Big Baby Mitchell’s Burger Blowout

The rec room smelled like teenage desperation and processed meat. Big Baby Mitchell, a human mountain of toddler-sized ambition and adult-sized appetite, sat strapped into a reinforced high chair. His caretaker bro stood nearby, clipboard in hand, ready to document the impending gastronomic warfare.

“Twenty cheeseburgers. Twenty minutes. You ready, big man?” his bro challenged, stacking the greasy towers of beef and cheese.

Mitchell’s eyes gleamed with the intensity of a competitive eater trapped in a toddler’s body. His buddies huddled around, TI-84 calculators at the ready, preparing to calculate the mathematical madness of Mitchell’s metabolism.

The timer started. Burgers disappeared faster than dignity.

Halfway through, Mitchell’s face turned the color of ketchup. His diaper began to strain with the effort. Suddenly, a thunderous rumble erupted from his lower regions. PFFFFFFTTTTT! A nuclear-grade fart blasted through the room, causing his caretaker to stumble backward.

Not to be outdone, his bro leaned in and ripped a retaliatory blast directly into Mitchell’s face. The room filled with a toxic cloud of burger-fueled flatulence.

Mitchell kept eating.

Twelve burgers down. Eight to go.

His buddies’ calculators clicked and whirred, tracking calories, speed, and the mathematical probability of digestive disaster.

With two minutes left, Mitchell unloaded in his pamper with the force of a thousand wet wipes. But he didn’t stop. He couldn’t stop.

The last burger went down just as the timer buzzed.

Twenty cheeseburgers. Twenty minutes.

Big Baby Mitchell: Victorious.