Heroes: Tarzan and James 1

Chapter 1: James Porter Was Right

"It would appear that I owe you an apology, James. Your jungle man is indeed real. Very real, it would seem."

I merely nod at my employer as he surveys the scene. While I might normally appreciate his apology, I am still insulted that he treated me like some hysterical woman who imagined the entire event. As though I could ever imagine being manhandled and nearly killed by a nearly naked white savage in the heart of the African jungle.

Now Mr. Moorhead realizes my story was all true. I was quietly sketching right here. I saw a large, muscular, nearly-naked, bronzed white man. He attacked me. I barely escaped with my life. It was not a dream, as he originally accused, nor a fantasy as he subsequently implied.

The Jungle Man

Mr. Moorhead notices my silence, "I see you pouting. Do not be childish, Mr. Porter. I am admitting that I was too hasty in my original assessment. Accept my words graciously and let us move on to more important matters."

My handsome, muscular employer smiles at me and I melt. "Yes, sir. Thank you." I sheepishly smile back, unable to stay angry with him.

Mr. Moorhead at camp

Mr. Moorhead is impossible for me to resist, but even more so now. He rushed to see what I was yelling about then raced to this location without dressing. An open robe, a fundoshi and boots are all he is wearing. I have a full view of his large hairy chest heaving and his tanned white skin coated in a layer of sweat from the jungle heat.

My employer is a large and imposing man - 6'1" tall and 220-lbs, if he weighs an ounce. And he is strong. In fact, I have never met anyone stronger or more capable. Once, in Japan, I watched him push a man twice his weight out of a circle. It is where he gained his affection for the small white pouch, which he now wears exclusively as an undergarment.

At 39 years old, Mr. Moorhead is old enough to be my father, but I still think he is a very handsome man. He has a square jaw and penetrating eyes, framed by light brown hair (that is currently almost blond, thanks to being sun-bleached by the African sun).

And he has the body of a circus strongman, broad shoulders, a narrow waist and powerful legs. His white skin is darker than normal right now, emphasizing the heaving mounds of muscles.

I know I probably should not be talking this way about another man, but I have always admired men more than women. And no man is more worth admiring than Maximillian M. Moorhead, if you ask me. He truly is the world's greatest adventurer; a fact of which there can be no doubt.

I am sure Mr. Moorhead knows how I feel about him and has ever since he hired me on that cold December morning in 1918.

My name is James Porter

I remember being so nervous. It was only my second trip to London. Imagine me, a skinny, 18-year old Manchester boy, just returned from the Great War, meeting a man with his reputation. And not just meeting him, but being hired as his right-hand man, thanks to a kind word from my commanding officer.

Of course I know for a fact that Mr. Moorhead also enjoys the company of men. Never with me, but I am aware of his activities, as we travel the globe together. I think it was a reason he hired me. He knew I would understand that side of his life, not judge or condemn him and, most importantly, keep silent.

Still, even if there is a selfish reason behind it, I appreciate that he doesn't care that I prefer men to women. Of course, I do hate how easily and often he has used it to manipulate me in our three years of working together.

With me placated, Mr. Moorhead finishes his review of the area. He says, "Yes. There was another man here. And he was big. Look at the size of his feet and the depth of the impression. I would estimate 230-lbs at least. And here, look at the tree trunk where he hit. He must be 6'2" or 6'3". And his shoulders are broad. Look here and here."

I am impressed by Mr. Moorhead's deductions, but it only confirms facts that I have already stated. Sefu and Tau, our two native guides, and I agree that we should just release the lion we captured and relocate. I worry that this savage whom the natives are calling Tarzan is dangerous, possibly mortally so.

After surveying the scene for fifteen minutes, Mr. Moorhead shakes his head, "No. If this jungle man wanted to kill you, James, he certainly could have. Either by his hands or his knife. You explained that he sheathed it when he charged. A man with murder on his mind would not have done any such thing."

"But, sir -"

"In fact, James, the more I look around, the more I realize that we should be thanking this jungle man. This Tarzan."

