Little Larry's Big Revenge

(CW: Inflation, Arousal, Gun Usage, Popping)

Commission for AbbyInflatableTabby

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“Sorry ‘bout this Larry, nothing personal.”

Larry could feel the rain bouncing off his skin. Each droplet felt like a bullet, his body was over-sensitized, and over-inflated. Without a payload of hydrogen stretching his guts, he was average height for a mouse. Just barely over three foot three, the same size as an average bar stool, or a car door handle. He had bemoaned his lack of girth, his lack of gravitas, his lack of sheer size, until it had apparently bothered his cohorts for the last time, and they decided to send him off in the customary Blimpburg Syndicate way.

The scumbag’s stretch, they called it. Where they filled you with an entire tank of hydrogen until you were as round and weightless as a hot air balloon. If you weren’t fit to pop by the time the tank ran dry, they’d fetch another, then another; the pumper in charge of Larry’s send-off had laughed about how they didn’t even need to waste a full tank on the mouse. He was about to be humiliated and literally scattered, three sheets to the wind, so what was another insult or a thousand?

Popping was not a death sentence. In this world, everyone could be inflated or deflated, that’s just the way things worked. Once they burst, a person turned into scraps of material, usually rubber. Just a bunch of shiny scraps, like the discarded latex of a child’s balloon, bearing an approximation of that person’s skin tone or fur pattern. The worst thing that could happen was ‘recasting,’ the process of melting down someone’s scraps, and remaking them into a new shape. It wasn’t fully understood how reforming worked, but it was a known fact that if you got recast, you STAYED in that new form until you got re-popped. The Blimpburg Syndicate liked to turn people into chairs or couches, things people could sit on and humiliate.

Larry was, at least, spared that fate. They always popped their former members on the roof of their headquarters, a nondescript red brick building in downtown Blimpburg. The weather was too wet and wild, and the boss declared it would be too much effort to gather up Larry’s scraps once he went off. ‘It wasn’t worth the hassle, there wouldn’t even be enough of him to make a decent footstool,’ he had said. Larry stared off into the distance, at the grey, washed out skyline. He didn’t care anymore.

Pop me and be done with it.

There was no future for him in Blimpburg after this anyway. The second worst thing to recasting, was to be publicly overinflated. It was tantamount to public nudity, and if you were popped by a syndicate that meant you were functionally dead to the city. No one would hire you; no one would look in your direction ever again. Since popping wasn’t fatal, this was the way the inflation mafias excommunicated their members. If they couldn’t kill your body, they’d kill your social life, your prospects, and set fire to your future like the rope fuses they used to explode their victims.

“Afraid there’s no way we can follow ‘all’ of our traditions, Laurence,” the smooth notes of his former leader, Bryant ‘Shades’ Scales, used to be a comfort for Larry. Now here he was, saying his full name, and it pierced him like a curse. “It’s too wet to start a fire, but it’s better for you this way. At least your pop will be as small as you are, maybe no one will see it, maybe someone - somewhere - will hire a meek, tiny, disappointment like you.”

Bryant raised his cane. “Because just like this explosion is about to be, that’s all you are.”

He jabbed it into Larry’s distended stomach. He growled, and hated the fact that - despite everything - popping still felt good. He felt his inflated cock twitch, and for a moment, in those eternal seconds before his looming body tore and released the hydrogen in a terminal blast... he was turned on by how big he had gotten. To these bozos, it was a half-tank of hydrogen. To Larry, he was as big as the world.

Pop!

Larry came out of his dreamlike trance. He let himself remember the night his old life in Blimpburg ended, one last time out of necessity. He straightened his tie, and pulled his thumbs underneath his suspenders to stretch them out and snap them against his chest. He wore an off-white silk shirt, with a black tie. A pair of pinstripe trousers, black and silver, with pointed black shoes so shiny he could see his reflection. His fedora concealed his platinum slicked back head fur, and bore a silver insignia on the brim. A big brass bomb, with a lit fuse, and a smiling mouse’s face. He hummed to himself, hoisting a violin case by the straps over his shoulder, and marched into the lobby of the Blimpburg Syndicate’s headquarters.

