Blue Boxer lunged forward, gloves raised—but too late.
Flatulent Fatso turned, grunted deeply from his belly, and unleashed an apocalyptic blast of gas. It burst from beneath his too-tight suit pants like a foghorn of doom, an audible BWAAARRRRMMMPF that echoed across the city like a siren from hell.
The smell hit Boxer mid-stride.
A meaty, prehistoric stench that smelled like fermented dino eggs, tar pits, and something worse—something primordial. His vision blurred. The world swam in greenish haze.
He staggered, coughed, waved his glove in front of his face.
“W-What… is… that—” Boxer gasped.
Fatso chuckled, shaking his wobbling belly with pride. “Oh, that? That’s my new invention. I call it the De-Evolution Dumper. One whiff, and your mighty modern brain starts slipping down the evolutionary ladder like a greased-up chimp on a jungle gym.”
“No… n-no way,” Boxer grunted, clutching his head. “I… I’m not—”
But his voice was already thickening. Slurring. His tongue felt big in his mouth. His thoughts, once sharp and tactical, grew sluggish, muddy. He blinked, confused, as words and concepts began to slip away.
“Me… no like…” he murmured.
“Oh-ho-ho!” Fatso clapped his hands in delight. “Look at you! Blue Boxer, protector of Grit City, reduced to a bumbling Neanderthal-in-training.” He stepped forward, wafting more of his musky cloud in the hero’s direction with a slow flap of his jacket. “Breathe it in, big guy. Let that big brain of yours shrink down to something more manageable.”
Boxer growled. “Me… not dumb. Me fight… me smart…”
But his stance was already shifting. He hunched forward, heavy shoulders rounding. His chest puffed out while his arms began to swing slightly with each breath, knuckles nearly dragging.
He shook his head, trying to clear it. “No… no! Me… Ethan… me…”
“Aw, you remembered your name,” Fatso said sweetly, stepping close enough that Boxer could feel the heat radiating from the villain’s body—and the ripe, meaty musk that clung to him like a second skin. It was sweaty, fermented, deeply masculine.
Boxer wrinkled his nose.
Then flared it.
Then… sniffed.
Hard.
The smell repulsed him… but also tugged at something inside him. Something primitive. Dominance. Power. Mating scent.
“Fat man… smell… strong,” he grunted.
Fatso grinned wide. “You know, I always knew there was something between us. All that punching, the banter… classic repressed chemistry.”
Boxer blinked, his mask slightly askew now on his forehead. “Me… no like… fat man…”
“You sure?” Fatso teased, reaching out and giving Boxer’s sweaty chin a little tap. “Because you’re sniffing me like I’m a rack of ribs and you forgot dinner.”
The cave-brained Boxer snorted, nostrils twitching. “Smell… like… big man. Like… boss.”
“That's right,” Fatso said, his voice dropping into a commanding rumble. “Say it, Boxer. Say who’s boss.”
Boxer twitched, struggling. The hero within him kicked and screamed—but his mind was fogging over, filled with caveman urges and jumbled thoughts. He flexed his gloved fists, breathing heavier. The world felt simpler. Easier.
“Uhhhhh… Fat man… boss…” he grunted.
“There’s a good boy,” Fatso crooned, patting the de-evolving vigilante on the cheek. “Just a few more whiffs and you’ll be my loyal little loin-clothed bruiser. Maybe I’ll even keep you around—like a mascot. Or a very obedient caveman boyfriend.”
Boxer swayed in place, shoulders slumped, his once-sharp eyes now glassy and dazed. His jaw hung slack. His tongue lolled slightly.
“Me… Boxer… but me… no punch. Me sniff. Me… listen.”
Fatso laughed deep from his belly and leaned in close, his breath hot and sour.
“Good boy. Now… ready to hear what your boss has planned next?”
The caveman vigilante blinked dumbly.
“Yes, boss… Boxer listen… good…”
Flatulent Fatso circled his once-noble foe like a predator who’d finally caught his prize, his loafers squelching with every step. The sour funk of his gas still lingered, thick as soup, clinging to the air—and to Blue Boxer’s nose.
But “Blue Boxer” was already a fading identity.
The hero stood hunched now, slack-jawed, his toned frame twitching in a confused, animalistic daze. His blue boxing gloves hung heavy at his sides, his domino mask slipping off his sweaty brow. His posture had fully shifted—no longer upright and proud, but bent, knuckle-forward, chest puffed like a silverback gorilla. His breathing came in deep, primitive grunts. His once-vigilant eyes blinked slowly beneath a thick brow of mental fog.
“Tell me your name,” Fatso said, his voice silky and teasing.
The hero blinked, his lips moving slowly. “Me… Box… Blue… box… uh…”
Fatso leaned in and gave his cheek a playful jiggle. “No, no. That’s not right. You forget that name. That name is for men with too much dignity. You’re simpler now.”
He wafted his palm near his armpit, releasing a fresh burst of primal stench that made the ex-hero’s nostrils flare wide.
“Snfffffff... uhhhhh…” the vigilante moaned. His eyes rolled slightly. “Me… Cave…”
“Go on,” Fatso said, grinning wide. “Say it. Own it.”
“Me Cave Man…” the transformed hero grunted proudly, thumping a gloved fist against his chest with a THUNK. “Me no Blue… me CAVE MAN.”
“That’s right!” Fatso laughed triumphantly. “No more gadgets. No more silly gloves. Just instincts, muscles, and musk.”
Cave Man nodded slowly. “Me like stink. Fat man smell… strong. Like volcano.”
Fatso winked. “Now tell me, Cave Man… do you really like all these silly clothes you're wearing?”
Cave Man looked down, blinking in confusion at the remains of his crime-fighting attire. His boots, gloves, pants—all felt wrong now. Binding. Unnatural. His nose wrinkled at the scent of synthetic fabric.
“Clothes… bad,” he muttered. “Make Cave Man itchy.”
“Oh, they do look itchy,” Fatso cooed. “But that’s because real cavemen didn’t wear clothes, did they?”
Cave Man grunted, rubbing his hands down his chest. “Cave Man… no wear cloth. Me… born wild.”
“Yes, you were,” Fatso said, watching with delight as the powerful vigilante began tugging at his shirt, ripping seams as his primal instincts kicked in. “Strip it all off, Cavey. Let the real you out.”
“Me no hero… me animal,” Cave Man growled, tearing free from his vest, then yanking his boots off one by one with grunts of frustration. His fingers clumsily undid his utility belt before he flung it across the rooftop like a rock.
Fatso leaned back, admiring the sight as the powerful man—now butt naked, his manhood swinging between his legs—stomped around the rooftop barefoot, sniffing the air and scratching his chest.
“Mmmm,” Fatso sighed. “You’re beautiful like this. Primal. Loyal. Stinky.”
“Cave Man strong,” the former hero bellowed, arms raised triumphantly. “Cave Man free!”
Fatso’s eyes gleamed. “You sure are. And now that you’re mine… I’ve got a whole Stone Age worth of plans for you.”
The wind howled across the rooftop, carrying with it the feral grunts of a fallen hero and the belly-laughs of the flatulent tyrant who had brought civilization’s champion to his knees.