answer… your… PHONE.”

Meanwhile, Obesseus had already entered the conference room and replaced the quarterly budget presentation with a gravy fountain.

Employees gathered around cheering.

Someone started throwing biscuits.

Grant the Grapefruit leaned against the doorway sipping his milkshake.

“You know… technically morale has improved.”

Jeff’s eye twitched hard enough to nearly reboot reality.

Then Obesseus stood atop the conference table.

“MANAGEMENT MEETING!”

Everyone went silent.

Obesseus pointed at the giant overtime board.

“NO OVERTIME.”

The employees gasped.

Jeff nearly collapsed.

Obesseus then pointed toward the cafeteria.

“ONLY BUFFETTIME.” 🍔🔥

The entire office erupted into applause.

Somewhere across town, Molly Mushroom finally checked her phone again.

She saw 47 missed calls from Jeff Jelly.

Then she saw the notification:

“EMPLOYEE PRODUCTIVITY HAS INCREASED 900%”

Molly blinked.

“…How did he accidentally fix the office?”

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SNACKLAND PRESS SPECIAL REPORT “Overtime vs. Obesseus: The June 4th Incident (and the June 9th Aftershock)”

D.T. Tucker — Thu, 30 Apr 2026 00:00:00 +0000

Snackland Press had barely finished alphabetizing its third stack of “URGENT BUT UNCLEAR” memos when Allen Apple struck.

Clipboard in hand. Tie too tight. Eyes glowing with the faint, dangerous shimmer of policy enforcement.

“Alright team,” Allen announced, tapping the board labeled MANDATORY PRODUCTIVITY INITIATIVE. “We’re implementing overtime.”

A hush fell across the room.

Somewhere in the distance, a gravy fountain slowed… as if sensing danger.

Jeff Jelly slid into position beside Allen, clutching a stack of forms labeled OVERTIME ACKNOWLEDGMENT — PLEASE DON’T READ, JUST SIGN.

“Phase one begins June 4th,” Jeff said, voice wobbling like unset gelatin. “Phase two escalates June 9th. Double overtime. Triple documentation. No fun.”

From across the room came a deep, echoing slurp.

Obesseus.

He didn’t look up from his plate.

“OBESSEUS HEAR WORD ‘OVERTIME,’” he said, calmly scooping a mountain of mashed potatoes. “OBESSEUS DO NOT LIKE WORD.”

Grant the Grapefruit leaned against a filing cabinet, casually polishing his shades.

“Oh this should be good,” Grant muttered. “They brought paperwork to a buffet fight.”

June 4th: The First Attempt

Allen marched forward like a general of spreadsheets.

“Obesseus, Grant—you are both required to report for extended duties starting June 4th. This includes—”

Obesseus stood up.

Not fast. Not dramatic.

Just… inevitable.

Like a buffet table realizing it’s about to get emptied.

“NO,” Obesseus said.

Silence.

Allen blinked. “I’m sorry?”

“NO,” Obesseus repeated, louder this time. “JUNE 4TH NOT FOR OVERTIME.”

Jeff nervously flipped through his notes. “But… but it’s on the schedule…”

Grant pushed himself off the cabinet, strolling into the center like he’d been waiting his whole life for this exact moment.

“You two really thought June 4th belonged to you?” Grant said, smirking. “That’s adorable.”

Allen adjusted his glasses. “It’s a standard operational date.”

Grant laughed.

Not a polite laugh. Not a corporate chuckle.

A this-meeting-is-over laugh.

“June 4th,” Grant said, pointing at the board, “is preorder day.”

The room shifted.

Even the ninja muffins stopped mid-flip.

Obesseus raised his arms like a champion entering the arena.

“OPERATION GRAVY BLOCKADE… AVAILABLE FOR PREORDER JUNE 4TH!”

The words echoed like thunder wrapped in gravy.

Allen froze.

Jeff dropped his forms.

June 9th: The Final Attempt

Allen, now visibly shaken but still clinging to the last scraps of structure, cleared his throat.

“Fine. Fine. We’ll… adjust June 4th. But June 9th—June 9th is locked. Mandatory overtime. No exceptions.”

Jeff nodded rapidly. “Yes! June 9th is non-negotiable! It’s… it’s… peak efficiency day!”

Grant slowly turned.

That same dangerous calm.

“That so?”

Obesseus stepped forward again, this time with a grin that spelled chaos incoming.

“JUNE 9TH…” Obesseus began.

Jeff braced himself.

Allen clenched his clipboard.

“IS LAUNCH DAY.”

The room exploded.

Gravy fountains surged.

Signs fell off the walls.

A random intern screamed, “IT ALL MAKES SENSE NOW!”

Grant snapped his fingers. “That’s right. June 9th… Operation Gravy Blockade goes live.”

Obesseus stomped once, sending a ripple through the floor.

“NO OVERTIME. ONLY STORYTIME.”

The Collapse of Overtime Authority

Allen tried to speak.

Nothing came out.

Jeff attempted to gather his papers, but they slipped through his gelatinous hands like a metaphor that writes itself.

Around them, Snackland Press came alive.

Not with order.

Not with structure.

But with something far more dangerous to the No-Fun Squad:

Anticipation.

Grant leaned in close to Allen, lowering his voice just enough to sting.

“You tried to assign overtime to a buffet legend and a chaos consultant,” he said. “On launch week.”

He patted Allen on the shoulder.

“That’s not scheduling. That’s self-sabotage.”

Official Announcement

- June 4th → Preorder Opens for Operation Gravy Blockade
- June 9th → Official Launch Day

No forms required.
No approvals needed.
No overtime accepted.

