January 2025 Sketches- Incineroar and Bogo

This month, our runner-ups get to live their biggest and best lives- enjoy!

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Incineroar had been in a three-way competition between Machoke and Rillaboom to determine who was the biggest fighter. The competition had been gruelling— Incineroar had spent years on increasingly more intense workouts and exercise regimens to build up his muscles bigger and bigger, then Rillaboom would find a routine with a little more punch, or Machoke would start using a more advanced supplement of dubious legality, and on and on it went— but then, Incineroar began asking around the Kanto region for something, anything different. He found something different alright; something that upended the whole trajectory of the growth competition. Incineroar found Kanto's premier sumo stable.

He had not even realized how much strain his body had been under until he tried an entirely different lifestyle; there was still plenty of strength exercises to keep up the new bulk piling on to his already big frame, but the food made all the difference— rich and generously spiced, nice and hot, just the way he liked it. Of course, Incineroar was starting to feel like all the extra weight and heft he was putting on was something he wore pretty well.

He felt like a moving mountain, an immovable force through sheer mass. Sure, those long-crafted, well-defined muscles were buried under several landslides' worth of extra, blubbery weight that stretched out and warped his striped pelt, but Incineroar was feeling proud, even, of his enormous, billowing gut sticking out several feet ahead of him that worked like a wrecking ball for anyone that got in his way. His legs were thick around as large tires that rolled off one another, his heavy footfalls making each lumbering step echo with the wobbling of enough fat to make a second fighter type. His sprawling, voluminous chest and hefty arms maintained some of the shape they used to have, but like the rest of his massive body, it was plush and pliable— but he would be damned if anyone could push it aside.

Incineroar grinned wide, dipping into his multiple chins as he glanced down, eyes roving over the landscape of his enormous frame, and gave the crest of his belly a firm slap, sending ripples across that vast landscape. He chuckled low to himself, already looking to his next meal— he didn't just want to outweigh Rillaboom and Machoke; no, he was on his way to weighing more than both of them put together. The biggest fighter of all time— it was a well-won title; game, set, and match.

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Bogo still wasn't sure what he had done to get this "special duty" from the Mayor. Technically, he was the Chief of Police, and couldn't be simply reassigned— but perhaps Lionheart was still feeling sore over their last date. He hadn't meant to so completely dominate the lion, but then, he should have known about how easily some predators' pride could be bruised— better to stick with Benjamin, in the future. Still— his recent workouts and bulking cycles had been good preparation for his "temporary" assignment to rein in the increasingly troubled Tundratown. Mr. Big had disappeared, leaving a power vacuum— and a lot of big, burly, and surly, guards and thugs now all fighting for control. Someone needed to bring the streets back under control— and a buffalo recently topping off at two tons was a good place to start.

He huffed, his enormous, bloated pecs billowing out like sails catching a full wind, the sounds of hundred of pounds of metal and brawn shifting and grinding the only sound in the gym— after all these years, he still preferred to workout alone. Plenty of space, and no one to gawk at what a beast he had built himself into. His gigantic arm curled, the vambrace of his forearm slamming against the charged-up peak of his overgrown bicep. The monumental bovine's ears flicked as he heard the squealing the metal, and was at first afraid he had squeezed the dumbbell too tightly, before realizing he was about to flatten the bench under his immense, beefy girth.

"Ah, damn…" Bogo rumbled deeply. He pulled himself up and caught his reflection, his gigantic frame filling the wall-length mirror. His chiselled mountain of a torso strained the paper-thin fabric of his ZPD undershirt, clinging to his heaving deltoids and burgeoning flanks. He thumped his chest, and smiled faintly at the vast amount of overgrown, powerful muscle rippling. Well, the work might be hard and the beat more than a little chaotic— but he hadn't had an opportunity or motivation to push himself this hard in ages. The results were impressive; he puffed up his chest, not quite enough to burst out of yet another shirt, but lifted his arms up, just to see his topographical shelf of a back flare out, his slab-like triceps tighten, and biceps harden like stone.

"I think it's high time for a uniform reform… Sleeves are now optional," the huge buffalo grunted, smiling to himself as he gave one bicep a hefty pat.