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Still pretty damn happy with how close I am to the character models. Ah, if only they fattened up like this in the show! I mean, I know they got fat -sometimes-, but only briefly, and not like you're gonna be seein'~! Ha!
“Hmm... it looks innocent enough...”
Darkwing and Launchpad wasted no time in high-tailing it to the scene of potential culinary crime- they just followed their noses and the surprisingly regular procession of heavyset honkers passing them, all clutching at least one pastry (usually more). The suspect shop was an unassuming, standalone building in a parking lot. It looked disappointingly normal. Maybe too normal- it was so picturesquely small-town bakery in style it was practically a cliché.
“Gee DW,” Launchpad said from above as they both poked their heads around the corner, “it sure smells ok to me, too.” The powerfully-built bird sniffed the sugary aroma wafting from the bakery. His stomach let out a rumble, and he smacked his beak in anticipation. “Are we gonna go in and question them?”
“I’ve got a better idea, LP,” Darkwing corrected him. In the corner of the bakery’s large display window he’d spotted a pasted-up sign. It read:
The crafty crime-fighting canard rubbed his hands together. “I’m going to infiltrate their organization, undercover.” He smacked a fist into the palm of his hand decisively. “Let’s get back home, Launchpad.” Darkwing peered around the corner again, a sly smile on his beak. “I think a brilliant disguise is in order…”
“Y-you can’t do this to me!” In full cordon-blue chef’s uniform, Darkwing somersaulted out of the bakery’s door, propelled by a powerful boot. “I have a diploma in food technology!”
He hit the ground, landing head first and vibrating like an arrow, before slowly wilting to the pavement. His chef’s hat floated down gently, settling to crown his rear end.
“Yeah, so what?” an unseen voice declared dismissively. “What we need is somebody dumb who’ll just do what they’re told!” The door slammed unceremoniously.
Darkwing, who’d been drumming his fingers in frustration on the paving, looked up and blinked as inspiration hit.
“Somebody dumb…”
“So,” the unseen speaker said, “You’re somebody dumb who’ll do what they’re told?”
“Uhh…” Launchpad scratched at his hair beneath his flying goggles, then shrugged. “Gee… yeah, I guess so.” He stood in the middle of the bakery’s tiled shop floor. The place seemed quite a lot bigger than the outside suggested.
“Yep, you’ll do.” There was the trace of a smile in the voice. “What’s your name?”
“Launchpad McQuack.”
Launchpad was a little unsure if it was wise to give his real name. He’d asked DW if he oughtn’t to have a false one, like spies in the movies, or at least try to act stupid to in order to get the job. DW’s reply had been typically supportive and reassuring- he really was a great guy: ‘Trust me on this, LP, just be yourself!’
“Hmm… You got much experience of working in a bakery, Launchpad?” The speaker was subjecting his potential hire-ee to close scrutiny, for some reason paying particular attention to the aviator avian’s barrel chest and trim waistline.
“Uhh, gee, not really.” Launchpad scratched his head again. This was more complicated than he’d expected. “Ehe,” he grinned sheepishly, “I guess I’ve eaten at quite a few of them. Does that count?”
“So you like cake?”
“Boy, you bet I like cake!” the big duck affirmed, his face lighting up. He even clapped his hands.
“Perfect.” The shadowy speaker’s features split into a large grin, his teeth gleaming. “You’re hired. I’m sure it won’t take long for you to… fit in around here. Aha. Haha. Ahahahaha! Ahahahahahahaha! HAH-hahahahaHAHAHA…!!”
“Ehe. Heh. Hehehehe…” Launchpad joined in his new boss’s laughter rather uncertainly, even though he wasn’t quite sure what the big joke was. A set of culinary overalls was thrust at him abruptly, and his laughter stuttered to a halt.
“Here, put these on, and then let me show you around...”
“So how did it go in there today, Launchpad?”
