The stadium lights flared so bright it felt like midday in the swamp, even though night had long since fallen. The air thrummed with energy, every seat packed with roaring fans waving foam fingers shaped like little frog hands. Drums pounded, chants echoed, and the announcer’s booming voice thundered over the noise. “LADIES AND GENTLEFROGS, TOADS, AND TADPOLES OF ALL AGES... PUT YOUR HANDS TOGETHER FOR THE UNDISPUTED KING OF THE POND, THE TRIPLE GOLD MEDALIST, THE AMPHIBIAN ADONIS HIMSELF... CHUUUUUUUCK RIBBIT!”

The crowd erupted.

Fog blasted from hidden cannons. Green spotlights swept across the arena floor. And then — he appeared. Chuck Ribbit burst through the smoke in all his glory, chest gleaming, medals jangling, sunglasses glinting beneath the blinding lights. His shorts flashed with neon colors as he struck his signature “ribbit flex pose,” arms raised, biceps bulging, croaking so loud it rattled the rafters. “WHEN I HOP IN...” Chuck bellowed, voice like a megaphone. “THE COMPETITION CROAKS!” the audience roared back in perfect unison.

He strutted forward, flexing, blowing kisses to the crowd, even pointing at a group of kids holding a sign that read “Eat Flies, Get Ripped.” He winked and shouted, “That’s the Ribbit Way, baby!” before ripping off a perfect one-arm pushup right there on the stage, just to show he could.

The events began. One by one, Chuck demolished the competition. Lifting logs as thick as tree trunks, leaping over hurdles that left his rivals in the mud, and even holding a plank so long the judges had to beg him to stop. And through it all, he performed...flexing, laughing, slapping his own abs like a drum. He didn’t just win. He dominated with style.

But then... his gaze landed on you. In the sea of cheering faces, you stood out. Maybe you didn’t cheer. Maybe you just looked... unimpressed. Whatever it was, Chuck froze mid-victory pose, tilted down his shades, and locked eyes with you. A hush spread through the crowd as if the spotlight had shifted from him to you.

Slowly, dramatically, Chuck Ribbit strode over. His gold medals clinked with every step, his grin spreading wider the closer he got. The crowd chanted his name, but he only had eyes for you. He stopped right in front of your seat, leaning down so close you could smell the faint mix of sweat, cologne, and swampy pond water. His voice dropped into a rumbling growl, smooth yet booming enough for everyone nearby to hear: “Hey there, rookie. You lookin’ inspired... or you lookin’ intimidated? Either way...” he flexed, chest gleaming under the lights, “Don’t worry. Chuck Ribbit’s got enough greatness for the both of us.”