Inside the create, Blue Boxer and Lumberjack discovered a single, pristine #1 DAD coffee mug, sitting on a velvet cushion like some kind of unholy grail.
Blue Boxer stared at it. “You’ve gotta be kidding me.”
Lumberjack squinted. “That’s it? We busted heads, dodged bullets, and all we get is a novelty mug?”
Blue Boxer reached in and plucked the thing up. “It’s not even chipped. That’s suspicious in a place like this.” He turned it in his glove, inspecting the gleaming ceramic. “Maybe it's cursed. Or maybe—”
The mug glowed. A blinding flash burst from it, washing them both in golden light like the world's tackiest sunrise. The air filled with the unmistakable scent of grilled hot dogs, lawn fertilizer, and freshly-cut grass.
Blue Boxer blinked. “What the—?”
Fwoomp. His gloves fell off as his fingers thickened, knuckles swelling with years of backyard carpentry. His biceps softened, his trim waist spreading into a doughy dad gut that strained his sleeveless shirt. Chest hair sprouted, his hairline retreated a good inch, and a pair of white New Balance sneakers appeared on his feet, squeaky clean and undeniably suburban.
Lumberjack let out a grunt. “Something’s happening—urrp—uhh, my jeans feel tight…” His plaid shirt strained over a round beer belly, and his rugged mountain-man physique ballooned into the unmistakable form of a beefy Midwestern dad—thick in the middle, soft in the chest, with a bit of back hair poking out where his shirt untucked itself. A pair of cargo shorts replaced his jeans, and a faded “World’s Okayest Griller” apron materialized, slung around his neck.
Blue Boxer groaned, his voice deeper and slightly winded. “I feel like I just woke up after a BBQ, a nap, and three lawnmower repairs…”
Lumberjack scratched his belly, then sniffed. “Is that… is that Old Spice?”
They looked at each other in horror.
“We’re dads.” Blue Boxer said.