Wednesday, September 30, 2009

The Dump (4)

Slowly Lynch approaches the bar, puts his hand out and takes Fister’s hand in his. He gives the hand a rough tug and steps back, yanking Fister halfway over the bar. Fister looks shocked, his pumped glistening torso stretched over the wet bar top, his meaty buttocks arching up in the smoky air. Classic what-the-fuck look on his face.

Without letting go of his grip on the blond’s hand, Lynch leans in close to his ear and speaks in a loud stage whisper so that everybody in the hushed bar hears him: “Cut. The. Bullshit.”

Fister blinks, slightly rattled and humiliated. Lynch lets his hand go, and he slides back to the other side of the bar. Fister grits his teeth and breathes through his incisors. His hand is trembling.

“Asshole,” he mumbles under his breath and spits on the floor right next to Lynch’s foot.

In a flash Lynch lunges over the bar and slams Fister against the glass bottles on the glass shelves in front of the mirror. Ten bottles of the cheap stuff hit the rubber matting on the floor. Nothing shatters except for one of the glass shelves, which breaks into four big pieces and slides to the floor, and the mirror cracks weblike behind Fister’s head.

Fister rebounds and grabs Lynch round the head and slams it to the top of the bar. Patrons, some of whom are sitting at the bar, make room, scattering to the corners, leaving the two men plenty of room.

Fister grinds Lynch’s face over the polished mahogany to a marble cutting board inlaid in the bar. He lifts Lynch’s head by a fistful of his hair and drives it down to the white marble. Greg grunts. Blood speckles the marble. He springs backwards, driving his elbow against Lynch’s jaw. Fister spins and spits out a bloody molar, which flies about 12 feet, landing at a patron’s feet.

Lynch hooks his leg into Fister’s and shoves him to the counter. Fists flying. Lynch’s knuckles slam Fister’s mouth, repeatedly, bouncing the back of the blonds’ head on the hardwood. Lynch pulls himself off Fister, who looks like he’s gone limp.

“Oh shit!” one of the customers screams, as Fister shakily lifts his head, the back of his long hair streaked crimson.

Lynch reaches down grabbing a hank of Fister’s blood stained hair pulling him up. Fister is barely off his knees when he drives his fist deep into Lynch’s belly doubling the quiet man over. Lynch moans are low as he holds his gut. A fist to the base of his neck sends him down on all fours, crawling along the bar rail.

Fister stomps and kicks the Irishman in his sides much to the delight of the bar patrons. The owner of The Dump is ecstatic until he realizes that the crowd is smaller than normal. Two security guards swoop in separating Lynch and Fister as they continue to exchange words. “I’ll kick his fucking ass.” "That bitch is mine." The owner draws up the paperwork and their fight is set for Saturday night.

(To be continued)

Tuesday, September 29, 2009

Pretty Much a Big Deal

Six new ones from my stud in South Carolina, Stoney Hooker:

The Dump (3)

“What the fuck…?” Lynch yells. Fister stands up, shaking out his right hand.

“Too sweaty,” he answers, mugging.

The crowd yells as Fister hits yet another bicep pose before returning to his seat.

Again the two men’s hands are brought together and centered on the bar. As soon as the ref pulls away, though, Fister reaches over, tugs at Lynch’s nipple, and says, “Relax, bud. It’s a game.”

Lynch jumps back from the bar, his concentration broken by Fister’s antics. He grabs the ref by the shirt, pulling him in, yelling, “This how you run a goddamn contest?” He pushes the ref away roughly, sending buttons bouncing on the hardwood floor.

Lynch returns to the bar, fuming, ”Let’s go, bastard.”

Various customers touch his shoulder as a sign of support.

“So ... what’s the holdup?” Fister asks, all innocence now.

Fister flips his long hair over his shoulders as he assumes the position at the bar. Lynch quickly grasps Fister’s hand, locking up.

Then unexpectedly Fister jerks his hand back, pulling Lynch along with him. Lynch slams chin first to the bar as his supporting arm is jerked from under him.

The crowd lets out a collective “Oooh.” as Lynch pulls him self up holding his jaw. “Ouch.” Fister jokes as Lynch checks his lip for blood.

“Okay, serious now. Let’s go.” Fister sounds sincere as he places his elbow on the bar waiting for Lynch.

The whole place goes dead silent while Lynch rubs his finger along his lower lip. He is looking down at the floor, saying nothing, his mind elsewhere. The ref gathers himself up off the floor, brushes off the dust, and skedaddles out the back door.

“Okay, Lynch. Let’s get this show on the road.” Fister laughs, a little hollowly. “Boys,” he shouts across the room at the patrons, “everybody place their bets?”

No answer. Fister leaves his elbow on the top of the bar, his fist pointing to the ceiling.

(To be continued)

Monday, September 28, 2009

The Dump (2)

When the two men take positions opposite each other at the bar, somebody in the crowd shouts, “Take him out, Greg.” The crowd laughs raucously, and a few people applaud the heckler.

Fister just beams back at the crowd, so sure of himself that he pays no mind to the haters in the crowd. He will win them over, he’s sure.

Lynch plants his elbow on top of the bar, his bicep bulging and the veins of his forearm fat and swollen. Fister grins, wiping the sweat off his torso with a small towel, the better to shine in the spotlight focused on the two fighters. He dries his hand and fixes it up against Lynch’s.