Final Notes from Snackland Press

Allen Apple has since been seen reorganizing an empty folder labeled “Control.”
Jeff Jelly is reportedly still trying to file a complaint that keeps sliding off the page.

Obesseus?

Back at the buffet.

Winning.

Grant?

Watching it all unfold… like he planned it five moves ago.

And somewhere, deep in the chaos, a single message echoes through Snackland:

You don’t schedule legends. You preorder them.

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Obesseus vs. Jeff Jelly: The Gravy Heist That Shouldn’t Have Happened

D.T. Tucker — Sun, 12 Apr 2026 00:00:00 +0000

There are many rules in Snackland.

Some are written.

Some are whispered.

And some… are carved into the very fabric of existence itself.

Rule #1: You do NOT touch Obesseus’s gravy.

Jeff Jelly either didn’t know…

…or didn’t care.

Standing at the edge of the buffet, he adjusted his tie, eyes twitching with overtime-fueled intensity. His laptop glowed ominously, tracking bite counts, sauce usage, and what he labeled as “Excessive Flavor Violations.”

“And there it is,” Jeff whispered, locking onto his target.

The Gravy.

Not just any gravy.

This was The Vat.

A bubbling, glorious, golden-brown ocean of power sitting beside Obesseus like a loyal companion. Steam rose from it like it had something to say… and what it had to say was “try it.”

Jeff cracked his knuckles.

“Seven-day overtime protocol initiated.”

The buffet lights flickered.

Green beans rose from the floor like prison bars.

Doors sealed shut.

Somewhere, a biscuit screamed.

Obesseus didn’t look up.

He was mid-dip.

A sacred motion.

A crispy piece of fried chicken descending slowly into the gravy, like a hero returning home.

Jeff took a step forward.

Then another.

“You’ve exceeded your gravy quota,” Jeff announced, voice trembling with power. “Effective immediately, all gravy assets are being seized and redistributed under the No Fun Act.”

That’s when Obesseus froze.

The chicken… hovered… halfway submerged.

Drip…

Drip…

Silence.

Obesseus slowly turned.

Eyes locked.

“Repeat that.”

Jeff gulped… but doubled down.

“I’m taking the gravy.”

A mistake.

A historic mistake.

A mistake that future textbooks would describe as “bold, but deeply incorrect.”

Obesseus stood.

The ground beneath him trembled like mashed potatoes during an emotional breakdown.

“You… take… gravy?”

Jeff raised his laptop.

“By authority of the Overtime Council—YES.”

He hit a key.

The gravy… lifted.

LEVITATED.

Pulled upward like it was being dragged by invisible strings.

The Vat began to rise.

A gasp rippled through the buffet.

“No…” someone whispered.

“HE’S ACTUALLY DOING IT.”

Obesseus watched as the gravy ascended… inch by inch… like the universe itself was betraying him.

Then—

He cracked his neck.

Slow.

Deliberate.

Terrifying.

“You have chosen… starvation.”

Jeff blinked.

“What—”

Too late.

Obesseus MOVED.

Not fast.

Not flashy.

Just inevitable.

One step forward… and the green bean bars shattered.

Two steps… and the buffet tables realigned themselves like they were making room for a storm.

Three steps…

And Obesseus leaped.

Mid-air, he spun—grabbing a ladle the size of destiny itself.

“GRAVY… RETURNS… TO ME!”

WHOOOOSH.

The ladle struck the floating vat.

Gravity remembered its job.

The gravy came crashing down like a delicious meteor.

Jeff screamed.

“NO—MY DATA—”

Too late.

The wave hit.

A tidal flood of gravy swallowed the laptop, the green beans, the entire overtime system.

Jeff Jelly disappeared beneath it, reduced to a flailing silhouette in a sea of flavor.

Silence followed.

Drip…

Drip…

Obesseus landed.

Perfectly.

He reached down… scooped up a plate… dipped it into the now-restored vat… and took a bite.

Balance had been restored.

Moments later, Jeff’s head popped out of the gravy, eyes wide, tie soaked, soul… reconsidering everything.

“I… I just wanted to optimize…” he muttered.

Obesseus looked at him.

Calm now.

Almost merciful.

“You do not optimize… the buffet.”

Jeff nodded slowly.

“I see that now.”

Grant the Grapefruit burst in, exactly five minutes late, holding a whistle.

“Sorry! I was coaching a relay race between three lasagnas and a sentient garlic knot—”

He paused.

Looked around.

“…why is Jeff in the gravy?”

Obesseus shrugged.

“He applied… for immersion.”

Grant nodded.

“Fair.”

And somewhere, deep beneath the surface of the vat…

Jeff Jelly quietly turned off the overtime protocol.

Forever.

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Obesseus vs Overtime : The Buffet Incident

D.T. Tucker — Mon, 6 Apr 2026 00:00:00 +0000

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.

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Obesseus vs. Probability & Linear Algebra

D.T. Tucker — Tue, 17 Mar 2026 00:00:00 +0000

Obesseus vs. Probability & Linear Algebra

Snackland Press did not approve this meeting.

Professor Math called it “necessary.”

Josh JollyRancher called it “inevitable.”

Obesseus called it “suspicious.”

Two chalkboards were set up.

On the left: Probability.
On the right: Linear Algebra.

In the middle: Obesseus… eating.

“Today,” Professor Math began, “we combine both disciplines.”

Josh JollyRancher stepped forward.

“Grant the Grapefruit will help us.”

From outside the room:

“I’m on my way!”

Everyone checked the clock.

He was already late.

Josh wrote the problem:

“Grant has a 20% chance of arriving on time. Each time he arrives late, we represent it as a vector.”

Professor Math drew three tall column vectors.

Obesseus squinted.