Night had descended on St Canard, the city still potentially imperilled by impending pernicious poundage. Darkwing was back in his favoured crime-fighting attire of purple jacket, cape, broad-brimmed hat, neck-scarf and eye-mask. He was pacing back and forth impatiently, waiting for a report from his sidekick. Launchpad was behind the modesty screen, changing back into his usual clothes, only his neck and anvil-beaked head visible. His new work overalls hung from the nearby hat-stand. It was surprisingly baggy, but then again he supposed there’d hardly been time for them to get something tailor-made. And Launchpad was your larger-than-average bird.
“Gee DW, it was great!” Launchpad replied with wholehearted enthusiasm. He draped his bare, broad arms over the screen. “They’re a real friendly bunch- the head guy laughs about stuff nearly all the time. I could do the work just fine, no problem- lifting stuff around and sweeping up- and I even get to have all the leftovers I want! They say if I turn out ok I might even get to be a taste-tester!”
Darkwing stared at him in slack-beaked silence for a moment, then slapped a hand to his forehead.
“I meant, how did the undercover sleuthing go, sidekick?” he said, stressing the last word acidly. “Any sign of any crime?” He resumed his pacing.
“Oh. Well… gee, DW, no,” Launchpad shrugged as he pulled his flying jacket over the top of the screen. “I didn’t see anything.”
“Huh?” Darkwing pulled up short, one leg still stuck out in front of him. “What? Nothing suspicious at all?”
“No.”
“No inexplicably locked doors? No hidden underground cellars? No mysterious crates?”
“Nope.”
“No suspicious characters working as bakery assistants?”
“Uh-uh.” Launchpad shook his head.
“No strange ingredients that have no business being in a right-minded commercial kitchen?”
“Uhh…” One arm raised as he donned his jacket, Launchpad hesitated. “Does avocado count, DW?”
“No, Launchpad, avocado does NOT count!”
“Then nope.”
“Not even a single food hygeine violation?” Darkwing asked incredulously, his voice was almost pleading.
“Not a thing,” his sidekick said cheerfully. Launchpad’s scarf followed his jacket.
Darkwing thought frantically, looking for any other possibility that he might have missed, then he stopped pacing and sighed in defeat, shoulders slumping.
“I guess they must just be a normal bakery after all.” He heaved another self-pitying sigh. “There go my hopes and dreams of a new pernicious plot on the premises to pry into, penetrate and prevent.”
“Aww, c’mon DW, it’s not ALL bad,” Launchpad said. “I even get a staff discount at the bakery.”
“That’s cold comfort to a crime-fighter like me,” the vainglorious vigilante responded dolefully. “I guess we’ll have to keep patrolling in the hope we pick up on some real crime… Aren’t you done changing yet, Launchpad?” Darkwing asked, in more normal tones.
“Uhh.. g-gee, DW,” his sidekick replied with a grunt. “All… Nnnngh…! All… most…”
He stepped out from behind the screen. Darkwing turned, and did a double-take.
Launchpad’s flying jacket sat as usual on his broad shoulders and fulsome chest, but, already zipped up, the duck was struggling to pull it down any further. Where his powerful torso normally curved inwards down to his white-feathered waist, his slim midriff was now pooched out with a potbelly of feathery fat. It wasn’t a large gut by most people’s standards- especially not to anyone who’d seen Herb earlier in the day- but it was undeniably a gut. His face, upper body and legs apparently unaffected by this weird weight-gain, Launchpad’s swollen stomach stuck out like a cushion stuffed under his plumage. After one more heave Launchpad abandoned his efforts, and with a wheeze let the hem of his jacket go. Thus released, the top rode up and that impossible paunch blooped forward a little further, wobbling chubbily as it sat exposed to the public’s gaze. The duck’s aviator pants creaked as they also struggled to accommodate this interloping lard, with just the suggestion that some of it was spreading to his behind. Small but noticeable lovehandles had swollen into being above their waistband as well, pressing down on it.
“…But I think my outfit must have shrunk in the laundry or something, DW,” Launchpad concluded in mystified tones, scratching his head as he stared down at himself. “Uhh… DW..? DW?”
"Talk about larger than average…" Picking his beak up off the floor, the dynamic duck mused sotto voce to his imagined audience. “Something is definitely rotten in the state of St. Canard,” Darkwing concluded with finality. “And the bad smell’s coming from that bakery!”
