A blinding greenish blast of flatulence-charged energy burst from the ray gun, enveloping Blue Boxer and Khaki Karateka in a swirling vortex of sickly light. The two heroes froze mid-step, eyes wide, muscles tensed, as a deep, reality-distorting rumble shook the vault.
“Ugh! What the—?!” Ken shouted, voice already warping.
“Something’s—nnrgh—wrong!” Blue Boxer growled.
Their forms flickered, outlined in a queasy glow. Their limbs grew rubbery, torsos flattening, heads shrinking, features smoothing into blank fabric—
Then with a final POP, the light collapsed into nothingness, leaving only two sad little heaps on the cold marble floor.
A pair of boxers and a pair of tighty-whities lay crumpled where the crimefighters had once stood.
Flatulent Fatso waddled forward triumphantly, tucking his ray gun back into his waistband. The villain peered down at the garments with theatrical glee.
“Behold!” he bellowed, hands on his hips. “The once-mighty Blue Boxer—now nothing more than blue boxers! And his little khaki-clad sidekick? Reduced to a most humiliating fate… white briefs. Fitting, really.”
He reached down and gingerly picked up the boxers, holding them by the waistband as they dangled limply.
“So smug. So stoic. Now you’re 95% cotton and completely powerless.”
With a snort, he raised the briefs and let them slap against the boxers.
“Aww, are you two still trying to fight? Sorry, boys—elastic doesn’t punch back.”
He waddled out of the vault, the undignified heroes swaying in his grasp like flags of defeat.
As he strutted toward the getaway truck idling outside—custom license plate: “TOOT1”—Fatso addressed the stunned bank manager and security guards frozen in fear.
“Tell Grit City this: The era of the fit and fabulous is over. The flabby and flatulent rise now.” He burped, dramatically.
With one last victorious frrrrt, he vanished into the night, two humiliated heroes flapping sadly in the breeze behind him—laundered, labeled, and completely undone.
Back at his secret hideout—an abandoned sausage factory reeking of grease and mischief—The Flatulent Fatso waddled through a maze of rusted machinery and old conveyor belts, humming a cheerful, off-key rendition of Ride of the Valkyries. Tucked under one arm: a limp pair of blue boxers and a rumpled set of white briefs, the last traces of Grit City’s heroic duo.
“Boys!” he bellowed. “Come meet your prize!”
From behind a stack of crates emerged Butch and Lonny, his two trusty henchmen. Both were pushing fifty, with thick hairy arms, sagging beer bellies, and tank tops that hadn’t seen a washing machine since the last century. Butch had a handlebar mustache and a permanent look of confusion; Lonny, missing a few teeth, scratched his hairy chest as he approached.
“We win somethin’, boss?” Butch asked, eyeing the garments skeptically.
Fatso beamed. “Better. You’ve earned something. Gentlemen, may I present… your new underwear.”
He flung the pairs to them dramatically.
Butch caught the blue boxers, squinting. “These look… kinda fancy. Real soft.”
Lonny held up the white briefs like a trophy. “Ooooh, these got the good stretch! Look at that band, Butch! That’s premium elasticity right there.”
Fatso smirked. “Only the best. They used to be heroes, you know. Grit City’s finest. Now? Just comfy undergarments for my loyal lads.”
Inside the fabric, though no one could hear them, Blue Boxer and Ken screamed silently in protest. They could feel everything. The humiliating softness. The sweat. The slow horror of being hoisted, stretched, and—
“Oof, yeah!” Butch said, shimmying out of his old, fraying boxers and stepping into his new pair. “These breathe like a summer breeze on my—uh, you know.”
Lonny followed suit, hopping around one leg at a time to squeeze into the snug white briefs. “Whoa! These fit like a dream! It's like… like my butt’s being hugged by justice!”
Blue Boxer’s world was upside-down, literally, his consciousness trapped in the soft cotton hugging Butch’s unwashed behind. “This can’t be happening… This CAN’T be happening…”
Ken’s muffled panic echoed inside the briefs. “I am ON a butt! I AM A BUTT ACCESSORY!”
Butch gave a little bounce and a chuckle.
“Hey boss, can I keep these? Feels like they were made for me.”
Fatso let out a booming laugh.
“They were, Butch. They were.”
He waddled back into the factory shadows, humming smugly, as the heroes-turned-underwear began their long, humiliating ordeal… caught in the warm, hairy clutches of villainy.