“Why numbers stacked like candy canes again?”

“They’re vectors,” Professor Math said.

“Candy vectors,” Obesseus corrected.

Josh continued.

“If Grant is late three times, what is the probability pattern, and how does it transform over time?”

Professor Math rotated the vectors dramatically.

“Observe the transformation.”

Obesseus leaned in.

“Candy canes still doing gymnastics.”

“Yes,” Professor Math said. “They are transforming across dimensions.”

Josh added more to the board:

P(Late) = 0.8
P(On Time) = 0.2

“Now we model Grant’s lateness as a system.”

Obesseus raised his hand.

“Obesseus model system.”

“No,” both professors said instantly.

Too late.

Obesseus stood up and grabbed the chalk.

He rewrote everything.

0.8 hunger + 0.2 patience = problem

Then he added:

3 late Grants = 3 meals missed

He paused.

This was serious.

Then he drew a massive bowl.

Solution: buffet

Josh JollyRancher blinked.

“That is not a probabilistic model.”

“Yes it is,” Obesseus said.

“Probability say what might happen.”

He tapped the board.

“This what WILL happen.”

Professor Math stepped in quickly.

“Let’s restore order.”

He circled the vectors.

“These represent Grant’s repeated lateness.”

Josh added:

“And the probability determines how often it occurs.”

Obesseus nodded slowly.

Then he reached up…

…and added sauce to the board.

“Now system seasoned.”

Professor Math froze.

Josh JollyRancher stared into the void.

At that exact moment, the door burst open.

Grant the Grapefruit stumbled in.

“Sorry I’m late,” he said. “I got distracted.”

Professor Math pointed wildly.

“SEE? THE MODEL WORKS!”

Josh nodded.

“Probability confirmed!”

Obesseus shook his head.

“No.”

He walked to the board.

Erased everything with one swipe.

Then wrote:

Grant late + Obesseus hungry = buffet time

He circled it three times.

Professor Math sat down.

Josh JollyRancher sat down.

Grant grabbed a chair.

Still late.

Obesseus picked up his fork.

“Math try very hard,” he said.

“But math forget one thing.”

He took a bite.

“Obesseus always solution.”

Lesson concluded.

Crossover unsuccessful.

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Obesseus vs Linear Algebra

D.T. Tucker — Mon, 9 Mar 2026 00:00:00 +0000

Snackland Press experienced an educational emergency today.

Professor Math and Josh JollyRancher arrived carrying chalkboards, textbooks, and an alarming amount of confidence.

Their mission:

Teach Obesseus linear algebra.

Obesseus immediately suspected foul play.

“This look like homework ambush,” he said.

Josh JollyRancher ignored the warning and began writing on the board.

“Let’s start with a word problem.”

Professor Math nodded approvingly.

Josh continued.

“Grant the Grapefruit is always five minutes late.”

Everyone in the room nodded.

This was scientifically verified.

“If Grant arrives at three different places today,” Josh said, writing numbers on the board, “how late will he be in total?”

Professor Math wrote:

5 + 5 + 5 = ?

Obesseus raised his hand.

“Fifteen minutes,” he said confidently.

Professor Math smiled.

“Correct. Now we represent that using vectors.”

He drew three tall column vectors.

Obesseus leaned closer to the chalkboard.

He stared.

And stared.

Then he asked the question that stopped the lesson completely.

“Why numbers stacked like vertical candy canes?”

Josh JollyRancher blinked.

“Those are column vectors.”

“Candy vectors,” Obesseus corrected.

“They look like peppermint lineup.”

Professor Math sighed and continued.

“Vectors represent values in space.”

Obesseus nodded slowly.

Then he grabbed the chalk.

“Obesseus solve problem.”

Before anyone could react, he rewrote the equation.

5 dumplings + 5 dumplings + 5 dumplings = 15 dumplings

He circled the answer.

“Edible solution.”

Josh JollyRancher rubbed his temples.

“That is not linear algebra.”

“Yes it is,” Obesseus insisted.

“Numbers become dumplings. Dumplings go in stomach. Problem resolved.”

Professor Math tried again.

“Let’s talk about transformations.”

He rotated the vectors.

Obesseus leaned forward suspiciously.

“Why candy canes doing gymnastics?”

“They’re being transformed.”

Obesseus thought about this for a moment.

Then he drew a gravy bowl next to the matrix.

“If numbers transform,” he said, “they transform into lunch.”

At that exact moment, the door burst open.

Grant the Grapefruit stumbled inside.

“Sorry I’m late,” Grant said. “Traffic. And also I forgot where I was going.”

Professor Math pointed dramatically.

“Perfect! Grant is fifteen minutes late!”

Obesseus nodded thoughtfully.

Then he wrote a final equation on the board.

Grant lateness + Obesseus hunger = buffet

He circled the answer twice.

Lesson concluded.

Linear algebra remains unsolved.

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Obesseus vs. Absolute Value The Breadstick Containment Crisis

D.T. Tucker — Sat, 28 Feb 2026 00:00:00 +0000

Professor Math wrote carefully on the board:

| x |

Josh Jollyrancher stood beside him like a disappointed lemon.

“This,” Professor Math said calmly, “is absolute value.”

Obesseus leaned forward.

“…Why the chopstick number in breadstick jail.”

Josh closed his eyes. “They are not breadsticks.”

“It two long crispy bars,” Obesseus said. “They imprisoning the x.”

Professor Math adjusted his glasses. “Absolute value means the distance from zero.”

Obesseus gasped.

“THEY MEASURE HOW FAR CHOPSTICK NUMBER ESCAPED.”

“No,” Professor Math said. “It simply makes negatives positive.”

Obesseus froze.

“…So if number sad, they force it to smile.”

