Warehouse One

 

Warehouse One
by
Sal Bruno

The heat in the windowless room had risen at least ten degrees since the first sales fight took place, and now an hour later, even wearing a t-shirt was too much. So as Steve Stanhorn and Jeff Powell circled each other, Stanhorn raised his hands to the neck of his t-shirt, and in one slow motion, ripped it from collar to bottom seam, slowly revealing the already sweaty mass of muscle that was his chest and abs. Everyone in the room was impressed with this display of muscle, including Jeff, but Jeff couldn't be distracted by the show put on in front of him: he had to keep his head about him and fight.

So, as Stanhorn brought his arms back to remove the tattered remaining cloth from over his massive biceps and back, Jeff launched a lightening combat boot to just below Stanhorn's solar plexus. The blow was quick, but extremely powerful due to Jeff's intensive military training and NHB experience, and taken off guard, Stanhorn's eye's bugged out, the air forcibly expelled from his lungs, and his body, still tied up in the shirt, bent forward instinctively to ease the pain and catch his breath. Jeff launched the next boot to the side of Stanhorn's head, rocketing his skull right to left, and bringing the big man to his knees. Another kick, this time to the ribs head on with the steel toed leather crashed right into Stanhorn's right side ribs, with a force so hard that it immediately cracked one rib and severely bruised another, despite the incredibly dense and strong muscle Stanhorn had surrounding them. The last blow dropped Stanhorn to his side on the floor of the warehouse.....less than 35 seconds into the fight, and the big man was down, hurting and looking like this fight might be easier won than anyone thought.

Jeff did not drop his attack or his guard, and mounted Stanhorn in a classic martial arts/NHB mount, pinning the man's arms temporarily at his side, and leaving Stanhorn's face wide open. And it didn't take long to figure out where Jeff's fists were headed: he launched a brutal two-fisted attack to Stanhorn's face, frankly hitting anything in his path -- nose, cheeks, eyes, forehead --- he wanted blood and pain and he was determined to inflict it. 18-20 unanswered, unblocked blows landed all over Stanhorn's face, but he did not scream: instead he moaned with each blow, and conserved his strength and lung capacity, despite the massive amount of pain and power he had to endure. His eyes were red and raw already, his nose trickled more than a flow of blood, and his mouth tasted the metallic taste of fresh red corpuscles draining into onto his tongue and throat.

After the barrage of non-stop punches, Jeff took Stanhorn's head in his left hand, and concentrated on opening up the wound on Stanhorn's left brow and closing the eye. By concentrating on one part at a time, Jeff hoped to break Stanhorn down, first by limiting his vision, then by taking him apart muscle by muscle to KO. He started pounding on Stanhorn's eye, immediately opening a wide gash over the big man's left eyebrow, which flowed blood quickly and strongly. Then he went to work on closing the eye for good....one punch, then another, then......BOOM.

Jeff saw a flash of white light, and felt the back of his head come crashing down hard onto the concrete floor. Stanhorn had, in one motion, brought his legs up and over Jeff's head, and grabbing the musclestud's head, he used his thick thighs to his advantage and rammed his opponent backward to the ground. With no hands to stop his body, Jeff hit and hit hard, immediately there was an open gash on the back of his skull that bled a stream of his own, and the people watching thought he easily could have had a concussion from this first blow alone.

After ramming him to the floor, Stanhorn quickly raised both heels and rammed them down hard into Jeff's face, one, two, three times each, opening up gashes on his forehead and brows, and nearly breaking his nose. Keeping a grip of Jeff's legs, he rolled over onto his right side, bringing Jeff around with him, and leaving him on top of the muscleboy who was now face down and dazed. He got up, slower than usual, but still quicker than most, and grabbed the legs under his arms and leaned back into a Boston Crab. This hold was a great finisher for many a fight, but Stanhorn knew that the best he could hope for was weakening one of Jeff's power centers and breaking him down slowly elsewhere afterwards. Two big men with the same plan, and right now Stanhorn was winning. He leaned back, not slowly, but with all the force he could muster and nearly sat on Jeff's back as he hyper extended the boy's back, stretched his abs, and tried to snap him in two. The scream from Jeff's mouth surprised even him, and he knew he was in trouble. The legs were tightly locked under Stanhorn's arms, and the boots only served to anchor his legs under the big guns of his opponent. The pain was unbelievable, radiating from his lower back to every nerve center in his body. After cranking on the hold, Stanhorn started bouncing back even further, almost determined to hear something snap before he would let up. And Jeff, no longer screaming but crying out in bursts with each bounce, saw this fight turn way too quickly for his taste.

Blood streamed down Stanhorn's face onto his dripping thick muscled pecs and down the valley of his abs, but nothing was stopping him from bringing pain to this boy' body. He even started thinking about how good it was going to feel to mess up that prettyboy's face after he incapacitated his legs and Jeff could not run. That minor, fleeting daydream cost him, because Jeff, sensing a slight easing of pressure, reared up and used every fiber of his leg muscles and threw Stanhorn off his body in one quick burst of incredible power. Stanhorn catapulted forward, and despite putting his hands out, landed head-first into the side wall of the concrete building, reopening the gash on his eye even wider, and disorienting him for a few seconds.

