I'd gladly make bacon sandwiches for Manabi. I'd give my life for her. I'm not talking about sexual partnership either. I'd become her personal slave, if necessary. Bringing her her daily regimen of bacon sandwiches, Big Macs, and cherry soda would bring me great happiness. As she burped and gobbled down her meals I would sit basking in the glow of her ravenous maw.
Even as she became hungrier, and plumper, I would not grow tired of serving her. I would work harder than ever to make her happy. I would learn to cook new recipes, I would roast entire Turkeys for her, I would hand-feed her deep-fried twinkies. And once she had gained a most excellence rotundness, now so fat that she could not leave her bed, 350 lbs. of mouth-watering loli fat, bubbling like an overbaked jello, she would yell to me with fat, blubbering lips: onii-chan, it's time for mah dinner!
And I would come. Fork and knife in hand, I would enter her bedroom. Her glistening, gluttonous eyes would turn dry and roll back as I sank my teeth into her quivering, greasy hide. In a panic, thrashing around like a beached whale, her blood would boil, marinating the fat nicely. As I neatly cut her into bite-sized chunks, she would lose consciousness. And then I would feast. Oh would I feast.