It was a quiet night in Grit City—or as quiet as it ever got in a place crawling with mobsters, madmen, and mystics. But down at Grit City National Bank, that silence shattered like cheap glass. Alarms didn’t blare—someone had looped the systems. But the front doors? Blown open, with bits of brass and marble scattered across the floor like confetti.
Across the street, perched on a fire escape, stood Blue Boxer, arms folded, muscles flexing beneath his sleeveless black-and-blue tactical suit. The night wind tousled his blond hair as he watched the scene unfold. Next to him crouched his 17-year-old protégé, Ken, a lean teen in khaki cargo pants and a brown martial arts gi shirt. His eyes were sharp behind a pair of tinted goggles, and the insignia of a tiny fist embroidered on his chest marked him as the Khaki Karateka.
“So,” Ken muttered, balancing on the balls of his feet, “we thinking professional job? Looks like someone knew what they were doing.”
Blue Boxer cracked his knuckles inside his blue gloves. “We’ll know in thirty seconds.” He grinned. “C’mon, Karateka. Time to meet tonight’s contestant.”
The two vigilantes dropped from the fire escape, landing in the street with practiced ease. They sprinted across the boulevard and entered the ruined front lobby of the bank. The smell hit them immediately—a putrid, eye-watering stench that made Ken recoil. “Dude! What is that?!”
Blue Boxer gagged. “Either something died... or somebody’s been abusing cabbage in ways nature never intended.”
As they stepped deeper into the lobby, a strange sound echoed from within. A low, prolonged brrrraaaaaaap, like a foghorn crossed with a whoopee cushion, rolled out of the vault corridor.
Ken blinked. “Was that... a fart?”
Blue Boxer shook his head. “I'd say no crook is that ridiculous. But this city...”
They crept toward the open vault, and that’s when they saw him. The figure standing in the glow of the vault lights was enormous—easily four hundred pounds—and garbed in a bizarre, custom-tailored black tuxedo, every button straining over his globular form. His massive belly protruded proudly like a beach ball tucked under his shirt. He wore a monocle, for some reason, and his bearded face glistened with sweat and smug self-satisfaction. He turned toward them with theatrical flair, clutching a silver-tipped cane in one hand and pressing a palm to his prodigious gut. “Ah! The heroes arrive. How delightfully cliché.”
Blue Boxer froze. “...What the hell am I looking at?”
Ken groaned. “I think one of the Thanksgiving parade floats gained sentience again.”
The enormous man sneered, clearly offended. “I am The Flatulent Fatso! Maestro of Malodor! Baron of the Belch! A rising star in the criminal underworld.”
Blue Boxer blinked. “...You’re serious.”
“Deadly.”
“You’re wearing a tuxedo.”
“Custom. Italian stitching.”
Ken frowned. “Wait—did you rob a bank... with your butt?”
Flatulent Fatso puffed up with pride. “Gaseous disruption is a science, boy. I have trained my body to turn gastrointestinal imbalance into art—and weaponry.”
As if to prove the point, he lifted one leg and let out a short, honking toot that echoed off the marble walls. The air thickened immediately.
Ken coughed violently. “Ugh! I can taste it! It’s like burnt eggs and despair!”
Blue Boxer growled, stepping forward. “Alright, enough of this. You’re weird, you smell like a landfill in July, and you’re coming with us.”
Fatso’s grin widened. “Oh, Blue Boxer... you’ll regret mocking me. By the end of tonight, you’ll fear me.”
He reached into his jacket and pulled free a bizarre chrome ray gun, the nozzle shaped like a trumpet, the chamber swirling with sickly green gas. He leveled it at Blue Boxer. “I call it the Flatulence-Fueled Flux Ray. Patent pending.”
Ken’s eyes widened. “That’s not a real thing. That can’t possibly be real.”
Blue Boxer raised his fists. “You want to talk science fiction, pal? How about I introduce your monocle to my left hook—”
But he didn’t finish the sentence. The ray gun powered up, humming with unnatural energy, a glow pulsing down its length like radioactive bile. The Flatulent Fatso grinned, his thumb on the trigger.
“Say cheese, Blue Boy…”
ZAP!