Fighter Story 2
His parents had
lost their families, including their baby son, in the Holocaust. When they came
to America to start a new life they had a second son and named him Samson, after
the Biblical strongman. True to his name, Samson made it his mission to make
himself strong and tough. While other kids were smoking and doing drugs, he was
training and working out. Boxing, karate, jiu-jitsu, every fighting art that he
could master, he did. He wasn�t tall, only five foot eight, but he packed 180
pounds of solid muscle and sometimes it seemed that he had his namesake�s
supernatural strength. He didn�t go looking for trouble, but as the strongest
kid on any block, he was constantly fielding challenges. Then there was the
occasional bullyboy who thought that beating up on Jewish kids on their way to
school was fun. Samson made certain it was very expensive fun. Undefeated as a
high school wrestler, he wrestled at the edge of the rules, and when an opponent
got up from under his pin, he knew he had been in a fight.
Later on, he served in Army counterintelligence, where his specialty was the swift, weaponless elimination of Soviet spies. He would engage his target at night, disguised as a street tough. If he was really in a bad mood, as he was when the Soviets sent a Jewish refusenik to Siberia on some trumped-up charge, he picked his man up like a rag doll and slammed the back of his head into the concrete sidewalk with terrifying force. More often, the spy met his death with his neck stretched in Samson�s swinging full nelson or twisted all the way around in his iron grip. Samson then would empty his man�s wallet and place it on the body. It looked for all the world like a mugging where the victim resisted and was killed for his trouble. The money went to a charity that helped refugees from behind the Iron Curtain settle into their new life of freedom. Samson�s colleagues called him Snap Crackle and Pop. The Russians called him The Widowmaker.
With the Cold War won, Samson left the Army and settled into a career in international trade. He found physical expression in marathon running, and had some 25 marathons under his belt. He loved to run in the summer heat, dressed in a tank top and shorts, muscles pumping, chest heaving, the summer sun glinting off the sweat on his powerful shoulders, chicks calling out �Sexy� as he passed. That was the real Samson � strong, tough, manly. The version in the corporate uniform � button down shirt, suit and tie � was an impostor who looked and sounded like him.
Business had taken him to Bitburg, Germany. He had closed an important deal for his firm and was feeling self-satisfied, but something was gnawing at his insides. Bitburg, Bitburg, hmmmm. . .
Where had he heard that name before? Right, 1985. Ronald Reagan was President. Unmoved by a storm of protest at home and abroad, he had traveled to Bitburg to pay a state visit to the grave of some SS men buried in the cemetery there. �Reconciliation,� he called it. Gutless political toadying, Samson called it. He couldn�t protest; he was in the Army and had to swallow his Commander-in-Chief�s folly. Now he was a civilian and didn�t have to swallow any more. The cemetery was ten kilometers away from where he was staying and he hadn�t taken his daily run yet. He put on his running clothes � short shorts and a tank top with the American and Israeli flags across the chest. It was a cool April evening and he might have worn some more clothes, but he wanted as many Germans as possible � especially the older ones � to see what he was made of. He didn�t even know what he would do once he reached the cemetery, but nature would solve that problem. When he reached the cemetery it was already dark, and the cold weather made him have to go to the bathroom. The Nazis had disguised their gas chambers as showers. Samson would have a shower of his own for them. He found the monument President Reagan had visited, pulled out his dick � four inches, soft � and peed on the gravestone and marble slab. It was a long pee. When he was finished, he heard a roar of motorcycles and found himself surrounded by ten large neo-Nazi skinheads in full regalia, metal swastikas around their necks, uniforms with swastika armbands, the whole caboodle. Some of them were carrying jerry cans of gasoline. Must be for one of their frigging torchlight ceremonies, Samson figured. Samson had handled bigger guys before � Soviet spies weren�t exactly twinkies � but ten on one was more than he bargained for. Still, he felt no regrets. If he were fated to die that evening, he would go down fighting. Six million were not so lucky.
�We saw what you did, Jew-boy� one of the skinheads said, �and we�re going to make you pay.� �That�s right, Jew,� said another. �You know what today is? Today is the F�hrer�s birthday," - that explained the uniforms and jerry cans � �and we�re going to make him a little present of your little dik-dik.� The subtle stress on the word �little� was not lost on Samson. The gang leader broke in, �Uh-uh. We�re not perverts. This little Jew-fag will die under a hail of Aryan fists and steel-tipped boots. Siegfried, you do the honors.�
Fag? Samson had a wife and five kids at home, four strong young stallions and a hard-muscled filly. He had taught them all to fight, and any kid in the 'hood who messed with Samson's kids paid dearly. What the heck. Nazis had it in for gays too. Yellow stars, pink triangles. . . he could play their game.
