Basketball Fight Stud


Every day at the school you could see him arrive. He stood six foot six, weighed 245. He was a senior, and the star center on Eisenhower High’s basketball team. Everybody called him Big John. When he stepped onto the court you could see he put in a lot of extra time in the weight room. Opposing players could see too, and they knew what was in store. His signature move was a powerful elbow, delivered to the solar plexus of an opponent driving to the basket when the ref was distracted. The opponent would usually cough up the ball, and Big John would run it the other way and slam a thunderous dunk that made the whole gym shake and evoked a chorus of ooohs and aaahs from adoring female fans; it was no coincidence that he wore #34 – Shaquille O’Neal’s number. Opposing teams would place bets in the locker room before the game on who would get The BJ Elbow that night. One player was foolish enough to horn in on one of Big John’s many girlfriends. He got The BJ Elbow full in the mouth two minutes into the first quarter, and spent the rest of the game in the dentist’s chair. Big John had a reputation for being as talented with the chicks as he was on the basketball court.

It was a warm early spring evening and Big John was going to the outdoor basketball courts the city set up to keep the kids off the streets. It was a nice place to practice his skills and snag some chicks. He was wearing his yellow Shaquille O’Neal jersey with baggy yellow shorts to match. There was a certain cockiness in the broad-shouldered athlete’s stride – 20-inch biceps and well defined delts swinging at his sides and a massive chest exuding power and virility. When he got to the court there was a girl in the stands watching her boyfriend lazily shoot some baskets. She was wearing a tank top from a recent 10-kilometer race and her arms made it plain that she was no stranger to the weight room. She wasn’t wearing a bra, and didn’t need one. Well-developed pecs pushed a pair of perfectly round 36C’s front and center, and Big John’s mouth watered at the prospect of getting those titties in it. Her legs were those of a distance runner; she could go all night, Big John thought. He was going to put a move on her, but first he’d have to get past the boyfriend. No matter. He was well built, but no match for Big John. Big John was always up for a fight, and something else was up for, well, something else. He swaggered cofidently onto the court, walked up to the boyfriend and announced, “Here’s how it’s done,” as he stole the ball, jumped up and slammed home a two-handed dunk. The hoop and stanchion shook violently, and would have collapsed had the city not installed “Shaq-proof” hoops; Big John had used those courts before. The boyfriend retrieved the ball. “Whaddya think you’re doing boy? That’s my ball.” “Who are you calling boy?” answered Big John. “You, boy” answered the boyfriend as he thrust the ball with both hands into Big John’s stomach. The ball bounced off the rock solid six pack hidden under Big John’s jersey. Big John kicked the ball away and guffawed. “That basketball-in-the-stomach trick won’t work with me. Now you’re in for a fight.”

Big John cocked his fists; something else was already cocked. The two combatants squared off. The boyfriend circled to his right in practiced steps, away from Big John’s power- or so he thought. Big John threw the first punch – a piston-like right jab that flicked off his foe’s left eye, followed immediately by a sledgehammer left cross that crashed into his nose and broke it. The boyfriend hadn’t figured Big John for a southpaw. Blood gushed onto the ground. A trickle of blood was flowing into the left eye; soon he wouldn’t be able to see out of it. A right backfist smashed into the boyfriend’s mouth; more blood spilled onto the ground along with a few teeth. Dazed, the boyfriend threw a flurry of weak punches that Big John easily parried and countered with a front kick to each kneecap delivered with his sturdy basketball shoes. The boyfriend hopped around. “Nice dance,” Big John taunted as he threw a roundhouse kick to the back of his foe’s right thigh that brought him down. He saw stars as his head hit the pavement. Big John dropped a knee hard onto the boyfriends stomach and a whoosh of air exited his bloodied mouth. “Nice mouse under your eye; how about another one to match?”, he said as he brought his left elbow down like a hammer blow onto his foe’s right eye. Next Big John methodically grabbed the thumb and forefinger of his foe’s right hand and bent them all the way back, then did the same with the left hand. There was a sickening sound as the bones cracked. Even if he could get up on his injured knees, he wouldn’t be able to make a fist with either hand. Big John scooped up his adversary’s teeth from the ground and tucked them in his shorts: “A little memento to show the son your girlfriend will bear me.” Big John sauntered off in the girl’s direction, turning back to his antagonist: “Everybody knows you don’t give no lip to Big John.”

