Peppermill Yaaaaaas

Captain Kirby and His Shredded Eight-Pack Save the World

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SMACK.

The punching bag exploded in a flurry of foam.

POW.

Another bag, gone.

KA-SMASH.

And so it continued.

Sweat ran in rivulets through the deep canals of the man's bare abdominals. He had been training for twelve hours hours straight, and he was starting to feel it. Just as he was gearing up for another punch, the room was abruptly bathed in crimson as emergency sirens blared throughout the facility.

Finally. A real challenge.

An intern barreled into the training room, half running, half staggering. There was a file in his arms the size of five phone books.

"It's happening," the intern said, tears in his eyes. "My god, it's happening, Captain. You're our only hope."

Kirby shot the young man a smirk and cracked his knuckles. The intern blushed, and his belt flew off by its own volition.

"What's your name, kid?" asked Captain Kirby.

The intern's knees were visibly shaking. "S- Scooter McDoogle, sir."

The Captain grabbed a towel from his gym bag and approached Scooter slowly, wiping the sweat from his rockin' bod without breaking stride.

"Well, Mr. McDoogle," said Kirby in a low rumble, "riddle me this: do sharks have biceps bigger than your head?"

Scooter loosened his tie for the fourth time. "No, sir."

"Do sharks have serratus muscles you could grate cheese on?"

Scooter struggled to keep his breath. "No, sir."

"And do they have dicks the size of your average kitten?"

Scooter's shirt threw itself open. "No, sir."

Kirby plucked the mammoth file from the intern's arms as if it weighed less than slice of bread. He then unhinged his jaw and devoured the file whole—the quickest way to take in information.

"I think the world is going to be just fine, then," he said with a wink.

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