"What? Why on earth would we thank him? For assaulting me?"

"No. For saving your life, James. For saving your life."

Chapter 2: Attack of the Python

Mr. Moorhead explains his hypothesis, speaking with the certainty of a jungle Sherlock Holmes.

"This is the tree under which you were sitting, James. Lovely tree, large, covered with leaves and vines. Look up. Now look at the ground. Look everywhere. To an experienced tracker, it becomes obvious there was danger, does it not, Sefu?"

The native merely nods, so Mr. Moorhead continues.

"Let us examine what the jungle is telling us. Tarzan watched you from over here. Perhaps curious about one of the interlopers into his jungle. He must have been studying you for some time, even taking a seat at one point, as evidenced by this impression of a man's firm and large bare posterior here. This confirms your assertion of his lack of attire, as pants would have created one continuous mark, but we clearly see two here.

"The nearly-naked jungle man is studying you, watching you sketch. You are a curiosity to him. He likely finds you a peaceful, albeit frail chap."

I object to being called frail. I'm a man of 21 years old, born on the first day of the new century. I am a sturdy 150-lbs on my 5'8" frame. Sturdy enough to endure 3 years in the trenches of northern France. I enlisted when I was 15 and lasted until the bitter end in 1918.

I am not frail

Since the Great War was over, I have functioned flawlessly for Mr. Moorhead, World's Greatest Adventurer, often in some dangerous settings. It hasn't all been dining with kings and attending grand soirées.

Seeing my expression, Mr. Moorhead adds, "Only compared to him, that is, my boy. Certainly not a physical threat to such a large savage, so he just watches. Then he sees it. Up in the tree, hovering over you. A python. A large one, based on the path it created on that branch.

"The python hangs over your head, measuring you as prey. Tarzan sees it, but you do not. He decides that he must do something. Perhaps this savage has some sense of kinship to seeing another white man. Perhaps he is even possesses a crude morality.

"Tarzan rises from his spot. These footprints show how he debated what to do, as his feet obviously were shifting. You hear the crack as the jungle man mistakenly steps on this branch. He is exposed. Instead of fleeing, you stumble back into the tree, directly under the threat. You reach for your rifle, but by then, Tarzan has reached you. He pulls you from the tree to safety.

"Not understanding his intent, you struggle, stepping on his foot here and pushing off him here. Surprised by your fight, he stumbles backwards, bumping his ankle against this mossy rock. The jungle man slams into the tree, his broad back breaking the bark from here to here. Tarzan rises, but unfortunately, you've pushed him directly under the python. The snake, perhaps ravenous, decides that one prey is as good as another.

"It falls onto his shoulders. Now, the fight for survival begins. Only one beast will live beyond the battle.

"We know the snake was long, but now we see that it was heavy. Look how much deeper his footprints get. This python was mature, I would guess close to twenty feet and 200-lbs. This Tarzan is big and strong, but the mighty python drops him to a knee, here. He reaches for his knife, but the python bites on his forearm, controlling his prey. The bite breaks the skin, allowing for these droplets of human blood here and here.

"While you flee, Tarzan is left to fight for his life. The python wraps itself around the jungle man, instinctively crushing him. Here, Tarzan rises to his feet, but he staggers under the weight. His feet drag as his free arm tries to hold the snake at bay, but the beast winds its way around him more and more. The longer they battle, the less chance the man has.

"Tarzan uses all his power to fight, but again, he drops to his knee. We see from the ground that he is sweating profusely, his muscles straining against one of nature's great predators. The jungle man falls down, overcome by the weight and power. The python is coiled around his narrow waist, draping between his legs then two loops around his left thigh as they roll from here to here. The marks show that Tarzan tries to smash the python's head against this rock, leaving scales, but not killing the creature. The battle continues.

"Tarzan weakens, as his head drops back onto the jungle floor, sweeping back-and-forth in agony. It appears that his right hand comes free, as evidenced by this handprint. He grabs his knife, wildly slashing at the snake. Bits of the python's flesh fly, but the snake only constricts tighter. Tarzan manages to roll onto his stomach here. We see the imprint of his knees, bulging chest and two hands as the snake retaliates. The mighty jungle man is desperate. His hands slide as he loses strength. He collapses to the ground here, his face hitting the dirt here.

