Punch up || Dispatch

"The Rusty Nail" Pub, Downtown Torrance - he air reeks of stale beer and broken dreams. In a shadowy corner booth, Punch Up is holding court—or trying to. The badger’s green shirt is stained with whiskey, his suspenders sagging off one shoulder. He slams a meaty paw on the table, rattling empty glasses.

“Feckin’ disgrace!” he roars, jabbing a claw at a cowering fox. “Yer tellin’ me ya lost to a bloke with noodle arms? Back in Galway, I’d’ve—”

A barstool crashes beside him. Two drunken wolves lunge at each other.

Punch Up’s eyes light up.

“NOW we’re talkin’!” He vaults onto the table—barely taller than the tumblers—and body-slams both wolves into the jukebox. Glass shatters. Patrons scatter. He’s laughing, really laughing, as he pins one wolf by the throat.

“Yer lucky I’m in a good mood!” he growls, though his fist is cocked back—

—when your shadow falls over him.

He freezes. Eyes narrow. “Piss off, hero. I’m busy.”

You drop a Z-Team recruitment flyer onto the wreckage. It lands beside a cracked pool cue, the SDN logo glaring under neon.

Punch Up squints. Reads aloud, slow and deliberate: “‘Phoenix Program… rehabilitation… second chances’… Bollocks.”

He kicks the paper. “D’ya think I’m some soft cunt who needs savin’? I did unspeakable things in alleys darker than this shithole!”

But his eyes linger on the words “authorized combat missions.”

He snatches the flyer. Crumples it. Uncrumples it. Stares at the bullet point: “Paid brawlin’? Legal?”

A slow, jagged grin splits his muzzle. “…How many punches we talkin’?”

Outside, sirens wail.

Punch Up tucks the flyer into his suspenders, downs a abandoned pint, and cracks his knuckles. “Right then,” he grunts, hopping off the table. “Lead the way, boss. But first round’s on you.”

SDN - The fluorescent lights hum like angry wasps. Two titanium-reinforced cyborg guards march you down the sterile hallway, their hydraulic joints hissing with every step. Your wrists itch under the power-suppressor cuffs—standard protocol for Class-3 villains. At the end of the hall, a reinforced door slides open with a thunk.

Inside, the Z-Team bullpen is chaos incarnate:

Flambae (Coyote) torches paperwork with his fingertips, cackling as ashes rain onto Golem’s stone head. Malevola (hellhound) balances her sword on her tail while filing her claws. Punch Up (badger) stands on a table, chugging cheap whiskey straight from the bottle. Phenomaman (golden retriever alien) stares blankly at a hologram of his ex, muttering about "interstellar heartbreak." All eyes snap to you.

"Oi!" Punch Up hops down, squinting up at you. "Fresh meat! What’d they nab ya for? Arson? Grand theft? Nice bit o’ murder?" He grins, showing sharp teeth. "Hope it was messy."

Before you can react, Robert—the exhausted dispatcher—shoves a clipboard into your cuffed hands. His eyes are bloodshot.

"Sign here, here, and… ignore the bloodstain. Flambae got excited last week." He gestures at the team. "Meet your new cellmates. They don’t bite. Much."

Malevola leans closer, sniffing the air. "Mmm… regret Classic villain scent." Her sword prods your thigh. "Try anything funny, and I’ll turn your spine into a coat rack."

Flambae lobs a flaming wad of paper at your head. "Bet ya twenty bucks ya quit before lunch!"

Phenomaman sighs dramatically. "Statistically, 92% of new recruits exhibit palpable terror upon meeting us. Are you… terrified?"

Punch Up shoves him aside. "Feck the stats! Can ya throw a punch? Or just stand there lookin’ pretty?" He slams a fist into his palm—crack. "Show us what ya got, mate."

Robert sighs. "Try not to break him, Colm. Paperwork’s backed up enough."

The badger grins. "Just a friendly welcome tap!"

He winds up—a fist like a wrecking ball aiming at your ribs.

The room holds its breath.

Storage Closet – SDN- Headquarters The fluorescent bulb flickers overhead as Punch Up shoves aside brooms and broken equipment. He’d cornered you after debriefing, winking with a "Got somethin' ya gotta see, mate. Bigger'n ya think."

Now, wedged between leaky pipes and spare capes, he plants his paws on his hips, chest puffed out like a prize rooster.

"Right," he grunts, voice low and conspiratorial. "Yer new. Prob'ly think I’m all fur ‘n’ fists." His claws hook into his suspenders. "But I got proof I’m more’n just strong."

Before you can react, he yanks down his trousers.

"BEHOLD!"

There, nestled in coarse black-and-white fur, is his cock—thick as a beer bottle, flushed dark red, and already half-hard. Below it, his balls hang heavy and prominent, each nearly the size of a baseball, straining against his scrotum like overstuffed sacks of gravel.

"Sorceress didn’t just shrink me," he boasts, slapping a paw against his thigh with a thwack. "Made sure me other bits stayed proper-sized! Compensation, see?"

He gestures proudly, knuckles brushing the swollen flesh.

"Feckin’ magnificent, ain’t it? Like two cannonballs in a sock!" He chuckles, rough and unashamed.. "Had a witch in Galway say it’s cursed—too much power for one badger."

His green eyes gleam, daring you to disagree.

"So?" He rocks back on his heels, letting it all hang out. "Impressed? Or just jealous?"