Josh hesitated.

“…In a way.”

Obesseus pointed at the board.

“You put negative number inside breadstick cage… and when it come out, it happy?”

Professor Math nodded weakly. “Yes.”

Obesseus stood up dramatically.

“THAT EMOTIONAL MANIPULATION.”

Josh grabbed the chalk.

| -5 | = 5

“There,” he said. “Simple.”

Obesseus stared.

“So five go in mad… and come out pretending nothing happened.”

The classroom got quiet.

Professor Math began sweating.

Obesseus slowly reached into his pocket.

He pulled out two actual breadsticks.

He placed them upright on his desk.

He set a meatball between them.

“This absolute meatball,” he declared.

Josh shouted, “STOP MAKING EDIBLE EXAMPLES.”

Obesseus lifted the meatball.

“When meatball inside breadstick… it safe.”

“That’s not the concept!”

“But if meatball negative… breadstick hug it until positive.”

Professor Math blinked.

“…That is disturbingly close.”

Josh erased the board frantically.

Obesseus pointed at the bars again.

“So absolute value is breadstick hug that erase sadness.”

Professor Math sighed.

“…Yes.”

Obesseus smiled proudly.

“Math just comfort food.”

The lights flickered.

The vertical bars on the board began stretching.

They grew taller.

Longer.

Crunchier.

The x tried to escape.

The breadsticks snapped shut.

The classroom trembled.

Obesseus grabbed his gravy bucket.

“If breadstick cage try to take my numbers, I respond with sauce.”

Gravy flew.

The bars dissolved.

The x rolled away free and emotionally balanced.

Josh collapsed into a chair.

Professor Math stared at the empty board.

“We should never have used vertical lines.”

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Taxes vs. Grant the Grapefruit & Obesseus

D.T. Tucker — Sun, 15 Feb 2026 00:00:00 +0000

The clock struck midnight.

Grant the Grapefruit stared at it.

The clock struck 12:01.

Grant blinked.

The clock struck 12:05.

Silence.

Grant slowly lowered the pen.

“…I am five minutes late.”

Across the room, Obesseus gasped like someone had just dropped a tray of biscuits.

“THE TAXES ARE COMING.”

Professor Math froze mid-calculation.

Grant stood up stiffly. “It is a minor administrative delay.”

The lights flickered.

A knock echoed through Snackland Press.

Three slow knocks.

Obesseus dove behind a filing cabinet.

“THEY SMELL THE GRAVY.”

Grant adjusted his tie, but it was trembling.

“No one smells gravy. This is digital submission.”

The door burst open.

In walked… a giant envelope.

It wore sunglasses.

It said NOTICE across its chest.

Obesseus screamed.

“IT WALKING.”

Professor Math fainted into a stack of receipts.

Grant attempted diplomacy. “We apologize for the five-minute delay.”

The envelope tilted its head.

A loud ripping sound echoed.

Paper forms shot out like ninja stars.

Obesseus retaliated immediately.

He hurled a biscuit.

Direct hit.

Grant threw a grapefruit slice like a shuriken.

The envelope dodged.

Professor Math woke up and launched a calculator.

Obesseus grabbed a ladle of gravy and flung it dramatically.

“NO TAX SHALL TAKE MY SAUCE.”

The envelope screeched, stamping the floor with giant red letters:

LATE FEE.

Grant’s monocle nearly popped off.

“Impossible. I schedule everything.”

“You five minutes late!” Obesseus yelled. “You broke time.”

Grant looked at the clock in horror.

“Daylight savings…”

The envelope grew larger.

It unfolded into multiple forms.

Schedules A through Z hovered in the air like hostile paperwork birds.

Obesseus started throwing food indiscriminately.

Sandwich.

Chopsticks.

Donut.

A fraction tile for emotional reasons.

Professor Math attempted to reason with the forms.

“Please! We have itemized deductions!”

The envelope paused.

Grant, sweating citrus oil, shouted:

“Charitable gravy donations!”

Obesseus blinked. “…That a thing?”

Grant whispered urgently, “It is now.”

The envelope trembled.

The red LATE FEE stamp flickered.

Obesseus seized the moment and launched an entire gravy bucket.

The envelope slipped. Forms scattered. Receipts fluttered like defeated confetti.

The door slammed shut.

Silence.

Grant straightened his tie.

“…Next year we file early.”

Obesseus, covered in gravy and powdered sugar, nodded solemnly.

“Taxes tried to take sauce.”

Grant sighed.

“They took five dollars.”

Obesseus froze.

“…THAT FIVE DOLLAR WAS FOR BISCUITS.”

Chaos resumed.

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Obesseus vs Taxes( The Gravy Audit )

D.T. Tucker — Tue, 3 Feb 2026 00:00:00 +0000

Obesseus knew something was wrong the moment the letter arrived.

No crumbs.

No sauce stains.

No joy.

It said IMPORTANT in big angry letters.

Josh Jollyrancher slid the paper across the table. “You owe taxes.”

Obesseus squinted. “Owe who.”

“The government.”

Obesseus gasped. “THEY KNOW ABOUT THE GRAVY?”

Professor Math adjusted his glasses. “It’s not about gravy.”

“They always say that,” Obesseus whispered.

Josh pointed to the form. “You earned income.”

Obesseus nodded. “Yes. From buffet.”

“And now,” Josh continued, “a portion must be paid.”

Obesseus froze.

“…Portion.”

Professor Math drew a diagram.

Total Gravy − Tax = Net Gravy

The room went silent.

“They taking gravy off top?” Obesseus asked.

“No,” Professor Math said quickly. “It’s proportional.”