Lynch puts on his deadpan fight face, but Fister’s eyes dart out to the audience, as if wondering how they like him, a fake fast-frozen smile on his face.

“Let’s get on with this, Feister.”

“Let the crowd get off on the show a little.” Fister whispers hoarsely. “They couldn’t give a rat’s ass about the competition. It’s just another meat market to them. Lighten up. It’s entertainment, not the friggin Olympics. Wrestling’s just an excuse to show our gunz off.”

Lynch winces. He knows Fister is about 70% right. The owner of The Dump cares jack shit about sports. His number one concern is money, his number two concern is money, and his number three concern is to keep the customers with money drunk and distracted enough that they leave a fat wad of that money behind at The Dump.

The ref puts both his hands on either sides of the opponents’ hands, holding them steady and at dead center.

The ref pulls his hands away and yells, “Start.” The two arms strain against the other, motionless at first, then they begin to quiver with the strain.

Lynch got a clear advantage much earlier in his other match-ups, even in the touch-and-go struggle with Lucas. He has to admit to himself now that, for all his showboating, Fister is sturdy, tough competition.

Beads of sweat collect on both men’s foreheads. The veins at Fister’s temples begin to bulge, his face going bright pink. Lynch concentrates on the back of his own hand, willing it to push forward, confident that, if he were so determined, it can bend steel.

Just as Lynch begins to feel Tom’s arm give, Fister jerks his hand away, breaking the grip.

(To be continued)

Sunday, September 27, 2009

The Dump

Here's another story I cowrote with an online friend and reader of Ringside, who wishes to remain anonymous. Broken into segments, the story will probably take just over two weeks to unfold. I've made some corrections, mostly for consistency and concision. Other changes were made, too, for personal reasons and possible legal considerations. Hope you enjoy.


It’s mid-week, hump day, Wednesday night, and things are slow at The Dump.

No fights scheduled tonight because the crowd is too small to pay the basic purse. So Management improvises: the fighters will pose off, then arm-wrestle. The winner of the match continues till he’s beaten. This way the fighters get a chance to earn a few bucks as they pose, as well as build up a fan base among the customers. Besides, it will help drink sales, and money is the owner’s main interest.

Greg Lynch, a six-foot tall, dark-haired stud weighing 193 pounds, wins the first match. Lynch pins the arm of bright-faced young college wrestler Bryan.

Next he faces the power of Doug Lucas, a bulky ring wrestler with a temper. Lynch and Lucas lock up on the bar; their clash seesaws back and forth as they struggle for a pin. Then Lynch slams Lucas down with such power he breaks two bones in Lucas’s right hand. Lucas is ushered off, fuming.

The management chooses the next opponent at random. The crowd groans when they hear the speakers announce ‘Tom Feister.”

“Fister,” as he likes to be called, is a six-foot-one, 197-pound stud with long blond hair. His body is hard and built. He looks more like a bodybuilder than a fighter. At The Dump, Fister is known for his attitude—and penchant for grandstanding.

Fister walks across the bar and stands next to Lynch. He shakes out his thigh muscles before tightening them to show off his quads. His calf muscle flares out, diamond shaped in the back. Lynch matches the blond fighter for overall size but is nowhere near as ripped. Greg flexes his leg too but good-naturedly concedes that Fister’s is the better developed.

Greg lifts both arms in a double-bicep pose. Tom leans in as if needing to get close to see the muscles. As Lynch holds the pose, Fister looks over his arm and squeezes his bulging bicep. He then shoves his own arm in Doug's face, pointing up his peaked muscle, drolly asking the champ, “Is this the look you were hoping for?”

Fister’s arm is criss-crossed with veins as he holds his arm under Lynch’s nose. Sweat runs from the blond-brown tuft of hair hid deep in the corner of Fister’s armpit. Fister raises both arms overhead as the crowd cheers his physique. Lynch places his hands on his hips, going into a lat spread in response. Fister slaps Lynch’s abs with the back of his hand. His hands move to his hips as his back flares out, showing off his lat spread.

Lynch’s lip curls as he watches Fister preen and gloat.

(To be continued)

Wednesday, September 23, 2009

Dynamite in Small Form

Okay, guys, count this as one of my unaccountable tastes. Blow me if you can't appreciate midget wrestling for the art form it is. I just think the little fighters, with their low centers of gravity, put up a good fight—“pound for pound,” as the announcer says. I don’t even see it as funny (or camp)—just good kayfabe wrestling, fun in bite-size bodyslams.

Little Tokyo & Ivan the Terrible versus Lone Eagle & Cowboy Lang

from UniversalWrestling on YouTube

Saturday, September 12, 2009

The Hollywood Brunettes

Somewhere between my long-running jones for Kyle Matthews and my amused distaste for feathery wrestling costumes, the Hollywood Brunettes (Andrew Alexander and Kyle Matthews) hold a solid (firm and hard) place in my heart.