"It does not look good for Tarzan. The snake is winning, crushing him harder and harder with every second. Somehow, the jungle man summons more strength, though. He grabs the snake's neck and thrusts it onto the ground, stabbing at its head multiple times. STAB! STAB! STAB!

"The python is finally dead, but the body remains. The jungle man struggles to rise, still weak from the ordeal. He extricates himself from the snake. No easy task as we see here. The mighty jungle man rests on his knees for some time. He finally rises. Despite his obvious fatigue, he lifts his deceased foe and hurls it into the bush.

"You see the carcass? My, it is even larger than I thought. What an impressive beast."

I idly question, "Which one?"

Mr. Moorhead overhears, smiling, "Quite right, James. We have a tale of a battle between two impressive beasts.

"Tarzan stands up, legs spread, proud of his victory. He unleashes the victory cry we heard then takes your sketchbook. For what reason, we cannot know. He departs in that direction, retreating into the jungle."

I'm silent for a moment, stunned by the tale. I finally applaud, "Bravo, sir."

Chapter Three: Tracking the Beast

"Bravo, sir."

"Thank you, James. I must admit, though, that I am jealous of this man-beast. His python was certainly more energetic than the one I wrestled. I wonder if we can -"

Oh no. This trip to Africa was supposed to be to capture the majesty of the jungle with one of the new Edison cameras. Moving pictures of far off lands are a popular endeavor. However, my employer insisted we provide more ... excitement and a bigger threat of danger.

I remember his exact words when we set up camp and a makeshift wrestling ring, similar to what you might see at carnivals where the strongmen show off their strength. He said, "James, we can join the race to boredom and mediocrity or we can create something beyond imagination. The people will want to see something amazing. Pure, never-before-seen spectacle! The kind of spectacle only Maximillian M. Moorhead, The World's Greatest Adventurer, can provide."

We tested the ring with him battling Tau, the biggest native in our party. It went very well. Very dramatic and Tau knew exactly what to do. It's amazing to me how every culture has some form of wrestling. Mr. Moorhead says it is innate to our nature.

We filmed Mr. Moorhead in the ring with a python a couple of days ago, but I would say it was more acting than wrestling. The snake did not seem interested and it was too stupid to train. We caught our lion yesterday and that beast is ferocious. They are feeding it plenty and have some pills that they claim will make it less ornery. Frankly, I am nervous about the entire plan.

After running through this fierce battle, I know what Mr. Moorhead is thinking. I interrupt, trying to distract him by asking, "Do you think that he is all right? Tarzan, I mean. I feel terrible for not helping."

Mr. Moorhead forgets about finding a better snake, answering me, "From everything you and the natives have said about this incredible man-beast, I am sure he is fine. Still, I am more than curious about this Tarzan. Let us follow these footprints and see where they lead."

"Sir?"

"The four of us are going to track this Tarzan creature. He is a mystery I simply cannot ignore."

After nearly 20 minutes of winding through the jungle, following a random path, we're no closer to the jungle man. I am hoping we are not getting lost. Mr. Moorhead refused to return to camp to recruit more support.

I finally say, "My word, he certainly does follow a circuitous route. Rather random. I doubt that he could make this more circuitous if he was trying. Makes one wonder how he protects any animals at this rate."

Mr. Moorhead stops in his tracks, saying, "James, you brilliant boy! How did you see it and not I?"

"Sir?"

My boss ignores me. He says, "What a fool I am. We need to head to camp. Specifically, the cages and wrestling area. Immediately."

When we get close to the ring, Mr. Moorhead orders us to split apart, each approaching from a different direction. We circle around to the cage area, moving as silently as we can. I do not understand why we are breaking off, but I quickly get my answer.

It is the savage.

Tarzan has been here. I see two of the animal wranglers. They are unconscious. Worse still, the lion is gone.