Obesseus slammed the table. “PROPORTIONAL GRAVY LOSS IS STILL GRAVY LOSS.”

Josh sighed. “You don’t pay in gravy.”

Obesseus looked around suspiciously. “Then why they want numbers shaped like bowls.”

Professor Math tried a softer approach. “Think of it as contributing to roads.”

“Gravy roads?” Obesseus asked hopefully.

“…Regular roads.”

“So I pay gravy for no gravy road.”

Josh nodded. “Yes.”

Obesseus stood up. “THAT A SCAM.”

Josh flipped to another page. “This is withholding.”

Obesseus’s eyes widened. “THEY WITHHOLD THE GRAVY BEFORE I EVEN SEE IT?”

Professor Math whispered, “He’s learning too fast.”

Josh pointed to a pie chart.

“This shows your tax bracket.”

Obesseus leaned in. “Why gravy in cage.”

“It’s not a cage.”

“It surrounded,” Obesseus said. “Free gravy should roam.”

Josh lost it. “NO ONE IS STEALING YOUR GRAVY.”

At that exact moment, a pipe burst.

Gravy flooded the floor.

Obesseus screamed. “THE AUDIT HAS BEGUN.”

He grabbed his bucket and fled through the door, shouting, “YOU WILL NOT TAKE MY GRAVY.”

Josh stared at the chaos.

Professor Math sighed. “We should have started with deductions.”

A word from the Snackland Financial Advisory :

If Obesseus hears the word portion

during tax season,

hide the gravy.

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Obesseus vs. Parentheses(The Donut Incident)

D.T. Tucker — Sun, 1 Feb 2026 00:00:00 +0000

Professor Math approached the board slowly, like someone handling a wild animal.

“We’re going to add parentheses,” he said.

Josh Jollyrancher stiffened. “Carefully.”

Professor Math wrote:

(½x)

Obesseus leaned forward.

“…Why the number in donut.”

Josh inhaled sharply. “It’s not a donut.”

“It round,” Obesseus said. “It hugging the sandwich-chopstick meal. That donut behavior.”

Professor Math tried to explain. “Parentheses group the expression.”

Obesseus nodded. “Yes. Donut contains snack.”

Josh slammed the desk. “NO FOOD IS CONTAINED.”

Obesseus reached into his pocket and pulled out an actual donut.

“Then explain this coincidence.”

The room went quiet.

Professor Math wiped his forehead. “The parentheses mean you solve what’s inside first.”

Obesseus froze.

“…So eat inside donut first.”

“No!” both shouted.

“But donut rule!” Obesseus protested. “You don’t eat plate. You eat middle.”

Josh rewrote the problem bigger.

(½x) + 3

“There,” he said. “Now it’s clear.”

Obesseus stared.

“So donut meal plus side dish.”

Professor Math dropped the chalk.

“That’s… not wrong,” he whispered, horrified.

The x tipped sideways again. The donut parentheses wobbled. The number 3 rolled toward the gravy vent.

Obesseus stood up proudly.

“Math is just lunch with rules.”

The chalkboard exploded into powdered sugar. Gravy alarms screamed. The clock began counting down in fractions.

Obesseus escaped through the door, donut in one hand, sandwich in the other, chopsticks clenched triumphantly in his teeth.

Josh Jollyrancher collapsed into a chair.

Professor Math stared at the empty board.

“We should never have invented circles,” Josh said.

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Obesseus vs Fractions

D.T. Tucker — Wed, 28 Jan 2026 00:00:00 +0000

The moment Obesseus saw the fraction, he knew it was a trap.

Professor Math drew it carefully on the board:

Josh Jollyrancher stood beside him, arms crossed, lemon water glowing ominously.

“This,” Professor Math said, “is one-half.”

Obesseus raised his hand. He was already holding a sandwich in the other.

“Yes?” Josh said cautiously.

“Is that sandwich number,” Obesseus asked, pointing at the fraction, “supposed to be eaten… like this?”

He lifted his chopsticks.

Professor Math turned pale.

“That’s not a sandwich,” Professor Math said. “That’s a fraction.”

“It got bread on top and bread on bottom,” Obesseus replied. “Number meat in middle. That a sandwich.”

Josh stepped in. “The line is not bread. It’s a division bar.”

“Why it horizontal,” Obesseus demanded, “if not for stacking food.”

Professor Math grabbed another piece of chalk and drew ¾.

“This means three out of four.”

Obesseus nodded slowly. “So someone already ate one?”

“No.”

“Then why missing?”

Josh slammed the desk. “NO ONE ATE THE FRACTION.”

Obesseus frowned and took a bite of his real sandwich.

“Then why this one allowed and number sandwich not.”

Professor Math attempted a demonstration. He drew a circle and shaded half of it.

“This shows half of a whole.”

Obesseus leaned forward. “Where other half go.”

“It still exists,” Professor Math said.

Obesseus gasped. “INVISIBLE FOOD?”

Josh dropped his lemon water.

“Focus,” Josh said. “You don’t eat the numbers.”

“But they stacked,” Obesseus insisted. “And you put line between them. That is plating.”

Professor Math tried another tactic. He pulled out fraction tiles.

“These represent portions.”

Obesseus picked one up, sniffed it, and immediately dipped it into gravy.

Josh screamed.

“That’s a manipulative!”

“It taste like math,” Obesseus said sadly.

The chalkboard began to shake. Equations slid off the walls. The clock split into numerator and denominator and refused to agree on the time.

Professor Math clutched his head. “We should have started with pizza.”

Obesseus perked up. “Pizza fraction understandable.”

Josh collapsed into a chair.

Obesseus stood, holding his sandwich in one hand and chopsticks in the other.