The tag team’s name, of course, is a riff on the original Hollywood Blonds (Buddy Roberts and Jerry Brown) in the 1970s NWA—who dropped the feminine “e” in their name—out of either a healthy respect for gender-correct spelling or concerns about hinky sexual connotations. Though tough, dispassionate fighters in the ring (i.e. they don’t “play gay” for the crowd), the Brunettes apparently ha

The MySpace profile labels the glittery duo as “Straight.” But the fellas camp it up a bit in their interests section:

The Hollywood Brunettes only jam the hottest tracks. They love their girls Jessica (Simpson), Lindsey (Lohan), and Paris (Hilton). They wish Brit would get her act together, 'cause girlfriends lost her damn mind. Diddy always throws the sickest parties. A Squared LOVES Kel Clar and they're obviously both down with Evanescence.

… versus Thunder & Lightning, ProSouth Wrestling, Piedmont, Alabama, 24 April 2009

Friday, September 11, 2009

Matt Boyce

Matt Boyce, WWE and NWA wrestler, 6’, 190#

Adding to his appeal (to me) are some two-year-old gay rumors. Spurious innuendo or not, they get the imagination turning ... in a nice way.

versus Shawn Shultz (18 April 2009)

versus Lani Kealoha (20 June 2009)

@ NWA Main Event Classic’s on YouTube

Josh Magnum

"Josh Magnum"! When wrestler names and porn names collide, you know you've got my FULL attention. Magnum, 5'10", 185#, hails from South Carolina and wrestles just up north in my home state for NWA Charlotte.

At Marie’s (7)

As Chris kneeled, holding his balls, JJ spun, ramming a knee to the side of Chris’s skull. Chris was knocked sideways into the gravel, cutting his arm and shoulder badly. As Chris strained to push himself up, a kick in the ass sent him tumbling, slamming into the dumpster.

Chris’s world spun wildly around him as he clamored on his hands and knees, trying to figure which way was up. He saw John John approach and drove his fist into his belly. JJ doubled over groaning as Chris fell back to the gravel. Chris held onto the side of the greasy dumpster, trying to pull himself to his feet. He opened the sliding side door. The smell nearly made Chris heave again as the odor of rotten food and stale beer hit him.

Chris was bent over with his hands on his knees, struggling to keep from vomiting again as JJ pulled himself to standing. JJ grabbed Chris by the head, and the two young studs battled to slam the other into the filthy metal container.

Chris braced himself with his left hand on the dumpster as his right hand held JJ by the hair. JJ jerked Chris’s arm, causing him to fall against the dumpster, his left arm falling through the open door. JJ grabbed Chris’s left arm, slamming it down to the metal edge. Chris howled as his arm went numb with pain. JJ shoved Chris’s head into the opening and then pulled the sliding door closed, slamming Chris’s head in the gap.

JJ slipped on the gravel, crashing to the ground, as Chris hung caught in the doorway. Chris struggled to free himself, finally pulling his head free, only to drop backwards, slamming down on the gravel next to John John.

Both men, lying side by side, on the gravel bore on their bodies the record of every blow dealt in the fight. Their minds, though, were relatively clean of memory—and they were both drunk enough that, though keenly felt at the moment of impact, the pain was not sustained for long … not, at least, until they woke up tomorrow.

Chris barely managed to get his arm up so he could reach out and put his hand on John John’s shoulder.

“Good fight,” he mumbled. “The best.”

“Good fight,” JJ muttered in reply.

Both guys were halfway smiling, blood coating their teeth like sticky jam.

Chris concentrated on breathing, looking up at the stars, getting his bearings back. JJ rolled painfully to his side and placed the palm of his hands flat on Chris’s bruised chest. It then slid down to Chris’s abs, the fingers tracing squiggles through the blood and sweat.

Is this what I think it is? Chris wondered to himself.

JJ’s hand slipped under the elastic of Chris’s Batman briefs. At first it caressed the curlicues of Chris’s dark auburn pubes. Chris sighed and pushed himself up to John John’s hand. His cock was getting stiffer. Then, without warning, JJ gripped and twisted Chris’s balls and dick. Chris screamed out in panic and pain. JJ pulled himself up to his knees, scooped Chris up by his crotch and his head. In wobbly jerks, like a power weightlifter hefting his limit—JJ rose to his feet. Chris’s body shivered; tears welled up in his eyes. JJ hurled Chris into the open mouth of the dumpster and slammed the door shut behind him.

Face down in some brown lettuce leaves and cold leftover chili, Chris heaved up what was left of his dinner of nachos and beer. Chris’s metallic drumming shivered through his bones. Then the noise stopped—and he heard JJ’s voice, his mouth right next to a crack in the sliding door: “Excellent fight, my friend. If you ever want to party some more, you can always reach me on Faceoff. Oh, and by the way, bud, I’m leaving your number on the windshields of the vehicles we just busted up. Be sure and call your insurance company in the morning ….”

Chris groaned. John John’s crazy, drunken laughter faded into the newly breaking dawn. Chris inhaled the stench of his makeshift bedding and dropped off into a dead faint.

(End of story)

Thursday, September 10, 2009

At Marie’s (6)

JJ was fresh out of clever shit talk. He bounced on his feet, and his pecs flexed every time his feet hit earth again. “Get up! Fuck. It’s like I’m fightin my 60-year-old gramma.”

“Gramma like –iggo ur mud smuch.”

JJ couldn’t make out the words and bounded up to Chris’s feet. “Whazzat, boss?” With a jolt coming out of nowhere, Chris kicked straight up and smashed JJ’s nads.

