Sketches- September 2023

Our runner-ups, Wonder Dog and the Sheriff, are both living larger than ever. Enjoy, and thank you for your support!

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"Elliot, I don't get it— this is what, the third time you've drawn over me?" Ace, German Shepard and private eye, asked.

"What can I say, Ace? It's what the commissioner wanted— bigger." Ace's hapless creator replied.

"Well, yeah, but… you don't think this is just a little excessive?" Ace asked. "I mean, I can dig it, but… this is a lot of brawn."

"Well…" Elliot spread his hands, pen and pencil in either. "I can go a little smaller if you really want to."

Ace paused, biting his lip. There had been changes in his appearance, sure, whenever the audience was really pushing Elliot. This was a whole other thing, though. He was now Wonderdog, or at least, that was the working title. A spandex suit somehow managed to encase his now absolutely titanic body. He had muscles upon muscles piled onto his frame, an exaggerated chest with beefy pecs that could shame tanks for sheer girth, massive arms that could bend steel girders like they were licorice, and a rippling back with a wingspan larger than some airplanes. His mountainous shoulders and brick-sized abs, even as top heavy as he had become, he had seen less impressive columns than the meat he was packing in each sculpted leg. It was nice to look at, sure, but he hadn't found a single doorway in town big enough for him. It was a lot to deal with all of a sudden.

"Just how strong am I with all this beef, anyways, Elliot?"

Elliot thought for a moment. "Gee Ace, I don't know— I could have you bench-press a tank, I guess?"

Ace chuckled, his enormous chest bouncing. "Really, now?" He flexed his titanic arm, his clenched knuckles pressing into the split peak of his tense bicep. "Well… maybe I better hang on to this for a while longer, test it out some. Gotta give the people what they want, right?"

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The peasants of Nottingham were the bane of the Sheriff's existence, always wailing and moaning about how they were unable to pay their taxes. He had always managed to meet Prince John's levies, but it seemed as if this particular well had finally run dry… but then the Sheriff had a stroke of absolute genius. There were some ancient laws laid down by the Romans, that if currency couldn't be collected from taxpaying citizens, other goods could. And while Nottingham was poor in money, the whole shire was rich in crops. Beer, ale, grain, cattle— all of it flowed like water out of Nottingham, and the Sheriff very quickly acted on it.

The wily wolf soon amassed a store of food that could feed London, if stretched. There was, however, a small matter of temptation. The Sheriff had always been a slave to his vices, but as alluring as gold was, it didn't have the smell of freshly baked bread or mulled wine, nor the taste of salted pork. He had shaved a bit off the top here and there in the past, but with this king's feast before him, the wolf was powerless.

Prince John needn't know— the Sheriff could say a plague of locusts came in and devoured everything, which was partially true. Explaining his current state would need more creative work, however…

The wolf had never been thin or svelte. But his purloined feasting had swollen him up like a tick; his belly alone could flatten the peasants of Nottingham, if he could just find the strength to stand anymore. His limbs were fattened as well, swaddled in blubber that strained his breeches and sleeves, his sheriff's uniform fit to burst over his excess lard. He cut an imposing figure through sheer girth, and so the people of Nottingham were suddenly a lot quieter about paying taxes… which suited him just fine.