“So just to be clear,” he said, pointing at ½, “I not supposed to eat sandwich number. Even if it looks delicious.”

“Yes,” Professor Math said weakly.

“Even if I brought chopsticks prepared.”

“Yes.”

Obesseus sighed. “Math cruel.”

The classroom doors burst open. Gravy flooded the room. The fractions dissolved into crumbs.

Obesseus escaped triumphantly.

Josh stared at the ruined lesson. Professor Math sat in silence.

Next to the board, someone had written:

Fractions are food-shaped lies.

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Obesseus vs Algebra

D.T. Tucker — Tue, 27 Jan 2026 00:00:00 +0000

Obesseus sat at the desk, squinting at the chalkboard like it had personally insulted his lunch.

Josh Jollyrancher tapped the board with his chalk.

“Two x plus six equals ten.”

Obesseus raised his hand.

“Yes?” Josh said, already tired.

“Why that number got a chopstick?” Obesseus asked.

Josh blinked. “That’s not a chopstick. That’s the letter x.”

“It look like chopstick,” Obesseus said confidently. “Single chopstick. Not even a pair. Very suspicious.”

Josh sighed and wrote a bigger x.

“This is a variable.”

Obesseus leaned forward. “Variable like buffet?”

“No.”

“Variable like sometimes gravy, sometimes lemon water?”

“No.”

“So why number holding chopstick?”

The room went quiet.

Josh pinched the bridge of his nose. “The x represents an unknown.”

Obesseus gasped and slid his chair back.

“Unknown food is dangerous,” he whispered. “That how people get tricked into eating salad.”

Josh tried again.

“You move the six to the other side.”

Obesseus stared. “Why six allowed to leave but chopstick number stays?”

“Because six is a constant.”

Obesseus slammed the desk. “THAT NOT FAIR. All numbers deserve same rights.”

Josh erased the board and drew apples instead.

“If you have two groups of apples…”

Obesseus interrupted. “Are they fried?”

“No.”

“Breaded?”

“No.”

“Then why you bringing them into this.”

Josh’s lemon water glass cracked.

“Focus,” he said. “Solve for x.”

Obesseus squinted at the equation again.

“So… chopstick number plus six equals ten.”

“Yes.”

“If Obesseus eats six…”

“No one is eating the six.”

“…then chopstick number left with four?”

Josh froze.

“…divide by two,” Obesseus continued slowly. “Chopstick number becomes two.”

The chalk snapped in half.

Josh stared. “That’s… correct.”

The classroom shook. The desks rattled. A gravy alarm went off for reasons no one could explain.

Obesseus stood up proudly.

“See?” he said. “Math just hungry.”

Josh Jollyrancher stared into his lemon water.

“Next lesson,” he muttered, “we remove the chopsticks.”

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Award Update: Obesseus Feasts of Legends Earns 5-Star Silver Seal from Readers’ Favorite

D.T. Tucker — Wed, 21 Jan 2026 00:00:00 +0000

I’m excited to share that Obesseus: Feasts of Legends has been awarded the 5-Star Silver Seal from Readers’ Favorite.

The book received three independent 5-star editorial reviews, praising its imaginative world-building, fast-paced humor, memorable characters, and all-ages appeal. Readers’ Favorite highlighted the story’s blend of satire, action, and heart, confirming that the Slam-Fu universe delivers both laughs and lasting fun.

This recognition is a meaningful milestone for the Obesseus series and reinforces the long-term vision behind the world of Snackland. Thank you to Readers’ Favorite for the honor—and to everyone who has supported Obesseus along the way.

More adventures (and chaos) ahead.

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BREAKING NEWS FROM SNACKLAND: The Lime Water Incident

D.T. Tucker — Fri, 16 Jan 2026 00:00:00 +0000

It started the way most disasters in Snackland do: quietly, suspiciously, and with Julian Jellybean nowhere to be seen but somehow absolutely involved.

Josh Jollyrancher arrived at his Lemon Water Sanctuary at precisely 11:47 a.m. Sharp. The glass pitchers were aligned. The lemons were sliced at regulation angles. The vibes were acidic but peaceful.

He took one sip.

Silence.

Then horror.

“This,” Josh whispered, staring into the cup like it had personally betrayed him, “is not lemon.”

The room trembled.

Somewhere, a citrus cried.

Josh slammed the glass down. “THIS IS LIME WATER.”

Now, to the untrained tongue, lemon and lime might seem like distant cousins who share a zip code. But to Josh Jollyrancher, lemon water is not a drink. It is a lifestyle. A philosophy. A coping mechanism. A legally binding emotional support beverage.

Lime water? Lime water is chaos.

Within minutes, Snackland alarms blared. Josh began pacing in tight circles, muttering things like,

“They changed the pH.”

“They changed the vibe.”

“I didn’t consent to this citrus.”

That’s when Julian Jellybean made his move.

Witnesses later reported Julian calmly strolling into the room, holding a clipboard he absolutely did not own, shaking his head sadly.

“Tragic,” Julian said. “Really tragic. And after Obesseus promised he wouldn’t touch the lemon water again.”

Josh froze.

“…Obesseus?” he asked slowly.

Julian sighed the sigh of someone who had rehearsed this moment in the mirror. “I didn’t want to say anything. But I did see Obesseus near the pitchers earlier. Muttering something about ‘mixing it up’ and ‘green being underrated.’”

Across Snackland, Obesseus was mid-burger. Living his best life. Completely innocent. Completely unbothered. Completely unaware that he was about to be framed for the greatest beverage crime of the decade.

Josh snapped.

“HE WOULDN’T,” Josh yelled, immediately followed by, “BUT HE WOULD, THOUGH.”

Tables flipped. Lemon slices were inspected under emergency lighting. Josh began interrogating the water itself.

