The spotlight followed him as he stood tall, legs wide, belly audibly groaning from the gas inside. With a deep breath, he clenched his fists, flexed both arms high, and tilted back his head.

*FWOOSH!*
A geyser of flame erupted from his mouth, bright orange fire streaming outward like a dragon’s roar. The heat made the curtains billow, the audience gasping and clapping wildly. Molotov’s eyes gleamed with giddy mischief as he let the inferno pour out, painting the stage in firelight.

But the real showstopper? His belly, now *massive*. All that propane had rounded him out so much his buttons couldn’t take it anymore.

*POP!* *POP!* *POP!*
Golden brass buttons flew off his uniform like popcorn kernels, zipping into the crowd. His belly surged free, wobbling and bouncing with cartoon elasticity as the audience howled with laughter and cheers.

Still, Molotov never lost control. The fire tapered off, and with one last mighty flex—arms bulging, tail swishing—he grinned, letting his round gut jiggle proudly for the crowd. A true professional pyro: bigger, bolder, and burningly brilliant.

The raccoon bowed with a cheeky flourish, his belly still wobbling like a balloon about to float offstage. Nothing said “showman” like Molotov—the biggest, strongest raccoon who could set the stage ablaze.