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A collaborative effort between myself and Lupine, have yourself some terror that fats in the night! I was rather pleased with how these guys came out. Thank goodness for references!
Sunday, early morning in Saint Canard. A peaceful, sleepy calm envelops the slumbering city. The streets are empty of cars. No crime disturbs the peace, no sirens blare in hot pursuit. Even the joggers seem to be having a lie-in this morning…
“Hup! Hup! Hup..!”
…All except Darkwing Duck. In the guise of mild-mannered Drake Mallard and dressed in a sleeveless vest and running shorts, complete with handy-dandy utility belt and water-bottle, he rounded the street corner at the double, unfazed by the couple of miles he’d already tackled.
“C’mon, Launchpad!” he called breezily over his shoulder. “Pick those feet up! Launchpad..?” He slowed to a halt as his sidekick still failed to appear behind him, then put his hands on his hips and tapped one webbed yellow foot impatiently. “LAUNCH-PAAAAD!”
“Gee… D…DW…” the barrel-chested duck wheezed as he trailed lumberingly into view. Launchpad McQuack puffed to a halt in front of his hero and drooped. His usual garb had been swapped for a similar running outfit to Darkwing’s, as befitted his official sidekick status. However, no power on Earth seemed able to separate him from his flying helmet and goggles, which remained firmly in place, a forelock of red hair poking damply out from under them. Although he filled his clothing out far more athletically, they were already drenched in sweat around the neckline. Panting, he gulped urgently from his water-bottle and wiped his beak with one muscular, feathered forearm. “Do we really have to do this every Sunday?”
“Fitness doesn’t take time off for weekends, Launchpad!” the erstwhile crime-fighter admonished him self-righteously. Lowering his voice, he put one hand to the side of his beak to elaborate in a confidential aside. “Crime in St. Canard might have tailed off a bit lately, but we might be called to spring into action to save the city at any moment! We’ve got to stay prepared with regular training!” His voiced became louder and louder as he absent-mindedly shifted into full monologue mode on his favourite topic- fighting crime. His fist pounded his other hand as he declaimed. “We have to have speed! We have to have stamina…!”
“But we didn’t have any breakfast!” his sturdy sidekick wailed. Beneath his running vest, his trim torso growled plaintively at this monumental injustice.
“It’s only another seven miles, Launchpad,” Darkwing chided him. “After all, you know what they say,” the hero continued inevitably, turning and resuming his remorseless pace. “No pain, no gai-OOF!!!”
He collided unexpectedly with a warm, feathery wall, at first sinking into it, then rebounding spectacularly, accompanied by a loud BOI-OI-OI-OI-OING! Sprawled beak-up on the sidewalk, Darkwing’s eyes spun in his head as he tried to comprehend what had just happened.
“L-Launchpad,” he wheezed flatly, “d-did you g-get the number of that dump truck…?”
“Oh, hi there, neighbour!” a cheerful- and dreadfully familiar- voice called. “Sorry, I didn’t see you there!” The voice was curiously muffled, as though speaking with its mouth full.
Darkwing shook his head violently to clear it, goaded into recognition. He knew that voice…
“Herb?! What the heck…?!” Sitting up from the pavement, he clapped eyes on his good-natured, jolly, Tupperware-selling nuisance of a neighbour… and his beak fell open. “…happened to you?” he finished weakly.
Herbert Muddlefoot had always been… well, there was no kind way to say this- fat. But the white-feathered fowl looming in front of Darkwing looked nearly three times his ‘ordinary’ weight, his belly grown bigger than a full-sized refrigerator. Now at least as wide as he was tall, the pavement was practically creaking under his webbed feet, whilst his trusty old Hawaiian shirt looked ready to pop at the buttons and at the seams simultaneously, stretched perilously around his flabby frame. It did nothing to disguise his mountainous middle, nor the watermelon-sized moobs, looking ripe enough to pop of their own accord. His beak was squashed in between a flabby second chin and cheeks puffed up like a pair of marshmallows, jutting almost beyond the tip of his beak, and which rested on the thick, over-pressurized tyre padding out his stumpy neck even more than usual. Similarly, his arms had swollen into bulging pneumatic rolls of feathered flesh, ballooning out of the sleeves of his shirt. Nestled protectively between one of these and the swollen hill of his side was a paper grocery bag that was almost as stuffed-full as its owner with freshly-baked pastries. It was presumably one of these that he was still chewing.
“Gee, Herb,” Launchpad said, scratching his head in oblivious puzzlement, “You uh… look kinda different, somehow.”
“’Different’?” Darkwing exclaimed at him in disbelief. “Launchpad, he’s blown up like a St. Canard’s Day parade-balloon!”