But before Big John could claim his prize a large man barred his way.

Big John was making his way to the chick whose boyfriend he’d just beaten up and left lying on the basketball court. A burly, overweight middle-aged man with a Marlboro in his mouth blocked his way. The man’s muscle shirt showed large arms but without definition. On the right bicep he sported a globe-and-anchor Marine Corps tattoo. He must have been a powerhouse before he let himself go to seed, Big John thought. “What’s this?” asked the man. Big John pointed to his fallen foe. “I beat him fair and square. The girl’s mine. Bug off,” replied Big John. “I have something to say about that since I’m her father,” replied the man. “And what I have to say is YOU bug off. I’m taking my daughter home.” Now Big John was glad he never smoked. A lot of kids at school had tried to get him to start. The more insistent ones who called him names like “fag” and “nerd” soon found themselves on the business end of a powered-up fist or elbow. They never called him names again. As many opposing teams discovered in the fourth quarter of a game, and as Daddy was about to find out now, Big John had plenty of wind to go with his strength. If he had to fight twice or even three times in one night, he could. He’d still have plenty left to show the girl a good time.

“You have balls for an old butthead,” Big John said. He won’t when I’m through with him, he chuckled to himself. “You better shut your mouth, kid, before I shut it for you. I don’t care how big you are. I was in the Nam when you were a twinkle in some whore’s eye.” The way the schools suck these days, the girl’s father thought, this punk probably can’t even find the Nam on a frigging map. “That was then,” Big John retorted. “THIS” – and his left fist slammed into Daddy’s soft belly – “is now.” The muscled arm went in up to the elbow. Daddy doubled over and vomited onto the ground. Big John pushed the ex-Marine’s head downward, to meet his knee coming up hard and fast. Daddy fell to the ground face first. Big John mounted his back and could have clamped on a sleeper hold but he had something better in mind. He rubbed his adversary’s face in the mixture of blood and puke. “Betcha her pussy is as wet and slippery as this,” Big John taunted as he twisted his foe’s right arm and jerked it upward in a hammerlock, until he could feel the arm bone pop out of its socket. He quickly did the same with the left arm. Both were now useless. But Big John wasn’t finished with him. He peppered both kidneys with elbows, then brought his left elbow down on his foe’s spine with a power and ferocity that surprised even himself. Pins and needles shot down both of the ex-Marine’s legs. They went numb, and would stay numb for several hours. He would watch helplessly as Big John had his way with his daughter. Then Big John turned Daddy over onto his back and spread his legs apart. “This is for calling my mother a whore,” he said as he kicked him hard in the balls twice. Daddy’s face was contorted with pain and his breath came in short shallow gasps. Just then Big John noticed a bulge in the front of his antagonist’s pants. No, he said to himself, it can’t be THAT. Not the way I just worked him over. He reached into the downed man’s pants pocket and pulled out a prescription bottle. “Well, well. What have we here? VI-AG-RA. Our big tough ex-Marine needs little blue pills to make a man out of him.” Big John knew what was happening, and it wouldn’t happen to him. All those Marlboros had caused the arteries in the ex-Marine’s dick to clog and not let in enough blood for him to get it up like a real man. The ex-Marine’s limp dick was only the canary in the coal mine; his heart would soon follow. With a flourish Big John emptied the pills onto the ground, stomped them to powder with his foot and put the empty bottle in the waistband of his shorts. “Don’t feel too bad, Pops. Your grandson won’t turn into a butthead.” He spat that last word out disdainfully. In a final gesture of contempt, he kicked him lightly on his Marine Corps tattoo. “Semper fi,” he said as he turned his attention back to his quarry, who all the while was watching the proceedings with a mixture of fear and awed fascination.
Suddenly he heard a voice from the shadows.

