“No, your wrist placement needs work. Try again.”

Ace was getting tired of hearing that. When the Machoke hired a personal instructor the week prior, he expected to cruise through his training regime at a far faster pace than this. His fantasies didn’t exactly match up to reality – whatever talent the boxer had, it evidentially didn’t come close to the standard that Russ was setting.

The gruff Incineroar in question was currently standing behind a punching bag, looking sullener with each so-called failed punch to the equipment. Clad in a grey sweatsuit, the fiery red tiger’s muscular bulk still shined through the faded garment. Ace half-assumed that the fire-type was wearing a size too small to enhance the feline’s signature bulk; ten minutes into his routine, that was probably the most charitable opinion the Machoke afforded the tiger.

What was he doing wrong? The stance the fighting-type adopted was the one that had scared many an opponent, yet here was the mighty king of the boxing ring insisting it was flawed, weak even. The Machoke’s anger was reaching a boiling point: did this retired champ actually know how well he could fight? It sure didn’t feel like it.

“Enough,” stated Russ finally, walking around the punching bag to face Ace head-on. “I’ll admit, kid, you can throw a punch, but your follow-through is abysmal.”

“Abysmal?” remarked the Machoke, crossing his arms. “Oh, really? I’m not going to sit here and listen to a retiree tell me that my hits can’t floor a motherfucker.”

The ‘retiree’ laughed the hardest that Ace had ever seen him. There was that prize-winning grin that Russ always had when he was in the limelight, one that always seemed to spell doom for his opponents. And now, it seemed to spell doom for his argument.

“And I’m sure you’ve knocked down a few heavyweights,” continued Russ, “but that doesn’t mean jack when they keep getting back up. Me? When they go down, they stay down, and it’s because of the follow-through.”

Ace sneered in his instructor’s direction. He sure as hell didn’t pay for a gloating session.

“What, don’t believe me?” said Russ.

“Yeah, I guess I don’t. Either put up or shut up, champion.”

Now it was the Incineroar’s chance to glare daggers. He turned around to face the punching bag again, squaring up and baring his claws into fists. A few swift uppercuts to the air for a warmup, and then the tiger’s hand drew back. The windup was but a millisecond, Ace had no time to react before Russ’s knuckles made contact with the leather.

The resulting sound echoing throughout the gym almost made Ace believe that the bag had bones to break. It was a crunching pulse of sound, backed up by how the equipment flew backwards, its chain groaning to support the force rippling through it. Russ slammed a right hook into the bag, and then a gut punch with his left; sure, Ace’s routine had made noise, but the Incineroar was making a knockout cacophony in comparison. The Machoke’s groan of frustration was drowned out by the sound of those machine gun fists; Ace was being shown up, a cruel reminder of just why he’d shelled out the money for these training lessons in the first place.

“See the difference?” said Russ, looking back from the seared punching bag. “A good punch has power. A great punch has impact.”

“Ugh, fine, you got me.”

“Not yet, I haven’t. I still need to diagnose you. Why do you think you can’t throw a fist like that?”

The Machoke scratched his forehead. “Uh, maybe I haven’t learned yet?”

A snort from the Incineroar. “True, but that’s not what I’m getting at. Your arm position, shoulder rotation, wrists – none of them are ideal, and you’ll need much more fine-tuning if you want to win by knockout.”

“Great, and how do I tune myself? I’ve tried every damn position you told me to do, and you’re still saying that none of its working.”

“I just need a more sensitive target for you to practice on.” Said Russ, rubbing his chin. “One that’ll give me all the feedback I need…”

The Incineroar cracked his knuckles together, thinking profusely on his options.

“We’ll just have to use me as a test dummy. Hold on, I got just the tool I need back in my office.”

The Incineroar quickly sauntered off into a hallway bordering the gym, leaving Ace stuck in the pale fluorescent light. The Machoke couldn’t guess a bit as to what the feline was planning. Was he talking about a faceguard or something?

What he was talking about was something else entirely. The Incineroar returned two minutes later, entering the gym carrying a big green oxygen tank in his arms as if it were a victory trophy. It looked like a piece of scuba gear, though Ace couldn’t be sure of that; more likely it was construction equipment that just so happened to go missing after the actual construction was over.

“What? Are you going to make me punch this until it explodes?” asked Ace incredulously.

“No, I’m the only one that’s going to make use of this tank for now.” Replied Russ, a smug smile creeping across his muzzle. “Now watch.”

