At 10:15 that particular morning Chance Furlong and Jake Clawson were hard at work on two very different projects. Jake was painting the newly finished jet he christened the TurboKat, and although he was not artistically inclined in normal affairs, he slaved over the polishing like another Da Vinci.
While Chance doesn’t like to admit it, at the same time that his little partner was hard at work at the manly task of construction, he was performing the less manly task of costume design. He bent down, intent on his sewing, feeding the fabric at the steady, even rate that gave the garments their high quality.
Chance had tried several times already to make the perfect costumes, but each time one or the other had some major objection. The first uniforms were too Enforcer-esque. A later try was too “runway.” The next was too bulky, the next too restrictive, the next shapeless. A pair of handsome tuxedos looked smashing on them but Jake thought that it would be a shame to wear them while battling supervillains, because the upkeep would be so difficult. So another set was made, and that uniform set was too “foreign.” The next was too dressy. Poor Chance had just about given up when the idea for a pair of blue and red flight suits entered his cranium.
So he sat there working on them, cutting them just so. He knew that the suits would have to exaggerate their muscles and builds while their normal clothes would have to play down the same attributes. Chance could have been a tailor but then, he never wanted to.
Jake looked over from where he was working.
“Hey, big guy, could you give me a hand here? I need to move this but my paws are covered with the wrong color paint!”
“Will I get my paws all painty?” Chance asked.
Jake gave him an incredulous look.
“Fine, one second.” Chance quickly cut out the remainder of the pattern and then set it down on a bench before walking over.
“I think somebody’s getting a bit obsessive,” said Jake nonchalantly as Chance grunted and lifted up the part (although the jet was completed, Jake had removed some of the nonessential parts that he wanted to paint differently).
“You… must be… talking… about… yourself again,” Chance said, under the enormous weight.
Jake snickered. “Very funny, Ch- I mean, very funny, T-Bone. It’s gonna take me a while to get used to calling you two names.”
“I won’t have any trouble. I already call you plenty.”
Chance was free of the ponderous mass. He smiled at his counterpart wickedly.
“You’re just a laugh a minute today. Why don’t you get back to your needlework and let me finish up here?”
“I oughtta kick your tail for that, Jake.”
“It’s *Razor*. What happened – was it *too* easy?”
“I don’t see you in a mask, so you’re Jake to me,” Chance retorted.
“Okay,” said Razor, “let’s put our masks on, then.”
He grabbed a piece of black cloth and handed it to Chance, who quickly tied it on – then just as quickly flinched and tore it off.
Jake laughed hysterically at his trick. Chance should have known the difference between a bandanna and an oil-soaked rag.
“Just for that I’m gonna sew a drop seat in your suit,” said Chance, “and not only that, I’ll make the buttons loose.”
Jake smiled and called his fuming friend’s attention to a point in the pilot’s section of the cockpit.
“The SWAT Kats won’t go anywhere if we’re fighting all the time. I meant to surprise you with this later, but hey, now’s as good a time as any.” Chance looked inquisitive. Jake pressed down on a small release panel and it opened, revealing a straw-like hose device and mouthpiece.
“Ta-da! In case you get thirsty on the job.”
Jake grinned proudly.
“Why… thanks…” said Chance, stunned. ‘What a nice thing to do for me.’
He gave the smaller kat an enormous bearhug. Jake felt his ribs disintegrate.
“Uff… you’re welcome…”
Chance let him go and went back to his work with newfound zeal. What could he possibly do for Jake? Maybe he could pad the suit so it looked like Jake had real muscles. Maybe he could… hey, he took some of the same classes at the academy, he could do anything he wanted to. He just had to think a bit.
It wouldn’t be long before the SWAT Kats were ready to lock and load.
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Disclaimer: SWAT Kats: The Radical Squadron is copyright to Hanna-Barbera Cartoons Inc. All Rights Reserved. © 1995. All other characters and material within this page are the property of their respective creators.