Rudy says, “I got a bone to pick with you, Mario,” and all at once everybody knows it’s on.
Mario turns a couple of shades paler, then flushes beet red. You can practically see steam rise up off his forehead.
As the two big men stride out the back door, the crowd squeezes through behind them, filling the lamp-lit alley, folks climbing up on the shoulders of other folks just to watch the mayhem.
This fight has been cooking up for a long time. Rudy crossed one of Mario’s buddies about ten months ago, Mario started badmouthing Rudy, fights broke out between Rudy’s and Mario’s crews, and for over a year the two have filled the bar with their bellicose threats—but never, until Rudy said those nine words, had the two men addressed each other directly.
Mario yanks the loose shirt off his shoulders, to reveal an elaborate mermaid tattoo enveloping one whole pec and looping up and over the left shoulder to the biceps. His henchmen form a corner, separating him from the surging crowd behind.
Rudy smacks his knuckles against his furry chest, like a caveman. His men shore up the onlookers at his back.
Both men are muttering curses under their breath and locking eyes with the opponent. Then, in a sudden burst, like two mountain rams colliding, they rush to the center of the cleared-out space and start punching.
Wildly. Loudly. Like hammers pounding wet clay. Neither man misses his mark, and in seconds fist-shaped splotches flare up on the men’s torsos to make way for bruises. The blows happen so fast you cannot keep track of them, but neither man falters or backs off. The fleshy thwacks echo up the high walls on either side, and the noise of the steel taps on their boots skitters across the muddy pavement.
Both men are big, barrel-chested, and twitching all over with muscle. Evenly matched, toe to toe, forehead to forehead—the next tallest man in the crowd is a full three inches shorter than either one.
I climb up on a dumpster and manage to get a footing on a ledge to get the best view available.
Mario locks his arm round Rudy’s head, squeezes it against his ribs, and pulls his opponent around in a circle. Rudy grabs at Mario’s muscular thighs, manages to catch the buttons at Mario’s crotch, and tightens his fist on his cock and balls. Mario bellows and releases his hold, but Rudy twists the guy’s rod and tugs, and Mario’s knees buckle underneath.
It’s a hot July night. I pull off my T-shirt and stuff it in my back pocket. The two fighters’ bodies glow like marble under the lights, and sweat streams down their sides.
Mario’s flat on his back on the ground, and Rudy pins him fast with his knee to the gut, grabs a fistful of Mario’s pomaded hair, and bangs the back of the guy’s skull to the pavement. The crowd shudders and recoils.
Rudy’s bulging mass atop Mario, whose chest and belly heave with pain and panic, gets me hard. In the darkness, my hand creeps under my belt and fly to fondle my warm erection. Rudy’s broad shoulders, hunched over his smooth-skinned opponent, arch and flex like he’s sticking it to Mario. The intimacy of this brute force tightens my balls. The two warriors’ breathy grunts, vibrating in the city night, sound like giants fucking.
Friends on either side shout out encouragement to their respective champion and taunt the other obscenely.
The heels of Mario’s boots scrape against the pavement. His whole body thrashes as if to buck Rudy off. But Rudy bears down, his lips stretched and teeth gritted. Every nerve concentrating on delivering more hurt.
Somebody in the crowd throws a beer bottle, and it thunks against the base of Rudy’s skull. Outraged shouts among the onlookers, and although I don’t see it, I’m pretty sure somebody just slugged the guy that tossed it. The bottle cracks on the ground and rolls off to one side, unshattered.
The distraction causes Rudy to hesitate, and Mario takes the opportunity to twist free and scramble up to his feet, hauling Rudy’s hulk up with him. Mario drives one or two roundhouse punches to Rudy’s kidneys.
Rudy thrusts into Mario, lifts him up by his waist, and tosses him over his head. Mario crashes on his back on the slimy asphalt. Rudy stomps full force on the mermaid tat for good measure. The blow knocks the wind out of Mario, who looks like he’s about to pass out.
Rudy grabs Mario by the ears and raises him up. He clamps his arms around the smooth he-man’s ribs and lifts him off his feet. Mario writhes in the bearhug, his heels digging into Rudy’s knees, but in a matter of 75 seconds that seems like half an hour, the pressure paralyzes him and his body slackens. The two hard torsos clinched together makes my cock throb all the harder. My whole body palpitates, and a tingling feeling zigzags up my back.
Mario’s shiny, pretty body slumps to the ground. Rudy straddles it, then hunkers down to rest his ass on Mario’s belly and slap both sides of his face with the back of each hand. Mario’s troops back off, and Rudy’s men lean in. Rudy pauses and looks regally around at the faces in the crowd. He doesn’t say a word, and the onlookers fall into an eerie trancelike hush.
Rudy clenches his right fist and picks up Mario’s head with his left hand. For a few seconds, he just floats the fist about nine inches from Mario’s nose. Then, without warning, without a sound, he slams the fist into Mario’s mouth. Mario makes a squishy sound halfway between a gulp and a sob. Six times Rudy drives his fist into Mario’s nose, and blood spurts up in threadlike missiles.
Rudy hunches over Mario like a leopard over a zebra carcass. Breathing deeply and steadily, he lets Mario’s head drop back to the pavement with a crack.
The fight is over, and my mind races—I imagine myself in each man’s skin, and my sensations flicker between dominating and being dominated. In the darkness, invisible to the stunned and dispersing crowd, I stroke myself, yearning to punish and pummel and then, equally, guiltily yearning to be overthrown, vanquished, brutally yet thrillingly mastered by a better man.