“Oh, shucks, Drake,” Herb swallowed his mouthful with a loud gulp, and looked down at himself in surprise. “Now that you mention it, I guess I HAVE put on a little weight recently.”
He put his hands to the sides of his stomach and lifted it- an impressive feat given its enormous bulk, and the fact that he apparently couldn’t reach the front of it anymore- then let it drop. It fell and bounced with a loud, blubbery BLONG, accompanied by a creak of protest from his shirt. Darkwing and Launchpad then watched in open-mouthed bemusement as their newly-enormous neighbour immediately fished out another pastry with a hefty hand and cheerfully crammed it into his beak.
“Bud itth theeth pathtries from thith new bakery thatth opened up!” he explained, indistinctly. The impeding pastry followed the earlier one almost immediately, gulped down practically without chewing. The two crime-fighters stared at the bulge it made in Herb’s throat as it slid down his gullet and into his stomach. It went ‘gloop’. It may have been Darkwing’s imagination, but it seemed to grow a little bigger right in front of him. “They’re so good, I just can’t help myself!” Herb concluded enthusiastically. “Here, you’ve just GOT to try one!” He generously stretched out an ample arm and proffered the bag. At that moment, one of the shirt buttons staining across Herb’s gargantuan gut POPPED loudly, flying into the distance as the duck’s bulging bulk, now even less constrained by his clothes, ballooned out a few inches more.
“Uhh, no thanks,” Darkwing replied, palms up defensively as he shrank back from the bag and Herb’s looming stomach. “I think I’ve just decided to stick to my diet.”
“I didn’t know you were on a diet,” Herb said in surprise.
“I’ve just started,” Darkwing replied, staring at the bag, “about thirty seconds ago.”
“Oh, ok,” the somewhat slow-witted salesduck accepted this without question. “How about you, Launchpad?”
“Uhh… gee, thanks Herb.” Darkwing’s anvil-chinned sidekick reached into the bag, after a moment’s hesitation. He shrugged. “Just one couldn’t hurt, I guess. And I didn’t have any breakfast this morning.”
Launchpad and sank his beak into the gooey pastry, and chewed. His face lit up.
“Gee!” he exclaimed around the beakful, “these ARE good!”
“You betcha,” the humungous Herb agreed happily, helping himself to another pastry as well. He held the bag out to Launchpad again- apparently gluttony loved company. “Want another?”
“Huh? Well gee, thanks! Don’t mind if I do…”
“Launchpad,” Darkwing interrupted incredulously, “just what do you think you’re doing?!” He gave his sidekick a venomous, if impotent, glare. “We’re supposed to be keeping fit, remember?”
“Ehe, well gee, DW” the burly duck blushed slightly and gestured with the pastry, “Just one more can’t hurt, right? And these are so tasty, it’d be a crime not to!”
“I know exactly what you mean, Launchpad” their full-to-bursting neighbour agreed cheerfully, “I just can’t seem to stop!” He patted his balloon-like belly for emphasis, then gestured to the grocery bag. “Well, gotta get back home to the family before these get cold. Catch you later, neighbour!”
“‘A crime’? ‘Just can’t stop’? Hmm…” Darkwing mused thoughtfully, hand stroking his chin as the increasingly colossal Herb waddled enormously down the street, still munching unstoppably. It looked unlikely any of the supertubby sap’s purchases would survive the journey, whatever their temperature. “Did something about that seem fishy to you at all, Launchpad?”
“Uh, gee DW,” his sizeable sidekick replied, sucking his fingers, “I think it was chocolate-hazelnut filling, actually.”
“Launchpad, that’s NOT what I… ugh, nevermind…” the crime-fighting canard deflated slightly. His gaze followed Herb’s retreating back suspiciously, the doughball duck’s plus-sized posterior bouncing with sumo-esque slowness his feathered tail practically buried between his cheeks. He’d always suspected that Herb would wind up as big as a house one day, but not quite like this…
“So, uhh…” Launchpad, much more cheerful after his snack, broke into his hero’s train of thought eventually, “…are we gonna finish our jog, DW?”
“No time for that now, Launchpad,” Darkwing replied, “I think we ought to pay this mysterious new bakery a visit.”
“That’s a GREAT idea, DW!” Launchpad clapped his hands together and excitedly hopped from foot to foot like an overgrown duckling. “Ooh, ooh, do you think they’d do a special discount for crime-fighters?”
Darkwing dragged a feathered hand down his beak in exasperation before replying.
“Launchpad, we are NOT going there as customers! If I’m right, someone’s stirring up trouble for St. Canard at that bakery, and we need to find out what’s cooking.”
He struck a pose and held up one finger.
“This looks like a case for… Darkwing Duck!”
