Blue Boxer staggered from the strange blast — but didn’t fall. “Huh,” he muttered, patting his chest. “Nice light show, but I think your toy's a dud.”
“Oh-ho-ho,” the Sheriff chortled, holstering his weapons with a twirl. “It ain’t the kind o’ thing that knocks ya down, partner. It’s the kind that changes ya. Go on now. Give it a sec.”
Blue Boxer opened his mouth to retort — but paused. His stomach gave a strange gurgle. Then he... snorted.
“What the heck was—snrk—” he clapped a gloved hand over his nose. “Was that me?!”
“Ohhh yes it was,” Sheriff Yee Haw said, chuckling as he leaned on a hay bale. “Welcome to phase one: involuntary oinkin’.”
Blue Boxer tried to sneer, but another loud SNORT escaped him. His gloves trembled. He scratched his side, suddenly feeling itchy... and hot. He tugged at his sleeveless top.
“What the—why’s my skin feel so tight? And itchy? And—oink—hey!!”
He looked down — his abs were rounding. His lithe frame was softening, bulk creeping onto his belly like rising dough.
“Good gravy,” Blue Boxer gasped. “I’m gettin’—snrk—pudgy!”
“That’s right!” Yee Haw slapped his thigh. “Yer packin’ pork on ya faster’n a Sunday BBQ buffet! Phase two: porkification!”
Blue Boxer stumbled backward, stripping off his utility belt as his waist thickened. His gloves thudded to the floor, too tight for his swelling hands. He gaped as his fingernails darkened, thickening into little blunt hooves.
“My hands—snort—I can’t even—oink!”
“Uh-huh,” Sheriff Yee Haw grinned, kneeling beside him. “Ya feelin’ that twitch in yer nose? That itch in yer rump? We’re almost to piggy prime time, city boy.”
Blue Boxer’s nose stretched forward with a wet crunch, flattening into a soft, rubbery pink snout. He squealed in alarm, crawling backward on his now-stubby limbs.
“No—no! You can’t—snort—I’m a hero!” he squealed, his voice breaking into high-pitched grunts.
“You were a hero,” the Sheriff teased, plucking up the discarded domino mask with a chuckle. “Now you’re just a hog in boots.”
Blue Boxer’s ears elongated, flopping into soft piggy flaps. His combat boots stretched and then burst open as thick trotters poked out. He kicked helplessly as his tailbone curled, a springy corkscrew tail popping from the shredded back of his pants.
The last of his shirt split open as his chest barreled out and coarse bristles sprouted across his pink, plump skin. He was squealing now, fully unable to speak — rolling on his side, a fat, red-faced pig with remnants of blue and black costume clinging desperately to his now porcine form.
“Oink! OINK—snrk! Squeeee! Oink!”
Sheriff Yee Haw walked around the huffing pig-hero, giving him a slow nod of approval. “Mmm-mm. Lookit you. From city’s finest to farmer’s prize hog in under five minutes. That’s some mighty fine piggification.”
Blue Boxer — or what was left of him — snorted sadly, his big piggy eyes blinking with shame.
“Don’t you worry, now,” the Sheriff cooed, pulling a rope from his saddlebag. “I’ll take good care o’ ya. Maybe even enter ya in the state fair.”
He slipped the rope around the hero’s fat belly with a tug.
“Now c’mon, Porky. Let’s git you to the pen.”
And with a wheezing oink, the hero formerly known as Blue Boxer was led trotting out of the warehouse, tail wiggling, boots dragging, leaving behind his mask, his pride, and the remains of his legend.