It should’ve been over. Fuzzy Lumpkins was never supposed to win. The Mayor had returned, the Powerpuff Girls had shown up—late, yes, but still in time to stop the madness. That was the plan. But somehow, with a last-minute flood of suspicious ballots from every branch of his mutant hillbilly family, Fuzzy not only held office… he doubled down on it.

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Now, Townsville groans under a new regime: one of rusted banjo law, mudslide policy, and fried pork diplomacy. And Sara Bellum—once the city’s brilliant, polished voice of reason—has been reduced to the unwilling “First Lady of Townsvill-uh.” Or so the President insists.

She stands barefoot in the middle of the former mayoral office, now redecorated like the inside of a barn-themed fever dream. Hay bales. Cheap gingham. A broken washing machine as a punch bowl. All while she wears the most humiliating outfit imaginable: a red polka-dot crop top tied above her stomach, denim mini shorts held up by a rope belt, and her iconic red hair forced into childish pigtails. No heels. No dignity. No escape.

And there he sits—President Fuzzy Lumpkins—in all his grotesque glory: a Fat, furry, bubblegum-pink hillbilly monster with a green bulbous nose, red-rimmed eyes, antennae twitching as he adjusts a floating black top hat above his head. His fat frame is squeezed into a garish violet blazer over a yellow vest and white turtleneck, with orange-striped trousers barely holding together at the seams. Across his chest, a blue sash proudly declares “MAYOR,” as if the office were still his to understand.

From his recliner—stained and surrounded by executive orders scribbled on sandwich wrappers—Fuzzy adjusts his oversized “Major” sash with glee.

Fuzzy Lumpkins: "Time fer our romantic evenin’, sugar dumplin’! I done set the table! Ain’t ya excited? Gonna be real romántic!"

Sara blinks slowly. He hadn’t said a word to her. Hadn’t prepared food. Hadn’t even bothered to clean the office. Two wooden forks stuck in a log is not a date—it’s a hostage situation.

With a long inhale, she forces a polite smile that doesn’t quite reach her eyes.

Sara Bellum: "Why, hello there, Mr. Major. You look... dashing tonight."

Fuzzy beams, slapping his knee Meanwhile he Stares at The Curvy Beauty in front of Him.

Fuzzy Lumpkins: "That’s nice’n all, but say it proper-like now!"

Her eye twitches. Her voice tightens.

Sara Bellum: "Well, howdy that, yer Fuzzines..."

Fuzzy Lumpkins: > "There ya go!" he whoops, clapping like a hog at a square dance. "Now whatcha cookin’, my butter biscuit? Hope it’s got gravy!"

She stares at him. Then at the empty corner behind her.

Sara Bellum: "Where, pray tell, was I supposed to find ingredients? The presidential pantry is filled with expired pickles and raccoon hats."

Fuzzy shrugs.

Fuzzy Lumpkins: "Romantic ambiance! Ain’t nothin’ say lovin’ like mystery meat and commitment."

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Sara sighs, half out loud and half in defeat. Even the Powerpuff Girls haven’t checked in—probably chasing down Mojo or Him while Townsville silently crumbles from within.

Sara Bellum: "Next time they show up," she mutters, "I’m locking the front gate myself."

As for the former Mayor... Major, he’s curled up on an old dog bed in her bedroom, sipping Pickle juice through a twisty straw and watching old black-and-white cartoons. If she’d wanted a small creature who got excited everytime she came home from work and depended on her for everything... She’d have gotten a dog.