Jeff was slow to get up, but he knew he had to keep up the pressure. He walked over to Stanhorn, who was slightly bent over near the wall. When he got within range, Stanhorn threw a right fist right into the heart of Jeff's basket, and it too immediately hit what he felt was another concrete wall.....the steel cup Jeff was wearing under his pants. Although the blow stunned him, Jeff smiled slightly at his good sense to wear the jock, and watch Stanhorn clutch his hand. Jeff followed up with his own left directly to the man's already battered left eye, and connected with a blood splattering hit that drove Stanhorn's face sideways and hit the right side of his head into the concrete wall. Jeff moved in, and started muscling into Stanhorn's body, pressing him up against the wall and battering the big man's rock-hard abs. He aimed high and low, and threw in a couple of low blows as he pumped fist after fist into Stanhorn's body.

Suddenly, Steve grabbed hold of Jeff's head in his paws, and twisting powerfully and quickly, rammed the boy's head into the wall, opening a gash on his forehead. Grabbing a handful of hair in his right hand, Stanhorn pulled the head back and rammed it, face first this time, into the wall, putting all his power into it, like shot-putting on a field. The force of the blow busted open Jeff's forehead gash into a deep chasm, and the blood flowed freely. Again, and again his head went into the same spot on the wall, five, six, seven head rams, all to the same spot that got redder with blood after each pass. Pulling back for a final ram, Stanhorn opened up his stance just enough to allow Jeff to ram an elbow into Stanhorn's weakened solar plexus. This was the first time Jeff could go back to the area he battered at the beginning of the fight, but he could tell the damage he inflicted was still a factor. Stanhorn once again lost his breath and let go of the hair, and started to bend toward the floor....but he never got to bend over on his own, as Jeff took both hands to the back of Stanhorn's head and rammed his face into his rising knee, Smashing Stanhorn's nose into the kneecap, and sending the muscle man reeling backwards, ripping a new river of blood down his chest.

He took three or four steps back into the center of the room, to give himself some time to recover, and prevent a second or third attempt on his face, but Jeff followed, ready to attack. He hit Stanhorn with a brutal right cross against the big man's jaw, spraying blood and sweat off Stanhorn's face and the head snapped violently left. As his head came back to center, it was joined by Stanhorn's own right fist, locked and loaded for attack on Jeff's prettyboy face. He smashed deep into Jeff's jaw and felt something snap as Jeff's head rocketed to the side. Both men were stunned but coherent, and what followed was one of the most brutal man-to-man exchanges of blows anyone in that room had ever seen. Due to their military and NHB training, both men were on auto-pilot, ignoring their own pain, working on adrenaline, and determined to take out their fury on their opponent. Stanhorn found great pleasure in busting up his opponent's pretty face, breaking his jaw and opening up huge gashes on his forehead and brows that would certainly leave permanent scars. Jeff took even greater pleasure busting open the man they all feared, and taking him apart so his juices flowed. Blow by blow, they took fist to face, until each fighter was covered in so much blood and sweat, neither could tell whose blood was on which body anymore.

After 4 minutes of toe to toe, fist to face power, Jeff felt himself weakening. His opponent's size and power were just the slight advantage that was needed to make the prettyboy suffer, and one massive left hook took the handsome bleeding boy to the floor in a near TKO state. Stanhorn did not hesitate, and followed the boy to the floor, ready to end this now, before he himself lost more blood and weakened any more. He got behind Jeff and brought the boy's head into his crotch, with the back of the boy's head resting comfortably against his swollen cock and balls. He snapped one of the most dreaded holds in martial arts street fighting, a leg sleeper, which grabbed Jeff's head like a vice and started squeezing his thick neck, traps and skull in a grip that nothing could break. Jeff clawed at the cloth covered muscles, trying to nerve hold a knee or dig into a tight thigh, but all he found was granite like muscle slowly constricting his blood flow, squeezing the consciousness out of him, and taking him out. Though it took nearly 30 seconds to do it, finally Jeff stopped moving, the twitch of his arms the only sign the boy was even still alive. Stanhorn kept the hold on 30 seconds longer, to make sure his opponent was totally incapacitated, and finally he let his legs unlock and dropped the boy with a thud onto the concrete floor. Although he looked like a truck had run into him, Stanhorn – bleeding from the forehead, eye, nose and mouth, covered in blood, sweat and grime -- had won. He got to his knees and stood over his sleeping opponent, and anger filled him: at himself for taking so long to take out this piece of model-boy muscle, and at Jeff for making the inevitable take so long to carry out.


Mounting Jeff as he had been mounted earlier in the fight, Stanhorn let his rage take him over, and rammed his right fist over and over again into Jeff's face, finally breaking the boy's nose, and closing his eyes more, making it more difficult for the muscle stud to see in his next fight. Finally, he stood, and remembering one last thing, he unzipped and opened the busted stud's pants and reached into the dripping wet jock, taking out the steel cup, raking it hard against the boy's nuts as he did so. One last thing to do, he thought, and grabbing both legs in a wide V, Stanhorn stood between the prostrate boy's form, and reared back, nailing the boy's nuts with his construction boot's steel toe, and rocketing the boy into consciousness again as he bolted upright and let out a silent scream.

"Glad to see you are awake, boy. Now get off the floor and to the side, we have to see who is going to beat the shit out of you in the next fight you have, before we kick your sorry ass out of here." Jeff slowly got up on all fours, and crawled his way over to the side wall, each movement bringing aches and shooting pain into his body. As he crawled away Stanhorn took a long look at the boy's ass sticking up high in the air, and thought of the greatest way he would celebrate keeping his job. But that would come later, after the boy's second beating of the night. Right now, it was time to see the last two unchallenged warehouse fighters to the bloodstained floor.......