It had been a decade since his moment in the sun— everyone told him that his fifteen minutes of fame were over, and that he should settle. He could get a comfortable job somewhere and lead a perfectly comfortable life. But Ginga was the face of the Olympics— shouldn't he shoot for more than an office job and slowly getting soft and fat with each passing year?
Yes. Absolutely, he should. The jaguar had a special talent, and he still had a bit of youth left— why not go for gold, one last time, and leave behind a few more stories? It took him a little bit to try focusing his unique talent, looking to regain his ability to reshape his body, but soon it all came back to him, not unlike riding a bike. It was all about focus, and he could reshape himself to be a prime specimen for any sport— and he had his eye set on an upcoming boxing competition.
Ginga only had to focus and let his body do the rest; mass and shape began to warp under his spotted yellow fur, arms suddenly billowing with thick bulges of cut, dense muscle. His arms were primed to hit with the force of battering rams, green legs suddenly cut with springy muscle that let him leap with shocking speed and grace, a pair of broad shoulders and a broad chest to give him the constitution to be a prize fighter— his opponents wouldn't know what hit him, and this was only just the beginning.
Ginga had to wonder if at some point, his special talent counted as cheating. Sure, the heavyweight division in this specific competition had no upper limit, and he hadn't been taking any performance enhancers or drugs— but the jaguar did start to feel just the little bit guilty when he outweighed his opponent by a rough estimate of three to one.
He had been told that he was going to be going up against a Russian champion, an absolute beast in the ring that not only never lost, but was known to be utterly ruthless. So, the jaguar shifted his form accordingly— blowing up his proportions to an enormous wall of solid brawn. He allowed the tapered waist he favored to be filled out with the thick, solid slab of dense mass, with a hint of cobbled abs to show the sheer strength and solidness of his form. His spots were warped over enormous, gorilla-like arms that were packed with dense, swollen muscle, legs as solid as oak trunks with bulging thighs nearly bursting the seam of his singlet. His chest was like a jutting barricade, and his sprawling back had been grown wide enough to shame the wingspan of some condors.
He was really growing to love the way he looked— and there was an inherent thrill in being able to pin a veteran wrestler with one headlock, his bicep mashed against the Russian champion's cheek and swelling up larger than his head. The jaguar had spent a long time building himself for lean athleticism; bodies that favored speed and dexterity meant for acrobatics and racing. He had felt the rush of being so enduringly tough, he could take punches and kicks like they were drops of rain, strong enough he could bend metal pipes— and as he felt how easily he could dominate the ring, he just had to find a tougher challenge that would require even greater strength.
"Alright, now we know that this isn't an olympic year, but you wouldn't know it with our next contestant— Ginga himself is competing this year in the International Weightlifting Federation's annual strongman contest, and he's still wearing the olympic colors!" "Well of course he is, John— the jaguar's yellow and green— and there's a lot of him for that yellow and green to cover."
"That's right, Bill— people are aware of Ginga's unique ability to grow; his workout and weightlifting videos have been exploding all over online, and so has he! He's tipping the scales at— uh, actually Bill, what is his weight?"
"Well, there's been a few numbers floating around, but uh… none of the scales the IFW has for their official records are able to calculate it. They top out at six hundred pounds— and apparently, that's how much one of his legs weighs."
"Good God. And he has been tested for any sort of… illegal material? Because— Wait, wait, Bill, i-is that an earthquake?"
"No, John— that's Ginga."
The stage trembled as the jaguar stepped up to the weights. He had pushed himself as far as he had ever dared, and then pushed even further— he was starting to wonder if he even had a limit after all. Here he stood— the biggest weightlifter in the world, and soon, officially, the strongest man in the world to boot.
The titanic feline's already impressive musculature had begun to reach supernatural levels; more muscle than any animal had ever packed on to their frame. Now wider than he was tall, his legs were girded with dense swells of muscle more impressive than fluted, marble columns, meaty, sculpted glutes stretching the lower half of his singlet out smooth, his mammoth, brick wall of a back spreading wide, lats spilling out of the sides. As he gripped the barbell, loaded down with over a ton of steel weight, his arms flared out with atomic bomb-like biceps and triceps thick as anvils, his steely chest heaving out, nearly snapping the straps of his singlet and overtaking his strong jaw.