“I said, ‘Gramma like kickin yer nuts much?’”

JJ folded in two, yowling. Chris gingerly got up and smashed his elbow between JJ’s shoulder blades, driving the kid to the ground at his feet.

“Don’t be kissin my feet now, bud. Too late.”

He yanked John John up by his hair and left shoulder, then reached down and grabbed the elastic at the back of JJ’s briefs and steadied the guy’s head under his arm … backing up onto the asphalt … backing up … not there yet … backing up some more. Then bending his knees slightly, he scooped JJ up high over his head and landed him on his back on the hood of the already badly dented Ford.

If this were a cartoon, JJ’s dazed, spreadeagle body would have left a perfect mold of itself on the car hood. As it is, the whole hood just buckled up on JJ’s all-but-unconscious figure.

JJ lay dazed in the impression on the car hood. As he groaned, trying to focus, Chris lined up a shot, driving his fist down to John John’s forehead. JJ’s head snapped back, bouncing off the fender, before coming to rest, dangling against the side of the Ford.

JJ”s body slowly slid off the hood, falling next to the car. Chris pulled him up, only to drive him head first into the roof of the car. JJ hit and staggered back, dropping into the bed of a nearby parked truck. Chris followed John John to retrieve him for more punishment.

As Chris neared the truck, JJ mule-kicked backward. His foot drove between Chris thighs and rammed him in the balls. “Aiiiieeeeehhhhhhhh!” Chris let out a squeak as he held his nuts. Chris sank to his knees, his face frozen in agony.

JJ dragged himself off the truck bed, turning to face Chris. He was barely able to keep it together as he swayed back and forth. His face was badly cut and bloodied, and his movements were stiff as he moved after Chris.

(To be continued)

Wednesday, September 9, 2009

At Marie’s (5)

“Get up punk. You got more coming, and youre gonna pay for rooning the shorts too.”

JJ sat upright. “Fuck man! What’s yer problem? Here, take my shorts if itll make ya fuckin happy.” JJ tossed his shoes away and slid his shorts from under him. The back of his Under Armor underwear was pulled down, revealing a section of crack and his smooth white ass. John John held the shorts up, offering them to Chris. Chris jerked them from JJ and grabbed the outstretched arm, pulling JJ up into him. Chris squeezed his arms around JJ’s waist, lifting him in a front bearhug.

As Chris tightened his grip grinding their chests and crotches together, JJ pounded his fists on Chris’s strong lats, wanting to break the hold. JJ moaned as his chest was crushed by Chris’s powerful arms. JJ swung his leg around the back of Chris’s, slamming his heel into the back of Chris’s knee. Chris fell back, taking John John with him. They slammed down to the gravel, JJ again landing on top of Chris.

JJ was unhurt and mounted Chris’s hips. He began pounding lefts and rights to Chris’s pecs and abs. As Chris began to mouth-off again, JJ rammed him in the jaw, snapping his head to the side and closing his mouth.

Having caught his second wind and more lucidity than he’d had in an hour at least, John John pulled himself to his feet. Hopping backwards, jabbing the air in front of him, while Chris rubbed his aching jaw and groggily got himself up on this elbows.

There was a smirk on JJ’s face, and for the moment that smirk was all Chris could see. Then John John swooped down, knees on Chris’s ribs, left hand grabbing Chris up by his right ear, right hand delivering freshly minted punches to Chris’s mouth. There was a crack, and Chris figured he’d lost a filling at least.

JJ again hopped to his feet. The pure aggro of the last 20 minutes rushed through his veins. He did an enthusiastic back flip on the scraggly, weedy grass.

Some kung-fu kicks to the air in front of his head.

“Get up, Chris. What about that lickin you were gonna give me for your shorts? No, wait, was that IT, just then? Cuz, I don’t know, it sure di’n’t come off like any lickin I ever heard of.”

Chris spat blood and something that looked like a piece of tooth on the ground next to his head.

“Keep jawin, John Boy. You’ll get what’s comin to ya.”

(To be continued)

Tuesday, September 8, 2009

At Marie’s (4)

“Hey, John Boy, you! C’m-‘ere. I got a BONE to pick with you.”

Not at his smartest at this particular hour in his life, JJ swayed back.

“G’NIGHT JOHHHN BOY,” Chris hollered, as he landed a roundhouse kick again to JJ’s abs. The handsome kid bent over double, with a loud groan. Chris laughed and grabbed JJ’s head and pulling it in directly to his kneecap. JJ crumpled and fell on the sharp gravel. Chris kicked his ribs with the pointy steel tip of his leather boot. AAAARGH, JJ groaned as he rolled over on his back.

Chris bent down and helped lift his new friend to his feet. No sooner was he up and standing, JJ dove into Chris with both fists swinging. Chris responded in kind, and for a couple of minutes the two of them managed to stay upright simply through the force of the fast and steady blows they exchanged.

Chris got a good grip on JJ’s head and pulled it up under his right armpit, jabbing his nose and mouth with quick, close-range jabs from the left.

“Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck FUCK.”

The two of them spun around as if crazily propelled by the force of Chris’s repeated left uppercut. Dizzily, then, the two of them collapsed together on the grassy edge of the parking lot—with John John landing on top of Chris.