Art by Yours Truly
Story by 
WolfgoneWide
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WolfgoneWideSunday, early morning in Saint Canard. A peaceful, sleepy calm envelops the slumbering city. The streets are empty of cars. No crime disturbs the peace, no sirens blare in hot pursuit. Even the joggers seem to be having a lie-in this morning…
“Hup! Hup! Hup..!”
…All except Darkwing Duck. In the guise of mild-mannered Drake Mallard and dressed in a sleeveless vest and running shorts, complete with handy-dandy utility belt and water-bottle, he rounded the street corner at the double, unfazed by the couple of miles he’d already tackled.
“C’mon, Launchpad!” he called breezily over his shoulder. “Pick those feet up! Launchpad..?” He slowed to a halt as his sidekick still failed to appear behind him, then put his hands on his hips and tapped one webbed yellow foot impatiently. “LAUNCH-PAAAAD!”
“Gee… D…DW…” the barrel-chested duck wheezed as he trailed lumberingly into view. Launchpad McQuack puffed to a halt in front of his hero and drooped. His usual garb had been swapped for a similar running outfit to Darkwing’s, as befitted his official sidekick status. However, no power on Earth seemed able to separate him from his flying helmet and goggles, which remained firmly in place, a forelock of red hair poking damply out from under them. Although he filled his clothing out far more athletically, they were already drenched in sweat around the neckline. Panting, he gulped urgently from his water-bottle and wiped his beak with one muscular, feathered forearm. “Do we really have to do this every Sunday?”
“Fitness doesn’t take time off for weekends, Launchpad!” the erstwhile crime-fighter admonished him self-righteously. Lowering his voice, he put one hand to the side of his beak to elaborate in a confidential aside. “Crime in St. Canard might have tailed off a bit lately, but we might be called to spring into action to save the city at any moment! We’ve got to stay prepared with regular training!” His voiced became louder and louder as he absent-mindedly shifted into full monologue mode on his favourite topic- fighting crime. His fist pounded his other hand as he declaimed. “We have to have speed! We have to have stamina…!”
“But we didn’t have any breakfast!” his sturdy sidekick wailed. Beneath his running vest, his trim torso growled plaintively at this monumental injustice.
“It’s only another seven miles, Launchpad,” Darkwing chided him. “After all, you know what they say,” the hero continued inevitably, turning and resuming his remorseless pace. “No pain, no gai-OOF!!!”
He collided unexpectedly with a warm, feathery wall, at first sinking into it, then rebounding spectacularly, accompanied by a loud BOI-OI-OI-OI-OING! Sprawled beak-up on the sidewalk, Darkwing’s eyes spun in his head as he tried to comprehend what had just happened.
“L-Launchpad,” he wheezed flatly, “d-did you g-get the number of that dump truck…?”
“Oh, hi there, neighbour!” a cheerful- and dreadfully familiar- voice called. “Sorry, I didn’t see you there!” The voice was curiously muffled, as though speaking with its mouth full.
Darkwing shook his head violently to clear it, goaded into recognition. He knew that voice…
“Herb?! What the heck…?!” Sitting up from the pavement, he clapped eyes on his good-natured, jolly, Tupperware-selling nuisance of a neighbour… and his beak fell open. “…happened to you?” he finished weakly.
Herbert Muddlefoot had always been… well, there was no kind way to say this- fat. But the white-feathered fowl looming in front of Darkwing looked nearly three times his ‘ordinary’ weight, his belly grown bigger than a full-sized refrigerator. Now at least as wide as he was tall, the pavement was practically creaking under his webbed feet, whilst his trusty old Hawaiian shirt looked ready to pop at the buttons and at the seams simultaneously, stretched perilously around his flabby frame. It did nothing to disguise his mountainous middle, nor the watermelon-sized moobs, looking ripe enough to pop of their own accord. His beak was squashed in between a flabby second chin and cheeks puffed up like a pair of marshmallows, jutting almost beyond the tip of his beak, and which rested on the thick, over-pressurized tyre padding out his stumpy neck even more than usual. Similarly, his arms had swollen into bulging pneumatic rolls of feathered flesh, ballooning out of the sleeves of his shirt. Nestled protectively between one of these and the swollen hill of his side was a paper grocery bag that was almost as stuffed-full as its owner with freshly-baked pastries. It was presumably one of these that he was still chewing.
“Gee, Herb,” Launchpad said, scratching his head in oblivious puzzlement, “You uh… look kinda different, somehow.”
“’Different’?” Darkwing exclaimed at him in disbelief. “Launchpad, he’s blown up like a St. Canard’s Day parade-balloon!”
“Oh, shucks, Drake,” Herb swallowed his mouthful with a loud gulp, and looked down at himself in surprise. “Now that you mention it, I guess I HAVE put on a little weight recently.”