A broad-shouldered, barrel-chested six-foot-four tower of power stepped inside the circle to challenge Samson. He wasted no time, unleashing a mighty haymaker right aimed at Samson�s jaw. Samson moved away just in time; the Sunday punch glanced off his cheekbone, leaving a bruise but not hurting him. Samson�s jiu-jitsu training now stood him in good stead. He grabbed the outstretched right arm and, before the Nazi realized what was happening, slapped on an armlock and broke the bone in two. �Ow,� yelped the Nazi, �you broke my freaking arm.� �No fooling,� replied Samson, as he wrapped his left arm around the taller man�s neck in a tight headlock and began pummeling his face with his right fist over and over. Samson�s rock hard bicep squeezed his foe�s windpipe shut, cutting off his air and all hope of escape. With each blow he could feel the years melting away; he was plugged into the Infinite, drawing all the strength he needed and then some. �This is for my grandparents.� BOOM. �This is for my uncles.� BOOM. �This is for my aunts.� BOOM. �This is for my baby cousins.� BOOM. �This is for the brother that I never saw.� BOOM BOOM BOOM!!! All the while Samson wondered when the Nazi�s buddies were going to stomp him, but they just stood there transfixed. He could hear one of them remarking to another, �Shit, that short little Jew can fight.� Surprise sur-prise. When Samson had smashed his foe�s face to a bloody pulp, he let go of the headlock. The Nazi slid onto the marble slab. His head was swimming and his eyes couldn�t focus. Almost at leisure, Samson snapped his left arm like a twig and shredded up the ligaments in his knees. He wouldn�t be doing anything or going anywhere. Samson stood over him, smiling and mocking. �What happened, Superman? Can�t you handle a little Jew-fag?� He shot a double biceps at him. �See these, Superman? These are 16-inch American guns and they KICKED YOUR PUNK NAZI ASS.� He turned to the other bikers. �This isn�t playing by your script, eh? Looks like your hero�s on, ummm, Queer Street.� One of the bikers had had enough. He took a step forward to salvage some honor for his gang. Before he could take a second step, Samson's right backfist slammed into his mouth and his powerful elbow thudded into his beer gut. He clutched his middle with both hands, his mouth flew open and an unholy mix of puke, blood and teeth spewed forth. As if at the command of an unseen F�hrer all nine of them left their motorcycles and jerry cans behind and ran for their lives. Bad move.
Samson was now alone with his foe flat on his back. The feeling of power gave him a raging hard-on and his wife was back in the States. �My little dik-dik wants to tell you something,� he said, as he whipped out a nine-inch-long steel shaft and shot a full load of thick white man juice all over the Nazi and the gravestone. �Enough with the fun and games,� he announced. He picked up one of the jerry cans and poured some of the contents onto his fallen foe. �This is gasoline. This is a match. And Siegfried is going to Valhalla in a chariot of fire.� The Nazi�s eyes, or what was left of them, bugged out in mortal terror. �No,� he pleaded through what was left of his mouth. �Please, kill me first and then do what you will.� �Please kill me,� answered Samson. �I never thought I�d hear that from a big Nazi Superman. You don�t deserve an easy death but � fair enough.� He roughly sat the Nazi up, placed his left hand on top of his head and his right hand under his chin and jerked the head up, back and around in one swift practiced movement � snap, crackle and pop. He let go, and the Nazi�s head fell back down at a grotesque angle. Samson poured out the rest of the jerry can and lit the match. The body instantly turned into a blazing pyre. Samson left it there, a burnt offering to the evil spirits that lurk in that evil place. He had unfinished business with the other bikers.