It had taken him a year of hard work, but he was ready at last. Ready to take out his old boss, and his old self, with a bang.

“’scuse me tootz,” Larry sauntered to the front desk. A polite looking dog with a beehive up do and a young face, was working the reception desk. Probably someone’s niece, who wasn’t fully aware of who it was she was working for, and just knew that her work paid decently enough. Larry had a code of ethics, sometimes. He didn’t want this nice girl getting caught in the crossfire. “There’s been an accident outside, some bozo ploughed right into your parking lot. Uh, you don’t happen to be driving that pink little number with the tinted windows, do you?”

The girl’s eyes widened, and she bolted for the door. “My Mom’s car!? She’s gonna kill me!”

Larry walked behind the reception desk to rummage for the key to the front doors. He found it, along with the key to the elevator, and locked the double doors tight to prevent anyone from getting back into the building, or from getting out once the festivities were fully underway. He spat out the wad of gum he had been chewing, and mashed it into the keyhole for good measure. While he was busy fudging the lock, he heard the familiar click of shiny shoes. He turned to see a Doberman in the green and gold of the Blimpburg Syndicate, his thick brows furled angrily in Larry’s direction.

“Hey, Frankie, long time no see,” Larry said, wishing he still had some gum to blow up and pop for dramatic emphasis.

“You’ve got some nerve coming back here after getting popped, Laurence,” Frankie snarled.

Larry unslung his violin case and popped it open, the lid faced the Frankie, he didn’t see the mouse sized tommy gun snuggled in the case’s padding. When Larry leant down to reach for the gun, he saw the thick musculature of his former cohort twitch in anticipation of an attack. It was down to whoever made the first move. A mouse and his ability to land a shot, or a muscle-head dog and his raw strength and speed.

Everything was over in a matter of seconds.

Frankie bull-rushed at Larry. Larry grabbed the handle of his gun and dodged to his right, leaving the bulldozing Frankie to crush the empty violin case under foot. He stopped his charge, having to take a few extra steps because of his forward momentum. Those clumsy footfalls were his undoing, they gave Larry enough time to take aim and fire a single burst of ammunition.

An airy whine filled the reception hall. Frankie turned around, but the face of a confident well-built bruiser was replaced by the shiny, panicked expression of a balloon. His fur and skin fused, flattened, and transformed into living rubber in a matter of seconds. The effect had spread from the points along his lower back where Larry’s pellets tore through his vest, and splashed the skin beneath. The tommygun was customized, and instead of lead, it pumped out bright pink balls of concentrated inflation serum. One dose could pop a man in minutes, the six coursing through Frankie, on the other hand, only took ten seconds.

A lifetime of body building gave rise to the comically over-blown, chest heavy shape the dog took on as his body filled with explosive pressure. His clothes were reduced to expensive confetti as he tripled in size, his shiny pectorals mashing into his face and shutting him up, keeping him from expressing the anger and vitriol he was known for. Larry smiled as the Doberman’s rubber couldn’t keep up with the rapidity of his inflation, and at the ten second mark, blew apart in all directions. All that remained was a scorch mark on the floor, and a pair of smoking, shiny shoes.

The elevator dinged, and Larry turned to fire an immediate burst between the doors before they had a chance to fully open. In place of the crowd of armed thugs that should have emerged ready to beat Larry’s ass for popping one of their own, Larry got to observe as the elevator spat out masses of shredded clothing. A bunch of disproportionate orbs, the transformed, inflated bellies of the rotten bastards who had gleefully seen to his own popping last year, warped the metal struggling to hold their burgeoning forms. He could see a paw or two escape the mash up of coloured spheres, but with how round it was, he couldn’t tell if it was a hand or foot. He lazily fired a single bullet at the biggest balloon of the bunch, and his boxers tented to the sound of its detonation. The others followed suit, leaving a scorched, unusable elevator. Larry sighed.