(To be continued)

Big John had set his sights on a chick in the stands at the outdoor basketball court. He had turned her boyfriend and father into rubble on the floor of the court and was about to show her a good time with a strong man when suddenly he heard a familiar voice from the shadows. “Hi, Sis.” Then, “What’s going on? Wh-who did this to your friend? And D-Dad?” It was Gus. He was the shortstop and cleanup hitter on the baseball team for Stevenson High, Eisenhower’s crosstown rival, and was known to be handy with his bat off the field as well as on. He and Big John had seen each other at games and had spoken briefly. Now they were face to face, locked in a battle of honor. Gus surveyed the scene quickly. He would have to protect his sister from Big John, the muscle stud whose name was spoken in awed, respectful tones in the corridors of Stevenson, and all the other schools that Eisenhower played. His heart was in his mouth, but he was no twinky and with a little luck he might be able to stun the bigger man and buy time to get his sister out of harm’s way. As for Big John, he knew that Gus might be able to give him some trouble but the tent in his shorts wouldn’t let him back down. The boyfriend mumbled from the pavement, through the holes in his mouth where his teeth had been, “Watch out, he’s a lefty.” “Thanks for telling me, I’ve handled lefties before,” answered Gus. There went one advantage for Big John. “What’s going on,” said Big John in his usual self-assured tone, “is I just crushed your old man’s Viagra under my foot and your face will be next if you don’t disappear. You don’t have your baseball bat here. It’s just you and me, man to man. You think you have what it takes?” He made his biceps jump and his pecs ripple under his jersey for effect as he spoke. Gus was careful to stand at Big John’s weaker but still formidable right side. He laughed, “My pop has no need for Viagra. What’s the next joke?” He punctuated his answer with a hard right hand to the pit of Big John’s stomach. Facing a foe as strong as Big John, a better fighter might have aimed the blow a bit higher, to the solar plexus, the spot just below the heart where a cluster of nerves controls breathing and heartbeat without slabs of heavy muscle to protect them. As it was, Gus’ hard right was like punching a brick wall. All he got for his trouble was a sore wrist. Big John hardly felt a thing. “Wanna bet?” asked Big John. “Here’s the bottle. Catch.” He took the empty bottle out of his shorts and threw it into the air. Gus lifted his head, giving Big John the opening he needed. A lightning fast right-hand karate chop sliced into Gus’ Adam’s apple. Gus felt like a baseball was stuck in his throat. Big John now positioned himself for the move Gus had seen him use on his friends on Stevenson’s basketball team with such terrible effect. The BJ Elbow thudded into Gus’ solar plexus! Now Gus could hardly breathe. Summoning up his last reserve of strength, he aimed a power kick at Big John’s balls. Had it connected the fight would have been over. But Big John sidestepped it and caught the foot, twisting the ankle sharply until it broke. Gus fell to the ground and Big John broke his other ankle, then seized his right arm in an armlock and snapped that as well. He then drew back his fearsome left fist and flattened his foe’s nose. “Can’t handle this lefty, can you?,” he taunted. Gus would be out for the season, and Stevenson would be out of playoff contention. There would be high-fives from the baseball players at Eisenhower the next day. It wasn’t the first time that rival teams were devastated by Big John’s prowess off the court.

Big John winked and smiled at the girl, who made her own outsized biceps jump and used her power pecs to move her titties back and forth. Was that a challenge or was it an invitation? Big John turned to the three prostrate bodies on the ground. “Y’know, I could have knocked all three of you clean out, but that would be too easy. I want you awake to see the show.” But would there be a show? The girl was capable of putting up a fight if she wanted to. Where Big John came from you simply don’t hit a girl, and no self respecting man would force himself on an unwilling female. He decided that if she offered more than token resistance he would go his way and find a willing chick; he was never at a loss for those. But he didn’t think there would be a problem. The stags fight, and the doe goes with the winner. So it was in the beginning, and so it shall be forevermore. Big John turned away from the broken men on the ground. All the fighting had only made him harder, and nine inches of hot cock were throbbing in his shorts as he ran toward the girl like a charging stallion. The “come hither” look in her misty blue eyes told him all he needed to know. World without end, Amen.

[The foregoing is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to any real persons living or dead is purely coincidental. No real person living or dead should emulate any anti-social behavior depicted herein.]