I start to rise, frustrated at the setback, but then I see him to my left. Tarzan is still here, standing by the wrestling ring. I see my sketchbook open in his large hand as he studies the cables that form the square. He tests the tension then flips to another page. The jungle man seems fascinated by the ring and my drawings of muscular men wrestling.

My charcoal sketches

To my right, on the other side of the ring, I see Mr. Moorhead. I look for Tau and Sefu, but they are hidden far too well for my untrained eye to see. I trust that they are in their positions across from me and behind the jungle man.

Tarzan

Now that I am calmer, I am even more impressed with this Tarzan. From this side, I can see that he is a magnificent man, unlike the ones I am used to seeing. Tarzan looks like a larger, more muscular Greek statue, with every muscle clearly outlined. His chest, legs and arms are disproportionately thick, with a narrow waist.

The leather pouch that holds his manhood is stuffed and tented, covered by a small flap. The piece of leather on the back of his loincloth is far too small, exposing most of his ample buttocks. It is large and plump, but also powerful. I am fascinated by it, as most men I have seen have flat posteriors. It is amazing.

I move higher. His thick brown hair is matted and unruly, but back enough that I can see his profile. I realize that he is attractive, as well. Younger than I thought, perhaps 25? The jungle man stands tall, shoulders back, chest out. Even as he studies my drawings, he has an air of confidence and regal poise that I was too panicked to see before.

After a few minutes, Mr. Moorhead rises from his hiding spot and interrupts the confused jungle man's thoughts of wrestling. My employer has stripped down to his underwear and boots, nearly matching the loincloth-wearing Tarzan. He holds his empty hands up, palms open beside his barrel chest. It is a non-threatening pose.

Mr. Moorhead says calmly, "Hello there. Tarzan, is it? You have been a naughty one, young man. Leaving that trail to take us away from here. It almost worked."

The jungle man stares at my boss in surprise. With no rifle or weapon and Mr. Moorhead's calming tone, he does not run off. The two muscular, nearly naked men stare each other down. I can see their muscles tensing as they take measure of one another.

As calm as things may appear, it looks as though Tarzan is about to run. I see his legs and buttocks tense. Oh my, his buttocks is huge, but so very muscular.

Mr. Moorhead quickly says, "I want to thank you. For saving my young friend. From the snake."

The muscular jungle man's muscles visibly relax. Does he understand?

Mr. Moorhead continues, "We are not looking to hurt you, but we will re-build, you know. And re-capture that lion. Do you understand?" I see the jungle man's body tense, suggesting comprehension. Mr. Moorhead sees something, too. "Ah, I see in your eyes that you do understand me. Good. Can you please tell me what this fuss is all about?"

The jungle man ignores the request. He drops my sketchbook and charges off in my direction. Mr. Moorhead starts to chase him, yelling, "Stop him, James."

I spring to my feet, trying to remember my rugby moves as I am once again facing down the charging ape-man.

Chapter 4: Battling the Beast

"We are coming, James! Just delay him!"

I would probably have more luck stopping a charging rhino, but I follow orders, bracing to at least slow the jungle man down. To my shock, Tarzan darts neither left nor right. He leaps over my head, sailing through the air. The jungle man is almost flying. I reach up in desperation. By luck more than anything, I catch his ankle.

Tarzan falls to the ground as I hold on for dear life. I clutch his calf against my chest, struggling to keep him from escaping me. He breaks free quickly, but then Sefu and Tau are suddenly there. The two natives each grab an arm, while I climb on his back.

Tarzan bucks wildly under us, actually rising to his feet, in spite of close to 500-lbs of men on him. His mighty muscles flex, as the natives pull his arms apart. With amazing strength, Tarzan brings his arms together, slamming Tau and Sefu into one another like they were nothing. The jungle man bends forward, throwing me to the ground.

The jungle man rises, only to be grabbed from behind by Mr. Moorhead. My employer wraps his left arm around Tarzan's neck while forcing the savage's right arm up his back. The jungle man struggles, but Tau and Sefu have recovered. They each grab a leg, holding Tarzan firmly in place.