“Maybe I was a bit too hasty... ah well, guess I’m taking the stairs.”

His ascent was uninterrupted, for the most part. Larry chose the date for his revenge meticulously. The bulk of Shades’ goons were out on a mission, and he had popped the reserve in that little elevator fiasco. But despite its implications of poetic justice, the fact his assault on the Blimpburg Syndicate’s HQ coincided with the exact one-year anniversary of his excommunication was pure coincidence. He wasn’t a religious man, but he figured that if there was some grey bearded god up there with a soft spot for an underdog like him, then he didn’t mind offering up a prayer or two. So long as the god didn’t mind him doing it with a bike pump in one hand, and a gun in the other.

Larry arrived at a pair of gilded double doors. He reached for something inside of his vest that would help him blow them wide open, but with one hand still rummaging around, the doors opened by themselves. Their mechanical hinges whirred, and revealed the long, opulently furnished office of Bryant ‘Shades’ Scales. His teal hide shimmered like turquoise, forcing everyone who looked directly at him to squint and avert their eyes, preferably downwards so that he could lord himself over them, and remind them of his superiority. Larry felt his eyes water, but he didn’t look away. He stared the crocodile down, and with one hand still in his vest, he marched forward.

“Laurence, Laurence, Laurence. I admit, I am quite disappointed in you,” Bryant stood up and paced his desk, stopping just before it. He signalled two goons waiting in the wings to flank him on either side, armed with much larger, more modern weaponry than the rustic tommygun Larry had opted to modify. “We hear absolutely nothing from you for a year, just like we were supposed to, and suddenly you come knocking. Do you know how expensive it is to expedite the reformation process? There are chemicals, and personnel costs, not to mention hiring a priest for the more spiritually inclined members of my little family...”

Larry stopped, a bead of sweat rolled down from his forehead. He was quick enough to evade the burst from one of the two aiming their rifles at his head, but two was going to be a stretch.

“What can I say, boss. I’m done bein’ quiet as a mouse while your bozos go around messin’ up the neighbourhood.”

Bryant laughed. “Come now, Laurence.”

Larry wiggled his thumb underneath his vest until he threaded it through a metal loop.

“It’s -Larry-,” he barked back.

The teal crocodile’s expression was unreadable behind his signature designer shades. “Alright, ‘Larry.’ Allow me to get this straight, for my own benefit.” He took a deep breath. “You expect me to believe that your popping spree, after all this time, is an altruistic affair. That you, the smallest, most disappointing member of our organization - THE most disappointing in history - are here because you want to... help the community? Pardon me if I call bullshit.”

Larry shrugged. “I aint asking you to believe me. People can’t afford to live round here no more cause of your protection rates. I’m just looking to give folks a more affordable option. Usually I’m on the side of inflation, but in this case, I’m trying ta bring the price down by putting a pin in your monopoly.”

Bryant snorted, and leaned back against his desk. He signalled his guards to take careful aim. “And you’re here to pop ‘me?’ Sorry, but you’re not just going to be scraps once these boys let loose. You’re going to be -dead-,” he sighed. “Still it’s not surprising you want to see me sweating, cursing you out, fit to bursting like a balloon. You always were a pervert who got off on seeing people blow their tops.”

Larry smirked. “You’re not going to be getting ANY bigger than you already are, Shades.” He pulled a grenade out from his vest, removing the pin in one smooth motion. The guards tried to drop their guns and tip over the bookshelves to create a makeshift barricade, as protection from what they presumed was going to be an incendiary blast. But they were too slow. Bryant, on the other hand, knew better and jumped over his desk.

Larry chucked it, and threw himself backwards. He watched the grenade glow hot pink, and then pop between the pinstriped goons. Their bodies were saturated by a shimmery pink powder that absorbed into their clothes, fusing them to their skin, and warping them both into wobbly pink versions of the people they used to be. By the time they knew what was happening their bodies were blowing up without symmetry. The one on the left had a massive pair of hands, and bulging cartoon eyes. The other had a disproportionately fat ass, and wide legs. Both tried to open their mouths, but found their lips sealed. They were just two big wads of bubble-gum at this point.