The two men lay in a heap on the grass. JJ rolled off Chris, and both men were now on their backs gasping for air as they took a break. Chris sat up first. He spit again, trying to get the taste of bile from his throat. John John remained still. His hands moved to his head, but he made no effort to rise.

Chris looked over at JJ. He slapped his open hand down on JJ’s belly with a loud WHACK. JJ grunted as a red impression of a hand slowly developed on his abs. Chris tried to stand but was still too woozy, so he dropped back down on his ass. JJ began to chuckle at Chris’ dilemma. Another shot to the belly, this time with a closed fist, made JJ stop.

Chris managed to pull himself to his feet, steadying himself against a tree. He looked down at the bloody smears and chunks of puke on his shorts.

“Fuck,” he said, as he began to kick off his boots and strip out of his stained shorts. Chris now stood barefoot, wearing only a pair of low-rise, Batman-patterned briefs. The pouch hung low from the weight of Chris’s big cock and balls. He pulled at the strap getting comfortable as he called to John John.

(To be continued)

Monday, September 7, 2009

At Marie’s (3)

“Zip yer fly for Chrissake.” JJ said. As Chris dropped his guard to look down at his crotch, JJ stepped in, bringing his fist up, slamming Chris square in the nose. Chris’s head snapped back, then his body followed. Chris stammered for a few steps falling back on the trunk of a Honda. Blood flowed down his face and chest. Chris was dazed but he didn’t feel the pain of his mashed nose.

Chris slid off the car, leaving a sweaty smudge where he had landed. He scurried back into the fighter’s stance, calling JJ back in. As they moved at each other, Chris grabbed JJ by the hair and drove his fist deep into the young man’s belly. JJ groaned as he doubled over, falling to his knees. Before JJ could regret finishing the last plate of nachos, Chris’s foot slammed into his chest, knocking JJ flat on the gravel parking lot.

Chris stomped on JJ’s chest knocking the wind from him. He pulled JJ up by his arm, stones and gravel embedded in his muscled back. Chris swung JJ, slamming him back against the Ford. The door buckled and paint nicked as JJ leaned, stunned.

Chris was confident as he controlled the fight. He grabbed the front of JJ’s waistband, taking careful aim at his belly button. Before Chris could deliver the blow, JJ kicked him in the gut, making Chris retch up a pile of foamy nachos.

As Chris spewed, John John started to giggle. Uncontrollably, though every yuck sent painful spasms from his head to his feet. But laughing so hard also made him a bit queasy, so he bent over holding on to the side of the Ford for balance. Nothing. A single dry heave that racked his chest with a gassy ache.

Chris found a dried out oil rag on the ground and used it to wipe his mouth. He also swiped at some tiny bloody bubbles on his left pec.

“God DAMN it,” he growled, mad at everything and anything now. “You see that? You SEE that? Fuckin losht dinner, cuz of YOU, y’faggot asshole.”

JJ tried to start to giggle again, but he just didn’t have it in him now: “I di’n’t force you to east … east … eat like a fuckin … I don’t know what.”

The smell of oil on the rag brought up a fresh eruption of corn mush, sour cream, and bottled jalapenos from Chris’s gorge. Sympathetically, JJ held Chris’s cold-sweaty forehead in his hand as Chris voided the last of his second jumbo basket of chips.

Chris pushed the hand away. He spat to clean the sick taste out his mouth and kicked some dirt and gravel over the mess he’d made. JJ staggered off looking at the stars in the sky.

(To be continued)

Sunday, September 6, 2009

Late Last Night after Beer and Weed


You wanna fight me?




So, what is it? You want to hurt me?


Maybe? What does that mean?

I think we have some business we need to work out. Man to man.

By fighting?

It’s one way.

Can’t we just talk? Scream at each other like normal people?

A fight is better.

You want to hurt me, don’t you? You really wanna bust me all up.

Yeah. I think so. I think I want to make you cry.

Cry? Cry?

Like a baby. You like wrestling, right? You’re always on me to tussle. Rip and strip. This’ll be like wrestling. Only we’ll notch it up some. No rules, no tapping out.

Punching? Knock out?

Maybe, maybe. We got serious shit to settle.

Like what?

Don’t fuckin pretend on me. You know. And we’re not ‘talking it out’ this time.

Not talking about it?

No, we’re settling it.

So you want to beat me up.

That’s it.

In the basement. On the futons.

Unless you want us to take this outside.

No, the basement’s better.

I think so. This matter is private. You and me. No point in giving the neighbors a show.

What if I beat you up instead?

Could happen.

What if I am the victor? Then it’s still settled?

It would be settled, yeah. But you won't beat me.

I could.

Yeah, but not likely. I got more muscle, I’m younger, and I’m the one who’s pissed off.

What good will hurting me do?

Some. Some good. I think mostly it will make me feel better. You got it coming too. You needed somebody to kick your ass your whole life.

But you could get hurt. I could seriously hurt you.

It’s why it’s called a ‘fight,’ bro. Guys get hurt. Guys hurt each other. But one guy wins, the other guy loses. It’s not a fine point—things get squared that way.

How bad is this gonna be then?

Bad. It could be really bad. I wanna bloody you up. I wanna paint my fists with you. I wanna damage you.

And make me cry.

And make you squirm and cry. Maybe even knock you out. Yeah, I’d like that. I’d like to bust your nose and knock you out. Haven’t you ever wanted to bloody me up?

