Now I know why they're called sucklings

I now live, if that is what I may call it, under the rule of an occupation force of one.

The Small Man, now bulging and engorged and layered in folded rolls of blubber, rules this place with a squishy fist.

The Woman never leaves the fortress. Neither the Man. They huddle ceaselessly about the Small Man and marvel at the river of regurgitance that issues from his gills, and the tempest of flatulence blasting from his posterior. They change and augment his swaddles on the hour (a woefully futile exercise). They jump at his every chirp; they answer his every bray.

They read and reread and rereread him tales from his brightly-hued compendia — tales of mice. Of dogs. They sing him ridiculous songs of jibberish and praise.

I am beset by a cavalcade of granhamas, bearing gifts and tribute.

The distribution of pellets is continuously postponed by his warbling filibusters; door service is practically nonexistent.

Is this what life around here is going to be, then? Is this the new future of Shmooldom?

If Fabio were still here, if Fabio could see this, he would...

Well, he would just barf.