And then they did what all good wads of gum were meant to do, and popped into a pair of sticky messes. Bryant poked his head up from behind the desk, growling. “A bubble-gum bomb? Who the hell set you up with something like that?”

Larry took a vial of swirling purple mist out of his vest pocket. He uncorked it, inhaled it, and confidently strode up to Bryant’s overturned desk. The crocodile’s eyes were still hidden by the shades, but his bared rows of teeth communicated his anger well enough.

“What now, more lecturing? Or are you just going to put a bullet in my head?”

Larry doubled over, and gripped his stomach. His skin rubberised, and his body convulsed. “Ohhhhhhhh mannnnnn... they said this stuff was going to do a number on me, but I didn’t think it’d work so quickly. Ahehehehe, ahehehehe, ahahahaah!”

“Stop laughing!” Bryant exclaimed.

“Why? Bahahaha, AHAHAHA, you know why I think you fired me, popped me, and ruined my prospects?”

“Stop LAUGHING, have you gone off the deep end?”

“Because I think you always knew I made a better blimp than ANY of ya!”

Larry’s eyes were filled with the madness of someone who not only resisted the shame of being inflated, but REVELLED in the self-destructive madness. To most people the sensual feeling of your body stretching out and taking flight like a hot air balloon was sinful, and a sign of weakness. Larry spat in the face of that idea, and embraced it. If everyone in this damned building, in this damned town, was so obsessed with being ‘big,’ then why limit yourself? Why only grow a little, why keep it safe, why be boring?

Larry surged with size. He went from a three-foot nothing mouse, to a balloon the size of a van. He lost his mobility almost instantly, but for his plan to work, he didn’t need to move. He just needed to become large enough to rob Bryant of his ability to move.

“BWAHAHAHAHA, I AINT LITTLE LARRY NO MORE, I’M BIGGER THAN ALL OF YA PUT TOGETHER! YER PUNY COMPARED TO ME!” Superheated air whistled out of Larry’s ears like a boiler on its last legs.

“Deflate, I demand you deflate!” Bryant was sweating now, he had an idea of what Larry was trying to do, but was probably still trying to convince himself that the mouse wasn’t enough of an inflation freak to actually try it.

Larry, on the other hand, revelled in his indulgent bloating. His arms and legs were toothpicks any other day of the week, now they were thick, conical lengths of rubber. He flexed, choosing to ignore how stupid he must have looked, even with his hands becoming nothing more than spheres with little nubs for fingers. His fat cheeks blew up, and his neck diminished, replaced by an inner tube of rubber that encircled his head. He wasn’t sure of his exact size, but he imagined himself floating over the city, spreading terror and inspiring respect in everyone who gazed up at him.

“NOW YER IN FER IT... I’M... GONNA... BLOOOOOOOW!”

“STOP, STOP GROWING, I’LL GIVE YOU WHATEVER YOU WANT!”

Larry’s head smooshed into the ceiling, his flanks broke furniture and forced the walls to bow and begin to crack under the immense pressure. He was becoming less spherical, and more cube-like as he inflated to fill the empty space left in the office. Windows shattered, and cool air greeted his taughtness. He could feel a warmth rising from his loins, spreading throughout him like a wildfire. This was it; this was where the old Larry went bye bye, and the new Larry made his explosive debut.

KABOOM!

In the aftermath of the explosion which destroyed the entire upper half of the Blimpburg Syndicate’s HQ, the police found an unconscious crocodile wearing a pair of broken sunglasses. When they questioned him upon his inevitable waking, he babbled incoherently about balloons and mice. And how he was sorry about calling someone ‘little Larry.’ However no one matched that description at the scene.

Larry sat, clothed in a towel he stole from the building on his way out and into the sewers, on the edge of his bed. Also in the sewers. He watched TV, admiring his own explosive handiwork and rubbed his chin. “Not bad, not bad,” he said aloud to himself. “But next time... I’m gonna give it some real bada bing bada BOOM.”