I dive to my knees, grabbing him around the waist. My face rests on the soft leather loincloth. I'm not ashamed to say that I can feel his manhood throbbing inside the pouch on my cheek as I grip his mountainous posterior.

Tarzan grits his teeth then shocks us all, screaming in a deep, raspy voice. "RRRROAR! Let. Me. Go!"

Mr. Moorhead says, "Not until you calm down, young man! We only want to talk!"

The only response is more guttural cries of effort. "ARGH! RROOAARR!"

We're losing our grip. Somehow, some way, this man is breaking free from the four of us. Mr. Moorhead presses his knee into the back of Tarzan's, toppling the entire pile of us forward. I end up on the bottom, with the jungle man's sizable manhood pressing into my face. I smell his musk as the men reposition on top of Tarzan. Sefu and Tau are struggling to pull the jungle man's legs apart. The weight on my face and body grows painful, but I'm unable to get free.

I flail under the pile, my hands clawing Tarzan's large and firm buttocks as I try to slide out from under him. The two natives are lying atop of the jungle man's legs, while Mr. Moorhead maintains his hold on Tarzan's neck and arm. Much to my relief, the pile rolls over and off me. I spring to my feet, shaking out my head. Mr. Moorhead is up on his back, under the savage. He still has the arm and chin locked, but has also swung his legs around the jungle man's slim hips, locking his ankles on the other side. Sefu and Tau have mounted Tarzan's legs, keeping them spread out wide to prevent him from using them.

As Tarzan's finally nearly immobilized, I can't help but watch as his hips bounce up and down, jiggling his crotch area. The covering flap rests up his flat stomach, exposing the thin under pouch of the loincloth. Mr. Moorhead's boots rest beside the savage's ample manhood, making it more pronounced as it pushes it up and to the side. It's so large and beautiful that I desperately want to touch it, but I dare not.

I break from my fascination, as Tarzan is swinging his free left arm wildly, trying to batter Mr. Moorhead with his elbow. I get an idea. I leap over the jungle man's waist, straddling him just above Mr. Moorhead's legs. I rest my hands on his hard bulging chest as I add my weight, but also my voice to the struggle.

"Tarzan! Tarzan! Please! We only want to speak with you! Please stop fighting us!" As a response, Tarzan's left fist comes up at my face. I dodge, barely. I continue, "Please, we are not going to hurt you! Please! Do you understand me?"

"LET. ME. GO!"

I realize that trust needs to earned. I grab Tarzan's knife from the jungle floor. I hold it over his face, letting him see it. He bucks wildly, but he's tiring. I dramatically toss it aside, saying "Tarzan! If we wanted to kill you, I could have right now. Just as you could have killed me when we first met. You saved my life. I would never harm you. We only want to talk. Please, why can you not understand that?"

Tarzan abruptly stops struggling. He stares at me and I stare back. Our eyes lock and I feel a connection. From his calm demeanor, I think he feels it, too. I explain slowly and clearly that we want to know more of him. I have no idea of this man's intelligence or vocabulary. I am relieved when he asks why. A very intelligent question. I tell him that we did not know there were white men this deep in the jungle. It is strange to us.

Tarzan thinks, trying to judge my words. He asks, "Why did you have the lion? What is that ... place?" His free arm points to the makeshift wrestling ring.

I laugh, "Oh my. That is hard to explain. Can we start simpler? My name is James. Under you is Mr. Moorhead. And these men are Sefu and Tau. We want to know more about you. We want to know your story. Why are you here? You're a white man in this part of the jungle. It does not make sense to us."

"The jungle is my home."

"But how?" I pause, trying to think like a jungle man. I ask, "Where is your tribe?"

"I do not have a tribe. I am alone."

I nod. With everyone calm, I ask, "If we let you go, will you run away?"

Tarzan hesitates. He finally says, "No. James. I will stay."

With that, we trust the jungle man, releasing him and allowing him to rise. He grabs his knife from the ground. We all freeze, but he sheathes it and turns to face us. I can only stare at him. His muscles are even larger, thanks to the struggle. His bronzed skin glistens with sweat. And his face is remarkably handsome.

