Sketches January 2024- Machoke and Sly Cooper

Machoke is here to show everyone who the real king of the ring is, and Sly Cooper learns the hazards of stealing cursed idols. Enjoy!

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That punk Incineroar thought he was the hottest shit, but when it came to the world of wrestling, there was only room for one champion, one king— and Machoke wasn't going to give his crown up to some mangy cat any time soon. Sure, Incineroar was the new guy, all the rage— but Machoke had been working hard to transform himself into the ultimate juggernaut of a wrestler, and with enough training and a metric ton of courage candy and other items of questionable legality, he was ready to take to the ring again.

Already a powerfully built pokemon, the fighter had been reforged into an absolute beast of brawn and raw strength. His legs were thick and hard as oak trunks, thighs rippling as Machoke summoned up all his strength. His back alone was like a concrete wall, swells of muscle packed densely against his swollen lats hard as stone and pushed out wide to make canyons look narrow in comparison. Round, monstrous biceps surged, triceps like car tires tensed as his pecs billowed out like an avalanche. The massive boulder gripped in his fists finally cracked under the tension, snapping in half like a brittle twig before his might, while his tensed goliath arms mashed against his chest, the huge billowing stacks of muscle fighting against one another for room.

Letting out a grunt of victory, Machoke stood to his full, mountainous height, his engorged shoulder muscles swallowing up his bull neck. He let the two halves of sheer rock drop, breathing deeply as his beefy pecs fluttered, hitting his chin. Let's see any fighter type beat that— he was already yearning for the chance to go at Incineroar for three solid rounds; nobody would forget who the real champ was, ever again.

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Sly Cooper made a mental note to himself: no more cursed idols. The supposed harvest idol belonged to some ancient tribe on the other side of the world, and there it was, ten pounds of solid gold, just left as some glorified paperweight of a big wig's desk. Now what forward thinking, open-minded, progressive person would Sly be if the raccoon didn't steal something like that? It's what the tribe would have wanted. He had wondered how the owner got so fat so soon after purchasing the idol… and unfortunately, he was hanging off a zip line when he found out. For every second he clung to the gold statue, he could feel himself getting rounder, softer, and heavier— at first, he thought it was just some left over bloat from dinner. Then the line snapped.

The thief could only be grateful he landed on so much soft cushioning of his own, now; the idol had piled on the pounds, leaving him an absurdly bloated parody of himself. The dimensions of the raccoon beggared belief; his enormous belly sprawled out on the ground like a tidal wave made of gelatin, smothering his keg-sized, blubbery thighs and weighing down on a rear large enough to crush the getaway van, if he could even be squeezed in. Reams of back fat were piled on top of one another like a melting wedding cake, his flabby arms were wrapped in thick reams of fat, and his chest was like a pair of overstuffed pillows, plumped and fluffed and shredding his turtleneck Rings of extra chins met his jaw and round cheeks, pinching at his mask… the worst part of all was, his stomach grumbled shortly after. He was absolutely starving. Maybe Murray could show him to some good places after the heist…