Justice for All

Justice vs Duke, Mat Rats 94 (Thunder's Arena)

Every two months for the past three years Thunder's Arena finds a new stud that makes me totally lose my shit*. The latest is Justice. I reflexively clutch my crotch with one hand as I type the name with the other. The name is a small but significant part of the draw, justice being my pro wrestling angle of choice. It helps that Justice the man has MMA creds and a look I associate with the military. And as I mentioned ten days ago, I'm drawn to his jobber-whisperer voice. This is his first match, taking on and humbling the forever pouty Duke.

An openhanded shove to Duke's shoulder expresses Justice's readiness to wrestle. Has there ever been in the whole history of guys being guys a more seductive gesture? A minute into the video, Duke still wants to pose, but Justice has waited long enough. "You know what I like?" Justice purrs. "I like to wrestle." He scoops the drowsy-looking blond up and drops him in a backbreaker. A full nelson and bear hug get Duke in the mood, too, retaliating with a schoolboy pin, crotch to chin, as he finishes his posing routine with a double biceps pose. Justice bucks him off and spends most of the next eighteen minutes mopping the mat with the blond's butt.

Typically of the Arena, there's not a whole lot of drama to link hold to hold in a continuous line. But Justice works every hold - from camel clutch to rear naked choke - with enough passion to suggest a complete story. The dude sells. Justice's future challenger Cason watches from a chair about four feet from the mat. No doubt he's sizing Justice up, but I suspect he's taking notes, too. Justice is a one-man seminar on the art of controlling one's opponent. There's an urgency to everything he does. As far as I'm concerned, Thunder's can't set this guy loose in a ring soon enough.

Every inch of Justice makes me squee. He's the Marlboro Man, Billy Jack, and every issue of Drummer  magazine rolled into one body. The sweaty forehead. The toothy smile. The pecs I want to bite. The inked biceps. Every curve, every meaty bulge, the whole body seems to radiate heat. He is the best definition of man  I've seen in a long while.

Visit Thunder's Arena here.

* First, there was Marco, then Eagle, then Profiteer, then Steel, then Scrappy, then Jake fucking Jenkins, then Beast, then Dolf, then Blayne (in two flavors - furry and smooth), then Ludwig, then Viking, then Duke, then Bart, then Finn McCool, then Iceman18 (boing!), then Mack, then Cason. Not a one of whom I would refuse to wrestle - despite significant bodily harm being a certainty. 


Popular Posts