Peppermill Yaaaaaas

Captain Kirby and His Shredded Eight-Pack Save the World

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The punching bag exploded in a flurry of foam.


Another bag, gone.


And so it continued.

Rivulets of sweat trickled through the valleys of Kirby's bare abdominals. He had been training for twelve hours straight and he was starting to feel it. Just as he geared himself up for another punch, the room turned a sudden crimson and emergency sirens blared through the facility.

Finally. A real challenge.

A blonde intern barreled into the training room, half running, half staggering. He had a file in his arms the size of five phone books.

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

Kirby slid the young blonde a smirk and cracked his knuckles. The intern blushed. 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, slicking the sweat from his chiseled bod without breaking eye contact.

"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 abdominables you can grate cheese on?"

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

"And have you ever seen a shark with a package as large as an entire housepet?"

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

Kirby plucked the mammoth file from the intern's arms as if it was a slice of bread. Then, he unhinged his jaw and devoured the file whole—the quickest way to take in information. He winked.

"Then I think the world is going to be just fine."

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