Russ sat the tank down, unhooking a length of rubber hose that was attached to it. Ace could only watch astonishedly as the Incineroar stuck the other end of the hose down his mouth, swallowing until it was stuck deep in his throat. Using a free paw, Russ then cranked the brass spigot atop the tank, causing a low hum to ring throughout the room. Compressed air was flowing out of the tank, into the hose, into its final destination: him. In just seconds the Incineroar’s cheeks were bulging out, throat doing the same as the tiger began to furiously gulp down air.

Ace’s jaw sat agape as Russ’s stomach began to rise, bit by bit as if the tiger was simply inhaling. Russ put a paw to his middle as it did, rubbing a claw into as his belly swelled around it. It looked as if the feline had just come off a bulking session as a lump began to form under his sweatshirt. Wider and wider the lump grew, forming into a solid food baby before stretching outwards. Russ’s sweatshirt began to part from his sweatpants, exposing his bare furry flesh to the world as his tummy continues to bloat. His grey stomach was engorged with gas, already taut to his touch.

“You’re…” Ace trailed off, amazing and scared at what he was seeing. “You’re blowing up like a balloon!”

Russ nodded his head with a muffled “Exactly”. His stomach was progressing through the months of a virtual pregnancy like a slideshow, inflating to second and then third term with ease. It was as if the Incineroar had swallowed a basketball, then a beachball, then maybe a Voltorb. Ace couldn’t find the time to make comparisons; his focus was too transfixed on the swelling tiger in front of him. Russ’s once-flat abs were now distended to their limits, forming what he estimated to be a solid foot and a half sphere that just barely sagged in gravity’s graces.

Ace was snapped back to reality with the wet sound of the Incineroar prying the hose from his jaws. The tank was cranked back into an off position, and the job was done.

“Perfect. Now we can get started.” Said Russ as he patted his swollen stomach.

“Started?” yelled Ace. “You’re telling me that turning yourself into a big bloated puffball is going to help me?”

“It’s simple:” responded Russ as he walking in between the Machoke and the punching bag. “I needed a bag that was sensitive enough to analyze your punches. What better way to understand a gut punch than with my gut?”

“But your… what does this have to do with…” Ace was at a loss for words. Surely this wasn’t going where he thought it was going…

“My stomach’s at taut as a drum right now.” Russ said with a light, hollow slap to his midsection. “Every blow you land on it’s going to be felt. Just start punching me and you’ll see.”

“Really?”

“It’s a technique my own trainers’ have taught me. Now, get to working the bag.”

Ace shrugged an indecisive shrug, readying back into a boxing stance. It was beyond odd fighting his mentor in this kind of state, but if he insisted, then he’d go down swinging. The Machoke raised a first, breaking out into a cold sweat as he brought it forward-

*WHUMP*

The sound reminded Ace of a rubber kickball. Russ’s yoga ball of a belly reverberated in response, hinting to how painfully stretched tight it was by barely moving. The owner of that gut winced:

“Good first try, but your wrists still need to change position. Try that again, but move them about… 3 degrees to the left?”

Ace responded with another left hook, slamming deep into the tiger’s balloon belly with a juicy *THWACK*.

“Agh!” shouted Russ, blushing profusely. “That’s better! Keep going, make me feel like a paddleball!”

The blows kept steadily coming, each one minutely altered as per the fire-type’s demands. Ace couldn’t deny that it wasn’t working; with each adjustment he could feel the pressure rush against him a little faster, the sound of his impacts running that much louder. Russ’s belly may have stood firm, but with each jab that Ace threw out he was getting that much closer to victory.

And then the Machoke felt it. An uppercut to the tiger’s tummy that he could feel knock something loose. That tell-tale sound of machine gun fire rang out as the attack connected; there it was, a truly great punch onto a Russ’s blimp of a belly.

“Excellent!” sputtered Russ, covering his mouth before letting out a startled belch. Another one followed the first, consecutive burps ringing out until the Incineroar was stuck in a hiccupping fit.

“That’s the *hic* kind of fighting that *hic* I want to see!” said the tiger, flexing his muscles as he gave the Machamp a thumbs up.

“Thanks…” said Ace, once again trailing off as he watched Russ gingerly rub his belly. The Incineroar’s stomach wasn’t just smarting, it was visibly cramping, tightening up to extremes as he unsuccessfully tried to placate it. It was mesmerizing to the Machoke; sudden fantasies ran through his head, ones of rubbing his mentor’s gut, of helping Russ grow even bigger, perhaps the Machoke even taking the hose for himself and-

“Ace, can you get the tank and refuel me? I lost some good air just now.”

Ace stood back to attention, nodding as he walked over to pick up the air tank. Something told him he wouldn’t have to wait long to bring those fantasies to fruition.

At least once he perfected his right cross.