Art by Yours Truly
Story by 
WolfgoneWide
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WolfgoneWide“Hmm... it looks innocent enough...”
Darkwing and Launchpad wasted no time in high-tailing it to the scene of potential culinary crime- they just followed their noses and the surprisingly regular procession of heavyset honkers passing them, all clutching at least one pastry (usually more). The suspect shop was an unassuming, standalone building in a parking lot. It looked disappointingly normal. Maybe too normal- it was so picturesquely small-town bakery in style it was practically a cliché.
“Gee DW,” Launchpad said from above as they both poked their heads around the corner, “it sure smells ok to me, too.” The powerfully-built bird sniffed the sugary aroma wafting from the bakery. His stomach let out a rumble, and he smacked his beak in anticipation. “Are we gonna go in and question them?”
“I’ve got a better idea, LP,” Darkwing corrected him. In the corner of the bakery’s large display window he’d spotted a pasted-up sign. It read:
‘Help wanted’.The crafty crime-fighting canard rubbed his hands together. “I’m going to infiltrate their organization, undercover.” He smacked a fist into the palm of his hand decisively. “Let’s get back home, Launchpad.” Darkwing peered around the corner again, a sly smile on his beak. “I think a brilliant disguise is in order…”
*“Y-you can’t do this to me!” In full cordon-blue chef’s uniform, Darkwing somersaulted out of the bakery’s door, propelled by a powerful boot. “I have a diploma in food technology!”
He hit the ground, landing head first and vibrating like an arrow, before slowly wilting to the pavement. His chef’s hat floated down gently, settling to crown his rear end.
“Yeah, so what?” an unseen voice declared dismissively. “What we need is somebody dumb who’ll just do what they’re told!” The door slammed unceremoniously.
Darkwing, who’d been drumming his fingers in frustration on the paving, looked up and blinked as inspiration hit.
“Somebody dumb…”
*“So,” the unseen speaker said, “You’re somebody dumb who’ll do what they’re told?”
“Uhh…” Launchpad scratched at his hair beneath his flying goggles, then shrugged. “Gee… yeah, I guess so.” He stood in the middle of the bakery’s tiled shop floor. The place seemed quite a lot bigger than the outside suggested.
“Yep, you’ll do.” There was the trace of a smile in the voice. “What’s your name?”
“Launchpad McQuack.”
Launchpad was a little unsure if it was wise to give his real name. He’d asked DW if he oughtn’t to have a false one, like spies in the movies, or at least try to act stupid to in order to get the job. DW’s reply had been typically supportive and reassuring- he really was a great guy: ‘Trust me on this, LP, just be yourself!’
“Hmm… You got much experience of working in a bakery, Launchpad?” The speaker was subjecting his potential hire-ee to close scrutiny, for some reason paying particular attention to the aviator avian’s barrel chest and trim waistline.
“Uhh, gee, not really.” Launchpad scratched his head again. This was more complicated than he’d expected. “Ehe,” he grinned sheepishly, “I guess I’ve eaten at quite a few of them. Does that count?”
“So you like cake?”
“Boy, you bet I like cake!” the big duck affirmed, his face lighting up. He even clapped his hands.
“Perfect.” The shadowy speaker’s features split into a large grin, his teeth gleaming. “You’re hired. I’m sure it won’t take long for you to… fit in around here. Aha. Haha. Ahahahaha! Ahahahahahahaha! HAH-hahahahaHAHAHA…!!”
“Ehe. Heh. Hehehehe…” Launchpad joined in his new boss’s laughter rather uncertainly, even though he wasn’t quite sure what the big joke was. A set of culinary overalls was thrust at him abruptly, and his laughter stuttered to a halt.
“Here, put these on, and then let me show you around...”
*“So how did it go in there today, Launchpad?”
Night had descended on St Canard, the city still potentially imperilled by impending pernicious poundage. Darkwing was back in his favoured crime-fighting attire of purple jacket, cape, broad-brimmed hat, neck-scarf and eye-mask. He was pacing back and forth impatiently, waiting for a report from his sidekick. Launchpad was behind the modesty screen, changing back into his usual clothes, only his neck and anvil-beaked head visible. His new work overalls hung from the nearby hat-stand. It was surprisingly baggy, but then again he supposed there’d hardly been time for them to get something tailor-made. And Launchpad was your larger-than-average bird.