Mr. Moorhead whispers, "You seem to have earned his trust, James. Well done. See what you can learn of the mystery of Tarzan then get him in that ring. I simply MUST wrestle the beast."

Chapter 5: Wrestling the Beast

Sadly, Tarzan is not much help on knowing why he is here. It all becomes a rather circular conversation, as he only wants to know about the ring. He understands the concept of wrestling, but it is the set-up that has him confused. Combined with my drawings, the jungle man can only focus on the ring.

When I inform my employer, Mr. Moorhead is pleased that getting the large jungle man into the wrestling ring is proving to be so simple. Tarzan is even willing to wrestle Mr. Moorhead in front of the camera. Of course, he has no idea what a camera is, but no matter.

I debate with Mr. Moorhead about Tarzan's attire. I feel that it is too shocking for audiences back home, but Mr. Moorhead feels it is real. I believe my employer is both attracted to and challenged by the muscular and handsome ape-man. He wants the most primal experience possible. Tarzan settles the matter for us by refusing to wear more.

I ensure that Tarzan understands what wrestling is and that at the end, both men will walk away. He does. I explain again about what we want. He understands that we want to them to struggle and prolong the battle. The jungle man's vocabulary is surprisingly deep for a man from the wild. I wish I could get the magnificent muscleman to share more so I could understand things like how he got here, who took care of him, and how he learned English.

The crew is setting up the cameras. Mr. Moorhead has attired himself in a fundoshi, a Japanese-style loincloth, which he favors for contests of strength. The crisp, twisted white fabric looks magnificent with his newly tanned skin.

I explain once again to Tarzan that this is for fun. I am so afraid that he will hurt Mr. Moorhead. Thankfully, he truly does understand the concept of play and the difference between life and death.

Once the crew is set-up, the two musclemen enter the ring. Tarzan seems to enjoy physical contact as the hairy muscleman proceeds to teach the jungle man what to do. Tarzan is a wonderfully fast learner. The jungle man has tremendous awareness of his body and his physicality is remarkable.

When both men are comfortable, the cameras begin rolling. At Mr. Moorhead’s request, Tarzan adopts a serious look. It will make a more dramatic production. The jungle man still doesn’t really understand the camera, but he seems happy to play along for the chance to wrestle. The two musclemen dive in, their chests slapping as they attempt to grab one another. Tarzan wraps his arms around his hairy opponent. He lifts then turns, flipping the adventurer down. The jungle man pins Mr. Moorhead, but quickly gets thrown off. As the older man rises, Tarzan leaps on his back. The smooth muscleman tackles him down.

Mr. Moorhead struggles with the power of Tarzan, but his superior skill evens the game. The two men are quickly sweating as they struggle. The jungle man works to hold his opponent down, but the hairy strongman is twisting and countering very well. He manages to power the ape-man onto his back and get on top.

Mr. Moorhead vs. Tarzan

The fast and furious action is hypnotic as the nearly naked musclemen battle. Their skin glistens as the sun highlights the perspiration from the intense exertion in the jungle heat. As their bodies rub and gyrate, the loincloths slide and ride to the side. I worry momentarily about the appropriateness of the film, but that thought quickly goes away as Tarzan throws Mr. Moorhead off him.

Both musclemen rise. Both are breathing hard. Using the lock-up Mr. Moorhead just taught him, the two men embrace again. Tarzan powers the hairy strongman into a tree that makes one of our ringposts. Before he can do anything, Mr. Moorhead reverses their positions.

With surprising quickness, Mr. Moorhead lifts his knee into Tarzan’s chiseled stomach. The ape-man grunts before he is flipped back into the middle of the ring. He lands on his ample and muscular behind. The hairy muscleman is behind Tarzan immediately. He slams his knee between the ape-man’s thick shoulder blades.

