November 2019 Sketches (Patreon)

Thanks to all our $10 patrons this month! Enjoy a bit of beef and cake!

Some would think the end of a superhero career would be the sign of a downhill trend, or an early retirement. But with the first Road Rovers team passing on the mantle to a new generation, Blitz the doberman was not one of those people. In fact, now that Hunter wasn’t always there to show him up, Blitz now had the chance to be adored for the wonder that he truly was, in the only sport that spoke to him: bodybuilding. In a few short years, the super-powered canine had taken the field by storm, dominating competitions in his native Germany for a few years now, but here in Los Angeles, it was time for his biggest triumph: Mr. Universe. The fact that his old squad mate Hunter was the emcee was icing on the cake; the golden lab looked puny in comparison to Blitz now, after years of intense, rigorous training and exercising, a diet he stuck to with ruthless, Prussian-like discipline, and a small mountain of supplements that were at least partially legal. 

The doberman gave a toothy smirk as he admired his reflection in the full-length mirror stretching across the wall; nothing else would do, of course. Any other mirror was far too narrow for his magnificently sculpted form. His short fur glossy from freshly applied oil, he practically shined, with every diamond-cut muscle on display. Snapping the tight band of his German flag-print posers against the thick adonis belt girding his hips, he flexed his legs first, quads thick as sequoias inflating in size, down to nearly spherical calves, sculpted to perfection, naturally.  

He let out a short huff, caressing the swell of his thigh before giving it a firm slap, muscle rippling as a result. He ran a hand over brick-sized abs, each one packed tight against one another with dense girth. The doberman then gave his pecs an experimental grope, each one the size of a shield, forming a mighty chest with a cleft deep enough to lose a hand in. He then pivoted to the side, glancing over shoulders that rose up like mountains to glance at the scenic geography of his immense valley of a back, and his round, firm glutes, filling out his posers in a satisfying manner; his stub tail wiggled at seeing it.

Finally, he flexed an arm, each one packed with enough firepower to qualify as a cannon. His bicep swelled to a magnificent peak, supported by triceps thick as anvils. Humming to himself, Blitz brought it close, kissing that rock-hard mound, admiring every sculpted pound that he had worked so hard for.

“What an artist I turned out to be, to sculpt such a masterpiece, ja?” Blitz chuckled, making his pecs bounce, gently pushing up against his chin. Spinning on his heel he swaggered towards the stage, already tensing his arms and puffing up his chest, holding his head high; the competition was a formality, after all. Everyone would know who the real Mr. Universe was as soon as he stepped out on stage.

The Machoke was starting to see the appeal of eating like a snorlax; it was a lot easier than training, for starters. His trainer was a strange one, that was certain. An undeniably rotund woman from the Kanto region, she had only trained Snorlaxes before now, and she was always going on and on about preparing Machoke for some type of new wrestling. Sue-moe, he thought it was called, and according to his trainer, Machoke was nowhere near big enough. That excited Machoke a little bit; he hadn’t had a real challenge in a long time, winning countless fights and battling pokemon that were nowhere near his level. Apparently, the only way to get into these sue-moe fights that could finally offer him the challenge he had been looking for was to make himself as big as possible, as quickly as possible. That is, his trainer had said, if he was going to make it for the sue-moe season on time.

Of course, his trainer never said when he would begin his new fights, or when the wrestling season even began. Not that he was overly concerned; he was almost always distracted by the endless supply of poffins that were being offered to him. Figures his trainer’s family owned a bakery. For months now, he had been gorging on the pastries, trying different flavors and sizes. His favorite were definitely the sweet and sour poffins made with Rowap and Micle berries; his trainer wanted him to focus on any sort of poffins that would make him tougher, after all. Machoke had lost count after the sixtieth poffin; after eating that much, he should be the toughest Pokemon in the region!

The fighter-type grunted softly, getting comfortable as he gobbled down another extra large poffin. His body had gone through a dramatic transformation, almost like a brand new type of evolution. His belly was like an immense boulder now, a round, blob-like monument to this new type of training. Some sort of wrap, a mawashi, he remembered it being called, cut into his flabby flesh, clinging tightly to his wide, fleshy hips. He sprawled out luxuriously, resting one thickly laden arm on top of the crest of his belly and idly scratching, sending small ripples across his reams of blubber. His cheeks wobbled with each bite, multiple chins lazily piling up atop an immense, pillow like chest. He stretched his legs, a pair of thunder-thighs that were always mashed against each other, forcing him into a waddle when he was forced to move these days. Not that he knew; he hadn’t been able to see anything past the circumference of his gut for weeks, now. He didn’t mind, though. Who needed to see their feet when they already knew they were the biggest around? He reached out for another poffin; his trainer always made sure there were some nearby. He laid back contentedly, nestling his muzzle against his flabby chins. If this was what being a sue-moe wrestler was like, Machoke thought he must be the luckiest pokemon in the world.