Yeah but I didn’t.

Why not? Too civilized?


This is better. Fighting is better.

But we’re talking now. We can talk.

Not much longer.

Okay here’s my theory. You really want me to fuck you. That’s it. We’ll go down to the basement, throw some lame-ass punches, talk some shit, practice our holds, but when all is said and done you’ll be face down on the mattress, your cottons rolled down over that bubble butt, begging me to bury myself in you.

My theory is ‘you wish.’

You just want to feel me on top of you.

No, bro, I think this is what happens: We go down to the basement, we warm up with a few throws, we spar, you get in two or three or maybe even four lucky punches, which make you feel cocky, a little arrogant, while I’m busy finding my center. Then the moment will come that I zero in on you, and—you won’t even see it coming, bro—and then I’m on top of you like hot sauce, and I’m wailing away on you, knees in your ribs, knuckles in your wet squishy face, and you’re crying … like a little kid … begging me to stop, but I don’t stop, I keep blasting, and I don’t stop till that haughty smirk you got on your mouth right there disappears because now it’s nothing more than bloody pulp sticking on my fists.

You’ve given this some thought.

That I have.

We can still fix this by talking about it.

It’s gonna be a fight. A real flesh-and-bones fight. If I could, I’d rip your fuckin heart out of your chest. Hear? We’ll roll out the futons just so I don’t accidentally kill you or something. But we are fighting, for real, serious. You brought this on yourself, bro. And you know it. And if you win, if I end up getting the shit kicked out of me, okay—I can’t see it happening that way, but, okay, I would accept it, because at least we will have done something really real about it for once.

You can’t wait to take a piece outa me, can you? Just look at your eyes. They're lit.

I cannot wait. Those words are true. And it’s gonna feel good, I have to tell you. It’s gonna feel right. So unless you want me to start busting up your house, your Swedish furniture, your glass thingies, we need to head down to the basement.

And fight like savages.

Like wild men, bro, like wild men. Now.

He's a Lightweight

Sean Royal versus Ricky Nelson, a quick-and-easy squash on NWA/WCW, 22 August 1987, via matbaskin

At Marie’s (2)

“Sit down.” Chris called to the waitress: “Another mug, miss. And might as well get another pitcher ready.”

JJ laughed, tugged at his shirt, looked around the place.

“You been here before? Like, bro, I’ve heard of this place, lots of times, but this is my first time here.”

“I’ve been here a few times. I’m not a regular. On principle I’m opposed to anonymous, casual rumbles. I like to at least know a guy’s name first.”

JJ chuckled. His forehead grew a few beads of sweat. His face flushed slightly. “Yeah, me too … Chris?”

“One and only. In the flesh. And you’re ‘John-John’?” Chris asked dubiously.

JJ nodded, then downed three quarters of a mug as soon as the waitress poured it for him. A dumb, nervous grin on his face.

“Calm down, John-Boy. It’s gonna be a long night.”

It was quarter to one.

The guys chatted for hours—wrestling, fights, favorite fighters, working out, and sex were the main topics of the conversation. Both agreed they would rather fuck the other than have to put their dick in a skanky-hole that passed for pussy at Marie’s. Six pitchers of beer and three plates of nachos later, the guys were feeling pretty good and cocky; they were also told they had to get out at four a.m.

By now JJ had stripped off his wifebeater and tied it around his head to soak up his sweat. The two studs paid their bill and stumbled out into the empty parking lot. Nearly everyone was gone by now. The cars that remained were Marie’s staff or drunken customers who had found another way home. Chris pissed on the side of a Ford as JJ emptied his bulging bladder on the dumpster.

“W-well, lets do thish.” Chris said slurring his words.

“Show what you got fucker!” JJ snapped back as he waivered side to side.

Chris tugged at his cargo shorts, raised his fists and stumbled at JJ. As JJ moved sideways, the two young hunks jabbed at each other, neither really landing a punch.

(To be continued)

Saturday, September 5, 2009

At Marie’s

The following is a story (in 7 parts) I co-wrote via e-mail a while back with a reader of Ringside, who requested anonymity. We used the pictures above as inspiration and wrote the story in tandem over a week or so.


Weekends after one, Marie’s Creole Kitchen and Roadhouse was something. Guys off the oil rigs, frat boys with chips on their shoulders, Army guys gunning for a story to write home about, and ordinary bored construction workers like Chris would congregate looking for whatever kind of shit there was to find and stir up. Weekends it was well known that Marie’s was the place for a certain kind of rough and tumble. Sure, you could depend on Marie’s for at least six flat-out brawls a weekend—occasionally with knives and nunchaku, but usually just fists and muscle—really really drunk fists and muscle.

Chris looked around. He was beginning to wonder whether the guy on, who called himself “John-John,” was for real. The picture looked good—smooth brown-haired guy showing off his Under Armour label—but for all Chris knew it was a photo of a famous fitness model, because Chris knew shit about models and movie stars. He couldn’t even pick Ashton Kutcher out of a lineup. Not for a million dollars. What Chris knew was jackhammers and asphalt.

