>>214610871
Ding! The morbidly obese lad advances slowly, but his swings are like sledgehammers. One glances Warwick's arm – bruise blooms purple. Warwick dances around, peppering jabs to the gut, sinking into flab. The kid roars, grabbing Warwick and lifting him high – slam! Back hits mat, wind knocked out. Family gasps: "Get up, Dad!" Warwick rolls away, springs up, and targets the eyes – fingers rake, drawing blood. The lad blinds, swinging wildly; Warwick trips him, mounts, and pummels the face to pulp. Bloody mess – he taps! Seven gone.

Lad Eight, equally enormous, lumbers in. Prediction: Warwick's aching, but the family's fire keeps him going. He'll prevail, just.

Bell rings! Lad Eight charges like a rhino, colliding with Warwick – they tumble in a heap of limbs and flab. The kid's weight pins him, fists hammering down – thud, thud! Warwick's ribs crack audibly, blood coughing up. He wriggles free, vision spotting, and delivers a knee to the temple. The obese teen staggers; Warwick follows with choke – but the neck's buried in fat! He squeezes harder, muscles burning. The lad gasps, face mottling purple, and finally slumps. Eight defeated! Another escalation – but wait, they're at max fatness now. No more bulking; it's peak pork from here on!

Lad Nine enters, at that maximum fatness – a wobbling behemoth of a thirteen-year-old, still mobile but barely. Prediction: Warwick's battered, bruises everywhere, but his spirit's unbreakable. I reckon he scrapes through.

Ding! The max-fat lad shuffles forward, arms swinging heavy. Warwick, limping slightly, feints and strikes the knee – buckle! But the kid catches his arm, twists – pop! Shoulder dislocates. Warwick screams, but adrenaline surges; he headbutts the chin, splitting skin. Blood mixes with sweat. The lad presses his bulk, smothering Warwick against the ropes – breath hot, weight crushing. Warwick's family yells: "Fight back, love! For us!"