“Gee DW, it was great!” Launchpad replied with wholehearted enthusiasm. He draped his bare, broad arms over the screen. “They’re a real friendly bunch- the head guy laughs about stuff nearly all the time. I could do the work just fine, no problem- lifting stuff around and sweeping up- and I even get to have all the leftovers I want! They say if I turn out ok I might even get to be a taste-tester!”
Darkwing stared at him in slack-beaked silence for a moment, then slapped a hand to his forehead.
“I meant, how did the undercover sleuthing go, sidekick?” he said, stressing the last word acidly. “Any sign of any crime?” He resumed his pacing.
“Oh. Well… gee, DW, no,” Launchpad shrugged as he pulled his flying jacket over the top of the screen. “I didn’t see anything.”
“Huh?” Darkwing pulled up short, one leg still stuck out in front of him. “What? Nothing suspicious at all?”
“No.”
“No inexplicably locked doors? No hidden underground cellars? No mysterious crates?”
“Nope.”
“No suspicious characters working as bakery assistants?”
“Uh-uh.” Launchpad shook his head.
“No strange ingredients that have no business being in a right-minded commercial kitchen?”
“Uhh…” One arm raised as he donned his jacket, Launchpad hesitated. “Does avocado count, DW?”
“No, Launchpad, avocado does NOT count!”
“Then nope.”
“Not even a single food hygeine violation?” Darkwing asked incredulously, his voice was almost pleading.
“Not a thing,” his sidekick said cheerfully. Launchpad’s scarf followed his jacket.
Darkwing thought frantically, looking for any other possibility that he might have missed, then he stopped pacing and sighed in defeat, shoulders slumping.
“I guess they must just be a normal bakery after all.” He heaved another self-pitying sigh. “There go my hopes and dreams of a new pernicious plot on the premises to pry into, penetrate and prevent.”
“Aww, c’mon DW, it’s not ALL bad,” Launchpad said. “I even get a staff discount at the bakery.”
“That’s cold comfort to a crime-fighter like me,” the vainglorious vigilante responded dolefully. “I guess we’ll have to keep patrolling in the hope we pick up on some real crime… Aren’t you done changing yet, Launchpad?” Darkwing asked, in more normal tones.
“Uhh.. g-gee, DW,” his sidekick replied with a grunt. “All… Nnnngh…! All… most…”
He stepped out from behind the screen. Darkwing turned, and did a double-take.
Launchpad’s flying jacket sat as usual on his broad shoulders and fulsome chest, but, already zipped up, the duck was struggling to pull it down any further. Where his powerful torso normally curved inwards down to his white-feathered waist, his slim midriff was now pooched out with a potbelly of feathery fat. It wasn’t a large gut by most people’s standards- especially not to anyone who’d seen Herb earlier in the day- but it was undeniably a gut. His face, upper body and legs apparently unaffected by this weird weight-gain, Launchpad’s swollen stomach stuck out like a cushion stuffed under his plumage. After one more heave Launchpad abandoned his efforts, and with a wheeze let the hem of his jacket go. Thus released, the top rode up and that impossible paunch blooped forward a little further, wobbling chubbily as it sat exposed to the public’s gaze. The duck’s aviator pants creaked as they also struggled to accommodate this interloping lard, with just the suggestion that some of it was spreading to his behind. Small but noticeable lovehandles had swollen into being above their waistband as well, pressing down on it.
“…But I think my outfit must have shrunk in the laundry or something, DW,” Launchpad concluded in mystified tones, scratching his head as he stared down at himself. “Uhh… DW..? DW?”
"Talk about larger than average…" Picking his beak up off the floor, the dynamic duck mused sotto voce to his imagined audience. “Something is definitely rotten in the state of St. Canard,” Darkwing concluded with finality. “And the bad smell’s coming from that bakery!”
Category All / Fat Furs
Species Duck
Size 700 x 700px
File Size 246.8 kB
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