The Dump (6)

Fister stops to pull Greg up by the hair, his brief pause gives Lynch a moment to capitalize on as he drives his knee into Fister’s inner thigh muscle dropping the blond stud to the mat. Lynch headlocks Fister delivering a flurry of punches to the side of his head. Tom is stunned but manages to wobble away as Lynch sets up a haymaker punch.

Lynch’s fist finds its mark as Tom is struck square between the eyes. Fister stumbles backwards as his eyes roll in his head trying to focus. Bloody trails run down Tom’s face as his forehead oozes a patch of crimson. Fister drops; he leans with both arms hanging over the top rope, still trying to regain his senses. Greg grabs the back of Fister’s hair whipping him around to face him. Almost as if by instinct, Fister whips out an elbow, slamming into the side of Lynch’s face. Blood sprays across the ring as Lynch’s lip and cheek are sliced open.

Before Lynch can attempt to control his bleeding, another elbow connects with his temple. The room is dark and spinning as Greg finds himself rolling on the mat trying to determine which way is up. Fister jerks Greg to his feet and slams his back against the ring post. Tom’s big hands slam into Greg’s chest and gut as Lynch remains trapped in the corner.

The crowd roars as Fister and Lynch exchange punches. Greg looks to be making a comeback as he again rams his knee into Tom. Only his rock-like abs save Fister from puking, as he turns the tables and slams his knee to Lynch’s gut. Greg is reeling after a series of knees to the body, followed by a European uppercut that nearly takes Greg’s head off.

Vim is worried and orders another drink; this one is a double.

He watches as Fister lifts Greg overhead, tossing him across the ring onto his back. The ring shakes as Greg hits the mat. Much to the amazement of many in the crowd, Greg staggers to his feet, shaking his head to clear it, and turns his burning glare towards Tom.

Lynch’s quick rebound startles Fister, who backs off, hands outstretched before him. Greg looks like a mad bull. The crowd practically sees the steam rise off his forehead, chest, and shoulders as he stalks the beefcake blond.

Tom backs against the ropes. He sticks his left leg through the top and middle ropes, pleading for a time out—his attention divided between the advancing fighter and the faces in the crowd, to whom he seems to look for help … or mercy.

No ref to stop him, Lynch plows right into Fister—for a second it looks like the whole ring could tip over from the impact. The smashup thrusts Tom far into the ropes and off his feet, his armpits snagged on the top rope. Greg pulls the middle rope up against the back of Fister’s neck, his biceps now pinched between the twisted top and middle ropes. His perfect Michelangelo torso is stretched out towards the crowd, thrilled to see the agony writhe through his taut sweaty muscles.

(To be continued)


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