He put his hands to the sides of his stomach and lifted it- an impressive feat given its enormous bulk, and the fact that he apparently couldn’t reach the front of it anymore- then let it drop. It fell and bounced with a loud, blubbery BLONG, accompanied by a creak of protest from his shirt. Darkwing and Launchpad then watched in open-mouthed bemusement as their newly-enormous neighbour immediately fished out another pastry with a hefty hand and cheerfully crammed it into his beak.
“Bud itth theeth pathtries from thith new bakery thatth opened up!” he explained, indistinctly. The impeding pastry followed the earlier one almost immediately, gulped down practically without chewing. The two crime-fighters stared at the bulge it made in Herb’s throat as it slid down his gullet and into his stomach. It went ‘gloop’. It may have been Darkwing’s imagination, but it seemed to grow a little bigger right in front of him. “They’re so good, I just can’t help myself!” Herb concluded enthusiastically. “Here, you’ve just GOT to try one!” He generously stretched out an ample arm and proffered the bag. At that moment, one of the shirt buttons staining across Herb’s gargantuan gut POPPED loudly, flying into the distance as the duck’s bulging bulk, now even less constrained by his clothes, ballooned out a few inches more.
“Uhh, no thanks,” Darkwing replied, palms up defensively as he shrank back from the bag and Herb’s looming stomach. “I think I’ve just decided to stick to my diet.”
“I didn’t know you were on a diet,” Herb said in surprise.
“I’ve just started,” Darkwing replied, staring at the bag, “about thirty seconds ago.”
“Oh, ok,” the somewhat slow-witted salesduck accepted this without question. “How about you, Launchpad?”
“Uhh… gee, thanks Herb.” Darkwing’s anvil-chinned sidekick reached into the bag, after a moment’s hesitation. He shrugged. “Just one couldn’t hurt, I guess. And I didn’t have any breakfast this morning.”
Launchpad and sank his beak into the gooey pastry, and chewed. His face lit up.
“Gee!” he exclaimed around the beakful, “these ARE good!”
“You betcha,” the humungous Herb agreed happily, helping himself to another pastry as well. He held the bag out to Launchpad again- apparently gluttony loved company. “Want another?”
“Huh? Well gee, thanks! Don’t mind if I do…”
“Launchpad,” Darkwing interrupted incredulously, “just what do you think you’re doing?!” He gave his sidekick a venomous, if impotent, glare. “We’re supposed to be keeping fit, remember?”
“Ehe, well gee, DW” the burly duck blushed slightly and gestured with the pastry, “Just one more can’t hurt, right? And these are so tasty, it’d be a crime not to!”
“I know exactly what you mean, Launchpad” their full-to-bursting neighbour agreed cheerfully, “I just can’t seem to stop!” He patted his balloon-like belly for emphasis, then gestured to the grocery bag. “Well, gotta get back home to the family before these get cold. Catch you later, neighbour!”
“‘A crime’? ‘Just can’t stop’? Hmm…” Darkwing mused thoughtfully, hand stroking his chin as the increasingly colossal Herb waddled enormously down the street, still munching unstoppably. It looked unlikely any of the supertubby sap’s purchases would survive the journey, whatever their temperature. “Did something about that seem fishy to you at all, Launchpad?”
“Uh, gee DW,” his sizeable sidekick replied, sucking his fingers, “I think it was chocolate-hazelnut filling, actually.”
“Launchpad, that’s NOT what I… ugh, nevermind…” the crime-fighting canard deflated slightly. His gaze followed Herb’s retreating back suspiciously, the doughball duck’s plus-sized posterior bouncing with sumo-esque slowness his feathered tail practically buried between his cheeks. He’d always suspected that Herb would wind up as big as a house one day, but not quite like this…
“So, uhh…” Launchpad, much more cheerful after his snack, broke into his hero’s train of thought eventually, “…are we gonna finish our jog, DW?”
“No time for that now, Launchpad,” Darkwing replied, “I think we ought to pay this mysterious new bakery a visit.”
“That’s a GREAT idea, DW!” Launchpad clapped his hands together and excitedly hopped from foot to foot like an overgrown duckling. “Ooh, ooh, do you think they’d do a special discount for crime-fighters?”
Darkwing dragged a feathered hand down his beak in exasperation before replying.
“Launchpad, we are NOT going there as customers! If I’m right, someone’s stirring up trouble for St. Canard at that bakery, and we need to find out what’s cooking.”
He struck a pose and held up one finger.
“This looks like a case for… Darkwing Duck!”
Category All / Fat Furs
Species Duck
Size 980 x 700px
File Size 263.7 kB
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