Samson set out at a pace he could hold as long as he had to. He had time; the bikers didn�t. They had broken the first commandment of the distance runner: Thou shalt not go out too fast. If they couldn�t keep up the pace for twenty miles in their heavy biker boots, they might as well stand and fight. Samson wondered why the hell they didn�t. Then it hit him; they were punks, cowards. Just like their SS mentors, who were brave enough to herd naked Jews into gas chambers but when the Americans and Russians came with arms they cut and ran, leaving the real soldiers holding the bag. Before too long he sighted the scattered, bedraggled, faltering gang. Samson began to sing American marching songs as he ran. �Send the word, send the word, over there, that the Yanks are coming, the Yanks are coming. . .� The bikers became even more panicked and demoralized. The first one Samson caught up with was the puker; he could hardly walk, let alone run. Samson drove an elbow into the back of his head, where the brain joins the spinal cord. The biker fell as if he'd been pole-axed. Samson kicked him in the ribs and continued in hot pursuit of the others. One by one they fell, puking up what guts they had and panting like the dogs they were, utterly exhausted. One by one, Samson gave them something to remember him by � a kick in the balls here, a few missing teeth there. . . . He chased the last of them up a dead end street. Two policemen were on patrol; the Nazi frantically called out �Polizei, Polizei,� and motioned behind him. The cops laughed in his face. �Surely a big Nazi tough guy can take care of himself,� said one. The other punched him on his swastika armband. �We�d like to see you do credit to Aryan manhood.� The sarcasm in their voices was undisguised. There would be no help from that quarter. Now there was no place left to run. �End of the road, asshole,� Samson called out. �Turn around and fight.� The Nazi turned around but he was spent. He was hardly able to put up his fists when Samson�s looping right caught him flush. His head struck the pavement with a resounding thud and he was out cold with his jaw shifted to one side of his face. Samson was about to kick his fallen foe in the mouth when the policemen moved in. �Enough is enough; we�ll take it from here.�
Samson ran back to his hotel with joy in his heart and, unknown to him, a squad car on his tail. Every so often he�d pump a fist in the air and give out with an Army-style �hoo-ah!� When he got to his room and undressed, he massaged the muscles in his chest, arms and shoulders. They had served him well. He hadn�t expected to be alive, and instead he disposed of ten goons half his age and twice his size. As he always did when showering in strange places, he left the bathroom door open and turned the faucet slowly. When he was satisfied that the stuff coming out of the showerhead was water, he closed the door and soaped himself up. It was a long exultant shower. He sang, whooped and hollered like never before. When he came out and put his shorts on, he heard loud and insistent knocking at the door. �Police. Open up!� He opened the door to the same two cops that watched him take out the last of the Nazi punks with one punch.
�The name fits. That�s some set of muscles on you. Wanna fight?� The cop put up his fists. Samson squared off and flicked a stiff left jab off the cop�s nose, not hard enough to hurt him but enough to let him know he could. The cop raised his arms in mock surrender, �Just kidding man, just kidding.�
�Actually, we owe you some thanks. That gang you took care of � they were terrorizing the town for months. Everybody was scared to press charges; we couldn�t make anything stick. We called them the Teflon Boys."
"Muslims from Turkey, Jews from Russia, gays,� -
The other cop added, �Heck, they were beating on ordinary Germans too. Old folks, little kids, anybody who can�t defend himself � or herself � is good enough for the Teflon Boys.�
�The most despicable bunch of cowards Germany ever produced � except of course for the SS men they take their cue from.� Both of their voices were dripping with contempt. The cop looked down at Samson�s shorts. �You sure made things stick� � all three shared a laugh � �and their motorcycles will make a handsome addition to our fleet.�
Now the tone turned serious. �Look,� said one cop, �we know what went down at the cemetery� �
�You mean who went down;� Samson interjected, �It wasn�t me.�
�I guess you could put it that way,� the cop continued, �but the law is the law. Today�s Germany doesn�t tolerate murder, not even of Nazi scum who deserve to die. We heard about your Cold War heroics. We don�t like Commies either; we had 'em next door for 45 years. So we�re giving you a warning, and if our superiors knew we were doing this we�d be fired. Leave this country within 24 hours and never come back. Keep quiet and we will too. If you show your face in Germany after tomorrow you can expect to spend the rest of your life in jail.�
�Will do,� Samson answered, and he wished the cops well and saw them out the door. When they were out of Samson�s hearing one said to the other, �Actually it wouldn�t be a bad idea to have him in jail. We have punkass Nazi wannabes there who wouldn�t last two minutes locked in a cell with him.� His partner said simply, �Snap Crackle and Pop.�
Samson was as good as his word. The next morning he boarded a plane for home, back to a beautiful land that produces real tough men � and more than a few women � who kick butt whenever and wherever there's butt that needs kicking. His wife was glad to see him, and when she asked about the bruise on his face, he just mumbled something about having had to handle a mugger. That night he made strong love to her, as he always did after a fight; power is the best aphrodisiac. The next morning he spiffed himself up in the corporate uniform, went to the office and accepted his colleagues' congratulations for clinching the deal. Little did they know that that was not his major achievement on the trip. Since he couldn't travel to Germany any more he wouldn't be much use to the firm. He went to the boss and tendered his resignation. Never was a father of five so happy to lose his job.
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