It was now mid-November. Big John had graduated Eisenhower with honors and gone on to a local college. He easily made the basketball team but the refs in college were stricter than what he was used to, and he had to adjust his game accordingly. He missed being able to steal the ball with his elbows. But he kept working out in the gym to stay in shape and made short work of any muggers or drunks that messed with him. He’d kept up his friendships with the athletes at Eisenhower. Homecoming Day was coming up, and Eisenhower’s football team would be hosting the state champs and their star defensive tackle Phil Putzki, an imposing physical specimen who was laying waste to anyone who crossed his path on the gridiron. Eisenhower’s football players had been hinting to Big John that they could do with a Putzki-less opposition at Homecoming.

Phil Putzki had an odd pre-game ritual. Wearing his football shirt, he’d stroll through a seedy part of town the evening before and thrash someone who messed with him. If no one started, he’d pick a fight with some big beefy dude. He always left his victim a bloody mess on the sidewalk, and fighting pumped him up and put him in the proper frame of mind to smash the opposing team the following day. Since this was a big game, Putzki’s team had come to town Friday afternoon and was staying at a local motel, not a flophouse but not the Ritz either, and not far from a part of town where Phil would get what he was looking for. Big John knew where they were staying, and lay in wait for Phil outside the motel. Sure enough, when night fell Phil left the motel for his walk, and Big John unobtrusively fell in behind him. He was wearing his old Eisenhower jersey with #34 on it, under an Eisenhower jacket that hid his muscular physique so Phil wouldn’t know whom he was up against until it was too late. Big John followed Phil to Dockside, where they would meet up with powerfully built longshoremen coming out of bars, beered up and ready to fight. As long as they went at it with fists, feet, elbows and knees and didn’t use weapons the cops generally left them alone. When they were well into Dockside and away from squeamish types who might make a fuss, Big John made his move. He quickened his pace, passed Phil and slowed down again. When Phil saw “EISENHOWER” on the back of Big John’s jacket his adrenaline shot into the stratosphere. He’d have a chance to beat the crap out of not just anybody, but someone from the school he’d be playing the next day. Who knows, maybe even a football player.

Phil quickened his own pace and hit Big John with a huge shoulder block, the kind that felled many an opponent on the football field even as the woodsman fells the tree. But Big John merely staggered a little. He recovered and faced Phil. “You could say excuse me, you know.” “Not to an Eisenhower pussy,” answered Big John, “wanna make something of it?” Phil nonchalantly assumed his fighting stance. Big John made a note that Phil was right handed; his goal would be to take out Phil’s right arm, the one that delivered clotheslines that Eisenhower’s players had good reason to fear. Big John went into his own southpaw stance. A crowd of brawny stevedores began to gather around. Big John’s flicking right jab made contact with Phil’s face and was followed by a right backfist. Phil lifted his hands to protect his face, and left his middle open. Big John reacted instantly, slamming an elbow into Phil’s solar plexus as he had done to so many basketball players in his high school days. Big John missed the feel of his elbow thudding into flesh and knocking the wind out of another powerful man. Phil began to double over. Big John straightened him up with a right uppercut and followed through with a booming haymaker left to the jaw that would have knocked out an ox. His blow floored Phil, but Putzki had an iron jaw and remained conscious but groggy. By now Big John was warmed up and it was time to reveal his identity, so he threw off his jacket. Phil saw the #34 Eisenhower jersey, the 20-inch arms, the he-man shoulders, the massive chest. “B-big John,” he said softly. “Damn straight Big John. You messed with the wrong guy, dude.” He dropped a tremendous knee onto his foe’s stomach, eliciting a whoosh of air from Phil, then hyperextended Phil’s right arm with a jiujitsu move he learned at the gym. Phil knew he wouldn’t be able to play the next day with a broken arm, so he tapped the ground three times to indicate surrender. He had never given up a fight before, but he had never fought Big John before. “No tapping out here, Putz,” said Big John, "this fight’s over when I say it is,” and he stretched Phil’s arm well past the breaking point. Then he ripped the ligaments in Phil’s right leg with a perfectly executed heel hook. It would be months before Phil walked right, let alone played football. His mission for Eisenhower’s football team was accomplished. Now it was time for some fun.