Though it wasn’t typical, Chris and this John-John guy had agreed to meet at Marie’s, trade war stories and talk trash over multiple beers, and, right when they were feeling indestructible, stagger out to the dark side of Marie’s parking lot and slug it out—just for kicks. Chris was there, as advertised, shirtless, in off-white cargo pants, and a honey-and-black velour skullcap. 6’2”, 200#, close-cropped auburn hair, jet black beady eyes, and a distinctive phoenix tattoo along his left side.

Nobody fitting John-John’s description to be seen. Just the usual crew of roughnecks and two or three skuzzy old women who barely counted as hominids anymore.

Chris took a booth and ordered a pitcher of Yuengling. About the time the girl—one of the original Marie’s daughters or nieces or whatever—delivered it, the broad-shouldered, curly-haired Adonis from the Faceoff ad walked through the door—wearing a loose-fitting yellow wifebeater and black shorts and sneakers. As advertised, this John-John (if that was really his name) looked a couple years younger than Chris, 6’2”, 200#, and skin as clear and smooth as cream cheese.

“I’m late. Been waitin long?” JJ had a forced off-handedness, like a lot of shy people do when meeting people for the first time.

(To be continued)

Friday, September 4, 2009

Lucky Dog (25)

Bud hit the coffee table and tumbled over to the other side, face down on the floor. Geoff reached him in four long strides. He kicked the back of his head with the heel of his boot, pounding Bud’s nose and mouth to the terrazzo.

At that point, Matt had had enough of being an onlooker. He rushed and tackled Geoff hard and drove him off Bud and across the floor to the opposite wall.

The naked youth grappled Geoff to his back. Matt’s knees pinched Geoff’s upper thighs, and his right shoulder on Geoff’s chest fixed the man firmly to the floor.

Geoff muscled vainly to escape the 184-pounder’s pin. His right hand ended up wedged behind his back, but with his free hand he grabbed a fistful of the kid’s tousled brown hair and yanked it back against the wall.

Matt flexed backward, arms outstretched, revealing two jet-black patches of hair in his pits, before the back of his head and shoulders slammed to the wall. Geoff turned in to him and pressed the kid’s left shoulder back. Geoff kicked Matt’s abdominals with his knee. Matt fired a few punches to Geoff’s face in return. Geoff heaved himself up and came back down, elbowing the boy’s forehead.

Geoff staggered to his feet, yanked the kid up to his feet by his hair. He stepped back three steps, swirled, and delivered a nasty boot kick to the boy’s chin. The heel of Geoff’s boot split open Matt’s chin. The blow’s impact sent Matt flying backwards.

He landed on a squat bookcase, smashing a lamp against the wall. Two or three ceramic shards cut Matt’s skin. Matt leapt back to his feet, only to be knocked down again by Geoff’s hard left.

Geoff jumped Matt and delivered three five wild punches to the kid’s already dazed face. He pulled the kid towards him, away from the corner. The boy’s moist skin was rubbery to the touch. He steadied Matt on his feet, and backed off, braced to deliver another roundhouse kick to the boy’s face.

Geoff swirled, but found himself face to face with Bud. Bud grabbed his throat in one fist and pushed him back to the wall. With the other fist, he smashed Geoff in the mouth.

Swallowing blood, Geoff tried to speak. His cock was hard and sore. Inside, he felt as if it he’d just swallowed a boxful of lit fireworks. Bud steadied his fist about two feet from Geoff’s face. Geoff saw the sinews bunch and the veins pop on Bud’s forearm.

Bud cocked his arm back another five inches, and Geoff saw the fist hurling towards his face. And that’s the last thing he ever saw.

(End of story)

Thursday, September 3, 2009

Lucky Dog (24)

Geoff grabbed Bud’s left ear and smashed the heel of his left hand up on Bud’s nose. He felt a hot huff of air against his palm and then a spurt of blood as the cartilage gave with an audible snap.

Bud let go of Geoff’s cock and punched his sternum again and again, each blow harder than the last, as if he meant to smash through it to rip Geoff’s heart out by the roots.

Geoff clawed at Bud’s face, his fingernails snagging in the flesh. He thrust up his knees to batter the side of Bud’s ribcage.

Then he grabbed Bud by the hair and slammed his head to his kneecaps. Bud’s blood spattered the chest of Geoff’s sweatshirt. The bottom half of Bud’s face was now one ugly vermilion smear.

Bud dropped on top of Geoff’s upper body. His head throbbing, he stretched his arms in either direction, grabbed Geoff by his cock and one ear, lifted him about a foot off the stone-and-concrete floor, and slammed him back down, driving his left shoulder to Geoff’s ribs on impact.

Geoff’s body convulsed. At the back of his tongue, Geoff tasted bitter gastric juices and stale beer. A small amount of the sickly yellow liquid spurt through his lips to his chin.

Bud reared back and hammered Geoff in the mouth. The new dentures popped out in two broken pieces and tumbled on the floor like wet, sticky dice.

Geoff’s knees flexed up, slamming Bud’s shoulder, and Geoff rolled over backwards sweeping Bud along with him. One knee landed on the bridge of Bud’s nose.

Geoff hauled himself unsteadily to his feet, one fist grasping the front of Bud’s T-shirt, the other, the front waist of his jeans. He forced Bud up to a standing position, then grabbing him by the scruff of his T, he swung him to the wall.

Two small framed pictures shattered on the floor, broken glass fanned out at their feet.

