The air still shimmered with that eerie green haze as Ken—now a chiseled adult—rushed toward the exit of the vault, his powerful new body moving with unfamiliar strength. His feet thudded heavily on the marble floor. The Flatulent Fatso paused just outside the vault, casually adjusting his cummerbund as if preparing for a dinner party rather than a getaway.
But instead of fleeing, the portly villain turned, grinning like a man who had one more gag up his sleeve. “Tsk tsk,” he said. “You still don’t understand, do you? I didn’t just come to rob a bank. I came to make a point.” He aimed the ray gun again. “Let’s see how far I can push this little social experiment.”
ZAP! The green beam struck them both again—this time with a sound like a hiccup wrapped in a foghorn. The smell of rotten eggs and bubblegum filled the air.
Blue Boxer barely had time to squeak out a, “Wait, no—!” before the magic took hold. A tingling sensation bloomed across his entire body, and suddenly, the oversized combat gear he was wearing became even more absurd. His gloves flopped right off his shrinking hands. His shirt ballooned on his now narrow, bony shoulders. His domino mask slid down over his eyes, which were suddenly big, round, and way too expressive.
“Ughhh, everything’s itchy!” he whined, yanking at his utility belt, now hanging off him like a hula hoop.
Ken groaned as well, but it wasn’t from shrinking—it was from swelling. His sleek, newly muscular form began to soften. His arms jiggled. His abs melted into a round, doughy belly. Hair retreated from his scalp and reemerged in weird places—his shoulders, his lower back, a thick patch on his chest poking through the tears in his khaki gi. His face rounded out, a slight jowl forming beneath his chin. His once-proud martial arts belt now looked more like it was keeping up a pair of over-washed dad jeans.
He blinked in confusion. “Wait… am I… middle-aged?” He looked down at himself, then across at Blue Boxer, who was now unmistakably an 11-year-old boy, standing in a puddle of his own oversized combat uniform.
Boxer’s voice cracked as he pointed a gloved hand the size of a baseball mitt at Fatso. **“Hey! You big—uh—farty-mean-jerk guy! You can’t do that! That’s not fair!”
Flatulent Fatso snorted, his jowls jiggling with glee. “Oh my, this is exquisite. The once-proud Blue Boxer, reduced to a pre-teen in pleather pajamas, and his sidekick is now Mr. Middle-Aged Mortgage. I should have charged admission!”
Ken groaned again, putting a hand on his new lower back. “Oof. Why do I suddenly wanna watch local news and yell at kids on bikes?”
Boxer tried to step forward heroically, but he tripped on his sagging pants and tumbled face-first onto the marble floor with a squeaky yelp. “Ow!"
Ken bent over (with an audible crack of his knees), and helped the now-child-sized Boxer up. “Easy there, champ,” Ken said in a voice that had taken on an unmistakable dad tone. “Let’s get you on your feet, huh?”
Boxer looked up at him, brow furrowed in frustration. “Stop treatin’ me like a kid! I’m me! I’m still Blue Boxer!”
Ken raised an eyebrow. “Buddy, you just tried to threaten a supervillain with a vocabulary that included the word ‘farty.’ I think you might need a nap.”
Boxer folded his arms and pouted.
Fatso was practically beside himself with glee, now leaning against a pillar for support as he laughed, wheezing between each booming guffaw. “Oh, this is far more than I ever dreamed! You two were the bane of the underworld. Now look at you! One step away from a PTA meeting and a Boy Scout carpool!”
Boxer glared at him, but it was hard to look menacing drowning in big floppy grown up clothes. “I’m still gonna stop you, Fatso! I’m just... I just gotta grow back up a little first!”
Ken patted him on the head. “That’s the spirit, slugger.”
Fatso raised the ray gun one final time and twirled it like a baton. “Oh don’t worry, little man. I’ve got plenty more gas in the tank... and the night’s still young.”