“Blink if you’re lime,” he demanded.

Julian, meanwhile, leaned back, smiling just enough to cause problems.

By the time Obesseus arrived, sauce on his hands and confusion on his face, the verdict had already been decided by vibes alone.

“You replaced my lemon water,” Josh accused, eyes wild.

“With lime.”

Obesseus blinked. “Why would I downgrade?”

Too logical. Suspicious.

Julian placed a gentle, fake-concerned hand on Josh’s shoulder. “He doesn’t understand what this means to you.”

That’s when Josh did the unthinkable.

He added sugar.

The room gasped.

A line had been crossed.

Eventually, the truth came out. It always does in Snackland. A single security grape rolled the footage. Julian Jellybean, humming, switching the labels. Lime for lemon. Chaos for calm.

Julian shrugged when confronted. “I just wanted to see what would happen.”

Obesseus was cleared. Josh apologized. The lemon water was restored. Balance returned.

But somewhere in the shadows, Julian Jellybean smiled.

Because in Snackland, the greatest crimes aren’t theft or overtime.

They’re citrus-based psychological warfare.

Stay hydrated.

And trust no Jellybean.

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Obesseus goes to the Food Court

D.T. Tucker — Mon, 12 Jan 2026 00:00:00 +0000

The mall was peaceful.

Too peaceful.

Obesseus entered the food court and stopped dead in his tracks.

“…Why so many restaurants… in one room.”

His knees buckled.

He grabbed the railing for emotional support.

Before him:

Pizza

Burgers

Chinese food

Tacos

Fried chicken

Pretzels

Ice cream

Obesseus whispered, “This is buffet pretending to be democracy.”

A teenager behind the counter blinked. “Sir, you have to pick one.”

Obesseus laughed nervously.

“…Pick?”

He approached the pizza place first.

“One slice,” the cashier said.

Obesseus nodded.

“One slice… per step.”

He walked to the burger stand.

“One combo,” the worker said.

“Combo mean together,” Obesseus replied. “Yes.”

The Chinese food employee asked, “White rice or fried?”

Obesseus stared at him.

“…Why choose when both alive.”

Trays began stacking.

One tray.

Two trays.

Three trays.

A fourth tray cracked under pressure.

Captain Calorie Counter descended from the escalator like a prophecy.

“THIS ENDS NOW!” he shouted, clipboard glowing. “You’ve violated the One-Meal Rule!”

Obesseus gestured to the food court.

“But room designed for many meals.”

Calorie Counter pointed. “Food courts encourage moderation.”

Obesseus gasped. “Lies with lights.”

Security approached.

“Sir, you can’t eat here.”

Obesseus paused mid-bite.

“…Where supposed to eat food?”

A pretzel fell. Someone screamed.

Ice cream melted in protest.

Obesseus sighed, sat down, and combined everything onto one tray.

“There,” he said proudly. “One meal.”

Silence.

Captain Calorie Counter stared.

“…That’s not what that means.”

Obesseus shrugged.

“Food court confusing. Obesseus adapt.”

The mall evacuated.

The pretzel stand survived.

Barely.

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Obesseus Gets Banned From the Bakery

D.T. Tucker — Thu, 8 Jan 2026 00:00:00 +0000

The sign on the door read:

BAKERY — FRESH DAILY

Obesseus smiled.

“Obesseus love fresh.”

He stepped inside.

Three seconds later, the bakery would never be the same.

The smell hit him first—warm bread, sugar, cinnamon, destiny.

His pupils turned into cupcakes.

Behind the counter, Baker Brenda waved politely.

“Samples are one per customer.”

Obesseus nodded respectfully.

“Understood.”

He took one sample.

Then stared at it.

“…Too small to survive alone.”

He placed it gently back.

Then took another to keep it company.

The display case rattled.

Croissants trembled.

A baguette fainted.

“Sir,” Baker Brenda said, slowly, “you can’t touch the glass.”

Obesseus leaned closer.

“…But bread inside waving at Obesseus.”

A tray of cookies came out of the oven.

Steam rose.

Time slowed.

Obesseus whispered, “Cookies in danger. Must rescue.”

He reached.

The tongs bent.

The tray tipped.

Cookies launched across the bakery like delicious frisbees.

One hit the wall.

One hit a child.

The child nodded in respect.

Sprinkles rained from the ceiling.

Captain Calorie Counter burst through the door, clipboard first.

“STOP RIGHT THERE!” he shouted. “Those pastries are HIGH RISK!”

Obesseus clutched a muffin.

“Muffin scared. Obesseus protect.”

Captain Calorie Counter pointed. “You’ve exceeded your sample allowance by fourteen.”

Obesseus counted on his fingers.

“…That sound right.”

Chaos escalated.

A cake display collapsed.

A rolling pin escaped and joined the street.

Someone yelled, “THE DONUTS ARE FREEING THEMSELVES!”

Obesseus slipped on powdered sugar and accidentally punched a rack of eclairs into the air.

They formed a rainbow.

Silence.

Baker Brenda slapped a red sign onto the counter.

OBESSEUS — PERMANENTLY BANNED

Obesseus read it carefully.

“…Forever is long time.”

Captain Calorie Counter sighed.

“This is why we have rules.”

Obesseus nodded sadly and walked toward the door.

Then paused.

“…Can Obesseus still smell bakery from sidewalk?”

Baker Brenda considered it.

“…Yes.”

Obesseus smiled.

“Acceptable.”

Outside, a new sign was quietly added:

NO SAMPLES.

NO CHAOS.

NO OBESSEUS.

The bakery reopened the next day.

With stronger shelves.