Big John easily neutralized Phil’s left hand by bending the index finger back until it broke; a loud “ow” escaped Phil. “Ow is not an acceptable kiai here,” Big John said with a smile as he elbowed Phil’s mouth, then the bridge of his nose and both eyes. Now it was Phil who was a bloody mess on the sidewalk. Big John ripped off Phil’s football shirt; “You won’t be needing this tomorrow.” Then he noticed Phil’s chiseled six pack. “Let’s see how much those abs can take from a man as big and strong as you are,” he told Phil as he let him have a left and then a right to the solar plexus, which was still hurting from the elbow. Phil’s breath was now short; not much oxygen would be getting to the abs and they wouldn’t stay tight very long. Alternating lefts and rights, Big John slammed one blow after another into Phil’s midsection. With each shot Big John could feel the muscles soften and his fists go in deeper. He noticed Phil’s jaw was swollen; he must have broken it with the knockdown blow. He smashed it again with a hard left; Phil grimaced with pain. Big John’s knuckles were beginning to ache; he gave them a rest with another elbow attack on Phil’s face, concentrating on the nose to further restrict his foe’s breathing. Then he resumed his assault on Phil’s middle with a hard left and right to the solar plexus. Phil’s breathing was even shallower than before; Big John knew he wouldn’t last long. Each body shot elicited an “ugh” from Phil. The groans energized Big John so that each punch was harder than the last. Finally a sledgehammer left to the pit of Phil’s stomach sent his dinner up through his mouth. Phil Putzki had had it.

“Nothing softens a man up like a few good shots to the diaphragm,” Big John told Phil, “unless it’s this.” Big John spread Phil’s legs apart roughly and stood between them. Wincing from the pressure on his injured leg, Phil mumbled, “No, John, please, not my balls.” “Yes your balls, and it’s BIG John to you,” he answered as his right foot slammed into Phil’s balls. Phil’s left hand shot downward to protect his vital assets. Big John kicked the hand with his stronger left foot; Phil screamed as unbearable pain shot through his broken finger and into his nuts. Big John stood over the once mighty football hero. “Who’s the pussy now?,” he asked. “I am,” answered Phil. “And who’s THE MAN?” “You are.” Big John then positioned himself for the coup de grace, a soccer kick to Phil’s already spinning head. That’s when the longshoremen, who until now had been cheering their hometown hero on, moved in and pulled him away. The rule on Dockside was that once you hit a man in the balls and he wasn’t defending himself you had to let him go. That was part of the understanding they had with the cops, and not even Big John could be allowed to break it. The longshoremen playfully punched Big John on his huge delts. “Any time you need some work on the docks just let us know,” they told Big John, “we could always use another pair of strong arms.” Big John turned for one last look at his fallen foe. “Bye now, Putz. And next time you bump into me you say excuse me.”

The next day at Homecoming Big John, as an alumnus athlete, sat up front, close to the field. The players for both teams were introduced over the PA, then it was announced that “due to an unfortunate mishap Phil Putzki will not be playing.” Eisenhower’s players smiled at Big John and he smiled back. They knew what the “unfortunate mishap” was. So did the contingent of longshoremen from Dockside who were avid Eisenhower football fans and regulars at the games, but they kept their mouths shut. Nobody else knew. Without their star tackle, the state champs were completely demoralized. Eisenhower punched gaping holes in their defense and cruised to a lopsided win. After the game the football players invited Big John to the post-game festivities and treated him like a superstar. He knew he could have any cheerleader he wanted but they weren’t his type. He had a steady girlfriend now. Gus’ sister turned out to be the captain of Stevenson’s girls’ cross country team, and well worth fighting for. Her name was Joan, and they called her Joan of Arc, after the medieval female warrior. The moniker became even more apropos when she won the school geometry prize. She dug strong men as much as Big John dug strong chicks, and they hit it off swimmingly. He was taking her out that night, and they were going to paint the town red.