"He's attempting almost five times the current world record for the clean and jerk— and, oh, here he goes!"
Ginga let out a deep, guttural growl as he heaved up the barbell in one fluid movement, the stage buckling under the sudden shift in mass, as the beastly jaguar heaved the barbell up over his face. And then, with the world watching, Ginga grinned toothily as he carefully balanced the weight, and rolled the barbell over to one arm— that one musclebound limb steady as a rock, every tendon of muscle solid as stone.
"Oh my God. He's done it, folks! He's more than done it! Ginga is now the strongest man in the world— the only question is, what's next?"
"From Olympic mascot, to olympic athlete, to— God, Mount Olympus, the actual mountain, I actually had to talk to our camera crew, because folks, we can't do a close-up shot of our latest guest, because, well— look at him!"
The late-night host's stage was overwhelmed by the hulking mass of a jaguar that Ginga had grown himself into, and while his head bobbed on a sea of pectoral and trapezius girth, he let out a good-natured chuckle, his pecs heaving and bouncing and temporarily overtaking his chin.
"So, Ginga— you've become a sensation— loads of fan clubs, athletes swearing to take after you or find a way to knock you down a peg— what's it like? I mean… are there any other records to break for a strongman and athlete?"
The jaguar reached down, patting his trunk-thick legs. "Well… there's plenty of people that can outrun me, if no one can outlift me." That got a decent laugh, the massive feline grinning to the audience. "Also, it would be nice to reach certain parts of my back, but hey, that's out the window too— my team keeps putting stick-it notes on my back when they think I don't notice. But, seriously, going with the Mount Olympus theme you set up— I feel like Alexander the Great, who, when he saw no more worlds left to conquer, he wept." Ginga sighed, resting his huge back against the couch he was filling to its utmost. "I can't even compete in next year's Olympics, they changed the rules to disqualify me, specifically."
"What, seriously? What'd they do, put a 'no jaguars allowed' sign up?"
"No— some sports have a weight requirement, but for the first time, the IOC put a weight limit— of, uh… a thousand pounds."
"And you hit that?"
Ginga shrugged his gigantic shoulders. "About a month ago."
The host whistled low. "Well, c'mon, I mean— look at you. Besides a future career playing superhero, you've got to have something in mind."
"Well…" Ginga reached up, the mass of biceps and pectoral muscles grinding against each other and fighting for room. "There is bodybuilding." He smirked slyly. "And they're, uh… more tolerant of certain rules, over at the IFBB."
"Yeah, I'll bet— you, uh. Wanna give us a taste of your new routine?" The jaguar chuckled, chest bouncing again. "That depends— you got your wide-angle cameras ready?" He was already heaving himself up to his full monstrous height. "I think I'd open up my bodybuilding routine with a classic I think I can zhuzh up a bit…"
The jaguar got the flash in his eye as he summoned up the deep wells of power that still hadn't fully been tapped out— instantly, his clothes burst apart as his yellow and green fur filled the camera lenses like a tidal wave— his already mammoth muscles surged upwards and outwards, and it seemed Ginga had already come prepared— as his pants shredded apart in face of earth-shaking thigh muscles burgeoning outward, growing thicker than they were long, he was clad in a pair of blue posing speedos, leaving the rest of his monumental body on full display— his expansive back was as wide and sprawling as a vast, green valley, rippling with thick cords of muscle. As his giant chest jutted out as vast as a canyon, he brought up his arms and curled them, pumping up biceps that heaved upwards large as mountain peaks.
Ginga flashed a winning smile as he held the pose, showing off his enormity for the TV audience. "Yeah, seeing some of the faces in the crowd out here, I'd say this is a winner."
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10 Aug 2026 11:25 CEST
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