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Obesseus Goes to Get School Lunch

D.T. Tucker — Mon, 5 Jan 2026 00:00:00 +0000

Obesseus entered the school cafeteria like it was a sacred buffet hall.

It was not.

The lights flickered. Trays clattered. Somewhere, a tater tot screamed.

Obesseus grabbed a lunch tray.

The tray immediately bowed under the weight of expectation.

He approached the menu board.

TODAY’S LUNCH

Mystery Meat

Vegetable Side

Milk

Obesseus leaned in close.

“…Why meat have secrets.”

Behind the counter, Lunch Lady Patty squinted.

“One scoop only.”

Obesseus nodded.

“Understood.”

He watched as she dropped a tiny gray cube onto his plate.

The cube landed with a sound like regret.

Obesseus poked it.

It didn’t move.

He poked it harder.

It squeaked.

“…Meat make noise,” he whispered.

The vegetable side followed—an aggressively green pile that smelled like gym class.

Obesseus recoiled so hard his tray tilted, launching the milk carton into the air.

It hit a kid.

The kid accepted his fate.

Suddenly—

WHOOOOOP!

Captain Calorie Counter slid across the floor on his knees, blowing a whistle.

“BALANCED MEAL ALERT!”

He pointed at the tray. “Portion-controlled protein! Mandatory vegetables! Regulated joy!”

The cafeteria groaned.

Obesseus clutched his plate.

“Why lunch feel like punishment.”

Captain Calorie Counter adjusted his glasses. Numbers appeared in the air.

“That meal is exactly 430 calories.”

Obesseus gasped.

“ONLY 430?! What is this—snack?”

The bell rang. Kids sat down.

Obesseus took one bite of the mystery meat.

CRUNCH.

His eyes widened.

“…WHY MEAT HAVE BONES.”

The vegetable touched the meat.

Obesseus screamed.

He jumped onto the lunch table, trays sliding everywhere like dominoes.

“ATTENTION SCHOOL!”

Silence.

“Obesseus demand answers! Why milk warm? Why fork bend? Why pizza look sad on Fridays?”

Captain Calorie Counter shouted, “SIT DOWN OR I’LL MEASURE YOUR WAISTLINE!”

That was the mistake.

Obesseus lifted the tray.

The tray SNAPPED IN HALF.

Chaos erupted.

Milk cartons exploded. Tater tots rolled like marbles. Someone slipped and yelled, “IT’S EVERYWHERE!”

Obesseus sighed, sat back down, and calmly reached into his pocket.

He pulled out his emergency cheeseburger.

Wrapped in foil.

Still warm.

Captain Calorie Counter shrieked. “THAT IS NOT SCHOOL APPROVED!”

Obesseus took a bite.

“School lunch teach Obesseus important lesson,” he said wisely.

Lunch Lady Patty leaned in. “What’s that?”

Obesseus nodded.

“Always pack backup. And never trust meat with secrets.”

The bell rang.

The milk carton remained untouched.

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Obesseus vs Caption Calorie Counter (The New Year’s lollipop incident)

D.T. Tucker — Wed, 31 Dec 2025 00:00:00 +0000

Snackland was buzzing. Confetti rained, music blasted, and the New Year’s Ball hovered above the city—huge, shiny, and suspiciously round.

Obesseus squinted up at it, licking chocolate off his fingers.

“Ball look… delicious,” he declared. “Is big silver jawbreaker?”

“No!” screamed Captain Calorie Counter, sliding in with a clipboard the size of a door. “That is not food. That is a SYMBOL.”

Obesseus gasped. “Symbol candy?”

Captain Calorie Counter adjusted his glasses, which immediately projected numbers everywhere.

“According to my calculations,” he said smugly, “that ‘symbol’ contains zero calories and therefore zero joy. No eating allowed tonight.”

The crowd booed. Someone threw a cupcake.

Undeterred, Obesseus cracked his knuckles. “If not candy… why shiny? Why dangling? Why teasing Obesseus mouth at midnight?”

The countdown began.

10…

Captain Calorie Counter slapped a giant sticker on Obesseus’ chest: PORTION CONTROL ZONE.

“Step away from the ball! One bite equals infinity calories!”

9…

Obesseus leaned closer. “Infinity calories sound… powerful.”

8…

Captain Calorie Counter frantically flipped his clipboard. “If you eat that, everyone will gain weight retroactively!”

7…

Obesseus paused. “Retro… active… calories?”

6…

Behind them, Grant the Grapefruit whispered, “I’m pretty sure that’s not real,” while being ten minutes late to everything as usual.

5…

Captain Calorie Counter lunged forward, brandishing a tape measure. “I will MEASURE your FUN!”

4…

Obesseus grabbed the ball’s rope. It squeaked.

He froze.

“…Candy make squeak?”

3…

Captain Calorie Counter screamed, “STOP! That’s not sugar—it’s METAL!”

2…

Obesseus sniffed it. Licked it.

“…Definitely not lollipop.”

1…

Midnight struck.

Fireworks exploded. Confetti cannons roared. And Obesseus shrugged.

“Okay,” he said. “If not candy… Obesseus eat rules instead.”

He chomped Captain Calorie Counter’s clipboard in one bite.

CRUNCH.

The calorie projections vanished. The tape measure snapped. Captain Calorie Counter gasped in horror.

“My data!” he cried. “My NUMBERS!”

Obesseus cheered as the crowd erupted.

“Happy New Year! Obesseus resolution is simple,” he announced proudly.

“Eat more. Stress less. And never trust shiny objects.”

Captain Calorie Counter slunk away, muttering, “Next year… I bring decimals.”

Above Snackland, the ball dropped peacefully—uneaten, uncounted, and absolutely judging no one.

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