Geoff pinned Bud’s body to the wall and let loose a barrage of blows to his lower ribs, intent on finding one he could bust.

Bud pushed back, refusing to be hemmed in.

Geoff tugged the back of Bud’s T-shirt up to his shoulders. The gnarled cotton bit into Bud’s armpits. Geoff hauled Bud away from the wall by the back of his shirt and hurled him cross the room.

(To be continued)

Wednesday, September 2, 2009

Lucky Dog (23)

Bud Shellen and Geoff Harvey crashed against the sofa in the living room. Shellen was plugging his fist to Geoff's face so fast that Geoff felt he had just been jumped by a stitching machine.

Cut nylon cord still dangling from his neck and ribs severely bruised, Matt stood naked in the bedroom doorway and watched. If Shellen needed help, he was ready to jump in, and part of him wanted a crack at this lunatic anyway.

Bud grabbed Geoff’s head under his armpit, locked it in between his bulging bicep and heaving ribs. He arched his back, thrusting his hips forward, cranking Geoff’s neck upwards. He wanted to bust that neck. Geoff drove blunted punches into Bud’s hips. He reached up behind him and clawed at Bud’s eyes.

Blinded, Bud continued to thrust forward and pull his shoulders back further. Geoff screamed in agony, and his hands fell away from Bud’s face. Bud stood up, pulling Geoff up to his feet. His heart pounded against Geoff’s ears. Geoff felt his head growing numb and tingling. He shoved his shoulder hard against Bud’s chest. Bud pushed back and the two of them tumbled over the coffee table. Bud on top, Geoff’s back grinding against an ashtray and a couple of magazines. Geoff’s white sweatshirt had worked its way up to his ribs.

Geoff raised his knee and drove the heel of his boot to the small of Bud’s back. Bud retaliated with a vicious twist to Geoff’s captive neck—almost too much for Geoff to bear. Bud rolled backward in the opposite direction, pulling himself and Geoff off the table, and rolled Geoff over himself. He got up on one knee and, continuing to work Geoff’s neck under his arm, jabbed his knee to the exposed belly.

Looking on, Matt was impressed with the way Bud was making short work of this crazy asshole he had never seen before. The ferocity on Bud’s face had grown out of the fear he’d seen there when Bud first walked into the bedroom and found Matt’s bruised and bound body at the foot of the bed.

Bud banged his knee to Geoff’s tenderized abdominals again and again. Accidentally, his leg slid down to Geoff’s crotch, and he felt Geoff’s cock, long and stiff as a nightstick, under his pants. This fruitcake was charging up even as the shit was being kicked out of him.

Bud let go of Geoff’s head and rolled off. He came back with a roundhouse to Geoff’s jaw, just as the insane perv was trying to rise up. He planted his knee on top of Geoff’s heart. Then he dug under the waist of Geoff’s pants and grabbed his hard member in his right fist. He used the stick as a handle and hauled Geoff’s butt up clear off the terrazzo floor, only to slam it back down and hard. Geoff howled as Bud repeated the thrust.

(To be continued)

Tuesday, September 1, 2009

Lucky Dog (22)

Dreaming, Geoff ran through the expected showdown with Shellen. He was speaking them, but he could not understand his own words. The tone of voice was obviously defiant. Then Shellen replied in loud, manly gobbledygook as well—he evidently spoke nobly, with emphasis, but again Geoff could not make out a single word.

Then the Dream Shellen stopped speaking and glared at Geoff like a noble chieftain, like one of the savages he had just seen in the movie on TV. Geoff was at a loss for words, but the cartoon puppy on his chest began to stage-whisper instructions to him. At this point, Geoff suspected he might be dreaming.

A loud shout caught his attention, and he looked up and saw the Belgian boy wrestler, Hubert, in the flimsiest excuse for body covering Geoff had ever seen on a man. The boy’s arm and leg muscles undulated, as if they were constrictors swallowing small dogs whole. They stood in a ring surrounded by bright lights, facing off.

The blond boy wrestler’s well-oiled body glistened in transcendent light. Like an angel. Never in his life had Geoff seen anything so beautiful, he thought.

The brightness of the boy’s body seemed to have its own sort of gravity, as Geoff felt himself being pulled towards it.

Soon the brightness overtook the boy, and the outline of his ideal physique faded in the overwhelming glow.

In a flash, Geoff realized he was naked, covered head to toe with swarming ants.

Another loud noise—a crashing sound—woke Geoff up. His eyes opened to a bright colorless sky. He pulled himself up to his feet. The skin on his face tingled. It felt stiff and sore. He crept gingerly back into the bungalow through the back door.

“What the fuck!” It was Shellen’s all-too-clear voice, shouting. The voice was choking with emotion. He heard another, lower voice mumbling something, too low for Shellen to understand the words.

He half-sleepwalked to the bedroom doorway. He prepared himself to say something like “So we meet at last face to face” or “I have a bone to pick with you, Bud Shellen.” But when he got to the bedroom, he just stood there.

Shellen was bent down over the kid, but hearing Geoff’s foot bump against the base of the door, he swerved and jumped to his feet. Geoff braced himself to speak first, to throw down a challenge, but he didn’t get the chance. In less than a second, Shellen tackled him, leapt on him with all his weight, and started bashing his face in with both fists.

(To be continued)


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