Before Boxer could move, the ray fired. A shimmering blast hit him square in the chest. He staggered back—
“What the—?” He felt warm. Tingly. And then—
GRRRMBBLL—
He gasped, hand flying to his stomach as it gurgled audibly. His tight abs began to blur, softening, rounding. The once-ripped muscle of his midsection was being overtaken by a creeping swell of fat. Boxer staggered back, eyes wide.
“Oh no. What—what the hell is—urp!—happening?!”
Yee Haw roared with laughter. “Ain’t nothin’ like a good ol’ gut-growin’ showdown! Don’t worry, sugarcube, it starts slow. Just a little pouch for now.”
Boxer’s sleeveless tactical shirt began to rise as his belly pushed out like a rising doughball. His utility belt dug into his swelling love handles as they poured over his hips. The seams of his pants groaned, clinging to thickening thighs and rapidly widening butt cheeks.
“Nngh—huff—okay, this is… this is bad…”
The gloves hung awkwardly at his sides as his arms plumped up, bis and tris jiggling as they lost definition. His proud chest began to sag into soft, rounded pecs, and his combat boots creaked as thick calves fought for room.
Sheriff Yee Haw tipped his hat again and strutted closer, belly jiggling with every step. “Look at you! All puffed up like a parade balloon.”
Blue Boxer groaned and tried to run—only to trip as his thickened thighs rubbed together awkwardly. He wheezed, winded just from that stumble.
“HhHFF—huff—can’t… move…”
RRRIIIPP!
The front of his shirt burst open, exposing a wobbling, doughy belly now sagging over his belt. The belt snapped a moment later, clattering to the ground with a defeated jingle.
Yee Haw stood over him, smug.
“Well I’ll be! Grit City’s mighty protector now lookin’ like he’s been protectin’ the all-you-can-eat buffet.”
Boxer tried to lunge—but his bloated gut slapped against his knees and knocked him off balance. He toppled back onto his rear with a THUD, his wide backside quaking like gelatin.
“Ghhrrff—ugh! Dammit! I can’t… I can’t even throw a punch!”
Yee Haw crouched beside him, patting his gut like a prize pig.
“There, there, tubby. You sit tight. Maybe I’ll getcha a feed bag and a treadmill—though I reckon you’ll break that too.”
“You won’t… urp!… get away with this…”
“Maybe. But I sure got away with you, didn’t I, Chunky Champ?”
He twirled his six-shooter with flair and tipped his hat one last time.
“You’ve been weighed and found wantin’, big guy.”