Big John was doing well in college. He had taken a part time job as a personal trainer at the gym where he worked out. He was also doing well on the basketball team, but not well enough for the pros, and had a chance to revert temporarily to his old ultra-physical style of play when the refs went on strike and were replaced by inexperienced officials. One evening during the strike he slammed an elbow into the diaphragm of a seven-footer on the opposing team as he was driving to the basket. The opponent gave up the ball but signaled the ref and Big John was ejected from the game. That night Big John followed the seven-footer and when they were alone he grabbed him by the shoulders and drilled a knee into his balls. The taller man doubled over and got another knee in the face that sent him to the pavement. Big John kicked him in the ribs. “Doesn’t pay to be a snitch, does it? Next time take your hit like a man.”
That summer, following his freshman year, Big John worked on the docks. The longshoremen knew about his brutal dismantling of Phil Putzki and didn’t mess with him, but the hard physical work kept him in shape. More important, the pay was giving him a nice nest egg. His relationship with Joan was growing. Her father had given up the weed and begun running with his daughter and working out at the gym. The flab on his middle was starting to melt away and the tattoo on his arm now decorated something that bore some resemblance to a man’s bicep. He was impressed by Big John’s thrift and industry as well as his strength and courage, and was determined to earn his respect if it killed him. Even Gus bore Big John no ill will. He’d been beaten soundly but honorably, and he figured better his sister should hook up with a muscle man than some skinny thing – it would improve the breed. As for Joan herself, she had graduated a year after Big John and followed him to the same college. They were starting a women’s wrestling team that year, and Joan immediately joined. Because they didn’t have enough women to fill all the weight classes, she often found herself wrestling bigger women, and she pinned her opponents nearly every time. One time she was walking alone at night and got jumped by a big man who’d had too much to drink. A crashing right hand laid him out cold before he knew what hit him. Often John and Joan would wrestle each other, and sometimes she ended up pinning him. That was usually followed by some kinky woman-on-top fun, which Big John didn’t mind since it made him last longer. The thought of winning her in manly combat three times in one evening had the opposite effect.
Big John had another way of making money – fighting at an underground club in a bar in Dockside. The fighters were mostly college students like himself, freshmen through juniors. Seniors couldn’t afford bruised up faces at job interviews. The fans were also students, along with friends from the gyms the fighters worked out at and, of course, longshoremen who liked a good fight. The establishment put up something, but most of the money came from bets placed by fans. Since most of the fighters and many fans were under age the bar became known for its selection of nonalcoholic brews from all around the world. The rules were very simple – everything goes but biting and eye gouging. A fight ends when the loser is knocked out, choked out, surrenders by tapping out, his corner throws in the towel or the ref stops the fight. Since the refs were quite lax about stopping things, bad cuts and broken bones were fairly common. Big John proved a popular fighter, and was invited to fight often. He won nine times out of ten, often by quick knockout. A haymaker left or flying elbow to the jaw, or a huge knee or uppercut to the groin, and it was over. But it was the longer fights that gave him a reputation as a brutal and vicious fighter. He would crank a joint lock faster than the opponent could tap out and break his foe’s arm or leg. He’d slice his man’s face open with a ferocious flying-elbow assault. He’d reach into his man’s shorts and move his groin cup to one side, then nail him in his unprotected nuts. He’d grind a knuckle, elbow or chin into the foe’s eye. He’d floor his man and kick and stomp his face while he was lying helpless until the opponent’s corner mercifully tossed in the towel. Once a man fought him with an earring on; he ripped out the earring and threw it into the crowd for a souvenir. More often, he would take out his foe’s mouthguard and throw it to the crowd, then follow up with hard elbows to the teeth. He wouldn’t toss those away; he intended to present Joan with a necklace of enemy teeth.
The last event in June was a tournament where the eight best fighters battled it out; the winner had to fight three times. Big John was entered. He won his first two fights quickly. The first opponent was dispatched with a flying elbow to the jaw, and the second with a smashing uppercut to the balls followed by a knee in the face. Both fights took a total of 30 seconds, so he would be fresh going into the final, where he was expecting his toughest fight yet. His opponent in the final was known by the nom de guerre of Scissor Sam. He was an inch shorter than Big John but carried fifteen more pounds of solid muscle, mostly in his massive ripped legs. Those legs gave him hammers for knees to match Big John’s powerful elbows. He earned his name from his favorite finishing hold, a crushing scissors to the rib cage that no one ever escaped. Once Scissor Sam clamped the hold on he would squeeze with his legs until his man tapped out or his ribs cracked. He also won his two first fights easily, one with a knee smash to the balls and the other by clamping a scissor choke around his opponent’s neck and squeezing until the man went unconscious.
When the ref was giving the fighters their final instructions Scissor Sam told Big John, “When this is over you’re gonna be my punk bitch.” “Go for it,” answered Big John. The fight itself turned out to be a long and brutal see-saw battle. An awesome flying elbow attack from Big John opened up nasty cuts on Scissor Sam’s face, added a couple of teeth to Big John’s collection and broke Scissor Sam’s nose. Big John used his fingers to spread the skin around the cuts and make them bleed more. A high kick from Scissor Sam broke Big John’s nose. The two combatants blinked, sniffed and kept fighting. Scissor Sam got Big John in an armlock and Big John powered out. Big John put a standing choke on Scissor Sam, who picked his foe up, slammed him to his back and kicked him in the face. Big John got up right away and blasted Scissor Sam in the balls with a crushing left uppercut, and Scissor Sam rammed a knee like a runaway freight train into Big John’s nuts. Both men, short of wind, fought on. They both had friends from their respective gyms in the audience, and every hard belt, submission hold or escape drew lusty cheers from one or the other fighter’s fans. Scissor Sam’s knees proved decisive. A flying knee to the solar plexus doubled Big John over, and another knee to the jaw floored him. Scissor Sam followed Big John to the ground. He had him where he wanted him, and where he was clearly the better man. Scissor Sam wrapped his huge legs around his foe’s right ankle, tearing up the ligaments and tendons. Then he applied his fearsome scissor hold to Big John’s rib cage. The muscled legs were wrapped tightly around Big John’s chest and Scissor Sam started squeezing. Crrrrrrack went one rib. Crrrrrrack again. Two down, ten to go. Then the unexpected happened. Big John himself didn’t know how he did it but he did it. He became the first man ever to break Scissor Sam’s rib crusher. But the damage was already done. Every breath was exquisitely painful, but still Big John refused to tap out. Scissor Sam turned him over and mounted his back. Big John expected to have to tap to a choke any second or go out, but Scissor Sam had something far different in mind. He started humping Big John’s rear, and Big John could feel that his foe was hard. Then he could feel Scissor Sam pulling down his shorts from behind, exposing his rear end. He could hear the throaty cheers from Scissor Sam’s gym friends.

