The green blast from the Flatulence-Fueled Flux Ray struck Blue Boxer and the Khaki Karateka square in the chest. For a moment, nothing happened—just the eerie hum of the device and the sudden stillness in the room.
Then everything changed.
A dizzying wave of pressure hit them like a punch to the gut. Their muscles spasmed. Their boots felt suddenly loose—everything felt loose. Their vision tilted as the room ballooned around them.
“Ugh—Ken! What’s happening!?” Blue Boxer grunted, clutching his head.
Ken staggered, blinking rapidly.
“I—I think we’re—”
He didn’t get to finish. His khaki gi top flopped forward, empty, followed a second later by his pants crumpling around his ankles. The laces on his sneakers unspooled and collapsed like tents with the poles yanked out.
Blue Boxer felt his utility belt sag and slip down his hips, then thud around his feet. His tactical vest drooped, boxing gloves ballooning like blimps around his now shrinking hands. He gave a startled grunt as the floor rocketed away, and a moment later his domino mask tumbled off his face like a falling billboard.
Within seconds, both vigilantes were bare, shrunken, and standing amidst a jungle of their own clothing. The fabric loomed around them like collapsed parachutes and stadium canopies. Buttons the size of hubcaps, zippers like steel girders.
They were barely four inches tall.
Blue Boxer staggered out from the shadow of his own glove, shaking off a thread like a snake.
“What in the name of sweaty gym socks—!?”
Ken stumbled out from inside a khaki pant leg, shielding himself.
“I’m naked! Why am I naked!? Why are you naked?! Why is everything so huge!?”
From overhead came a thunderous, smug chuckle.
“Ahhh... exquisite. I was hoping for something dramatic.”
The voice vibrated the floor. Shadows shifted. Then a massive hand descended from the sky, thick fingers pinching Blue Boxer between thumb and forefinger like a toy soldier. The vigilante flailed, pounding his tiny blue fists against the soft pads of the fingers.
“Put me down, lard-bucket! I swear I’ll—oof!”
Fatso held him up to his monocled eye, examining him with curiosity and glee.
“Well, aren’t you adorable. Like a little plastic action figure... except without the dignity of pants.”
Blue Boxer snarled, red in the face.
“You're gonna regret this, balloon boy!”
“Ohhh, I doubt it.”
The other hand scooped up a flailing Ken, who kicked wildly at the air.
“Let me go! This is illegal! This is weird!”
Fatso clucked his tongue.
“Temper, temper. You two have been very naughty. Charging into a villain’s big debut with fists flying? Honestly, how rude.”
From a nearby counter, Fatso produced a glass jar—the kind you might use for pickles or oversized jelly beans. It had a metal lid riddled with tiny air holes.
“And now,” he cooed, “a well-deserved time out.”
He dropped them both inside with a soft plunk-plunk, the glass amplifying the sound. The two heroes tumbled into a pile, bare limbs tangled, the air thick with the lingering scent of pepperoni and cologne. They scrambled apart, both blushing furiously.
“Don’t look at me!” Ken barked.
“You’re the one who kicked me in the chest, kid!” Blue Boxer growled.
Above them, the distorted face of the Flatulent Fatso loomed through the glass like some obscene moon. “Rest up, my tiny terrors. There’s more to come. I haven’t even unveiled Act Two.”
Their foe unleashed a mighty belch and blew right into the jar. The jar shook as he tapped the lid shut, sealing them inside with his gassy breath. Their voices echoed off the glass as the villain tucked the container under one meaty arm and waddled triumphantly toward the vault.
Inside the jar, Blue Boxer glared up, choked on the rancid air, fists clenched. “He’s not gonna get away with this. He cannot get away with this.”
Ken, crouching and covering his crotch for modesty, his teen butt mashed against the glass wall. He groaned. “How the heck are we gonna get out of this one?”