“Give it to him.” “Stick it in.” “Ride ‘im cowboy.” Scissor Sam shouted to the crowd, “HE’S MY BITCH.” Clearly it was do or die for Big John, and where he came from death was preferable to what was about to happen. Every breath was a struggle, and he didn’t know where his strength was coming from, but he reached up behind him with his left hand, grabbed Scissor Sam’s wrist and squeezed until it broke. Scissor Sam was stunned and Big John was able to quickly get his shorts back up and reverse position. Now he was mounted on Scissor Sam’s back. He could have applied a sleeper choke on the arteries in Scissor Sam’s neck. With no blood reaching his brain he would be out in seconds. But Big John wanted to teach his foe a lesson he would not soon forget. He applied the slower windpipe choke to cut off Scissor Sam’s air. The more Scissor Sam struggled the more the pressure on his windpipe tightened. A minute passed. Scissor Sam wouldn’t tap. The struggles became weaker and finally stopped. There were no more exhortations to rape from Scissor Sam’s fans, only stunned and then frightened silence. Two minutes. Still no tap. Scissor Sam’s eyes were bulging out of their sockets and his skin was turning blue, like a man being strangled with a rope in a gangster movie. The ref was moving in to stop the fight; a death in the ring would not be good for business. Just then a puddle appeared on the floor under Scissor Sam and a foul odor filled the air. Big John released the choke and kicked Scissor Sam in the balls with his left foot for good measure, and the mess leaked out of the sides of his shorts. The towel came sailing in from Scissor Sam’s corner. The ref raised Big John’s hand in victory as Scissor Sam’s handlers took him to the dressing room to clean him up. Loud cheers went up from Big John’s gym buddies as well as the longshoremen from the docks who had come to see their hero in action.

Big John had defeated his foe in the most humiliating way possible. He literally choked the shit out of him in front of his fans. This had happened only once before since the bar began hosting fights, and the loser left town never to be seen or heard from again. But victory had come at a heavy and unaccustomed price for Big John. His relationship with Joan would be tested as he would be sexually sidelined until his ribs and other injuries healed. But Joan had other ideas. The next day she presented Big John with a recording of popular music from the mid-20th century. The lead song – My Boy Lollipop.

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