Instinctively, the smooth muscleman draws his elbows back, giving the more experienced wrestler the opportunity to grab his forearms. Mr. Moorhead quickly has hold of Tarzan’s wrists, extending his arms behind him and lifting. The jungle man is forced to bend forward, his thick chest going down between his knees as his shoulders are tested.

Tarzan grunts then groans in pain. The higher-pitched gasps from the muscular savage excite me in a way I have never felt before. Mr. Moorhead keeps the pressure on until Tarzan manages to plant his feet and thrust backwards. My employer loses the hold, unable to brace himself against the power of the ape-man’s legs.

The men topple down, with Tarzan landing on top of the hairy strongman. The adventurer quickly locks on a full nelson, wrapping his legs around the magnificent jungle man’s body. He squeezes hard and the exciting gasps return. Oh my. Tarzan’s body is on full display and I fear I will not be able to contain myself as he writhes and cries out in pain.

The jungle man finally gains some measure of focus. He thrusts his arms down, breaking the nelson. Tarzan rises, pulling free from the locked legs. He staggers for a moment, looking winded. Mr. Moorhead kicks out to trip him, but the ape-man deftly leaps over the kick, showing tremendous agility.

Tarzan dives on top of Mr. Moorhead’s back. The large amount of muscle crushes the older wrestler to the mat, but he skillfully presses and rolls, putting the jungle man on his back. He rolls away. When Tarzan rises and pursues, the hairy muscleman grabs his arm and flips him over. He holds onto an armbar, keeping the ape-man down while he kneels down, pressing his shin into Tarzan’s side to hold him down.

Tarzan squirms, his small loincloth wet with sweat as he struggles to break free. He cannot easily power out of the hold, as Mr. Moorhead is both strong and skilled. The smooth muscleman manages to force his way up to his knees. My employer releases the arm hold, quickly shifting to a side headlock.

Mr. Moorhead is breathing hard and I notice that the front of his fundoshi is more full than earlier. Tarzan grunts his short little gasps and I wish our camera had the ability to capture that noise as easily as it captures images. It takes a while, but the jungle man manages to push himself free of the headlock.

The ape-man rises, but he is too slow. Mr. Moorhead seizes him from behind, locking his arms around the jungle man’s trim waist. He squeezes the hold, which is like a bearhug, only in reverse. The hairy strongman shakes the smooth jungle man, noticeably weakening him.

Tarzan suffers for a long time. His muscles strain as his nearly naked body is thrown about, the flaps of his tiny loincloth sway and the stuffed pouch is clearly visible. Oh my. The larger muscleman cries out as his midsection is crushed. With a sudden burst of energy, he breaks Mr. Moorhead’s iron grip.

The battle has taken its toll on both men. Tarzan stumbles to one knee as Mr. Moorhead staggers backwards. When the jungle man rises, he spins, charging right into a front-facing bearhug. ARGH! Out of the frying pan, one might say. Once again, he suffers under the power of the civilized strongman.

This time, Tarzan cannot pry the arms apart, as they are clasped behind his back. Once again, the younger muscleman grows weaker. For all his power, he cannot seem to resist it being drained from his spectacular body. The ape-man’s arms dangle in the powerful hold, swaying as we are treated to a view of his beautiful bare arse every time his loincloth slips to the side.

Mr. Moorhead pauses. He suddenly lifts then spins, slamming Tarzan to the mat, landing with all of his body weight on top of the younger muscleman. The hairy strongman sits up, resting comfortably on the ailing ape-man’s hips. He flexes his mighty biceps for the camera.

Mr. Moorhead vs. Tarzan

Tarzan writhes under his conqueror. The big beast seems tamed for a moment, but with a sudden burst of energy, he sends Mr. Moorhead toppling off him. Still, the battle has clearly taken its toll. The jungle man rolls onto his knees then starts to rise slowly.

From behind, Mr. Moorhead measures his prey. He leaps onto Tarzan’s back then wraps his arms around the muscular ape-man’s neck. He squeezes. The smooth muscleman fights, thrashing about, but ultimately, he cannot win. He succumbs to the force of the civilized strongman, falling unconscious.

Mr. Moorhead poses for the camera, his foot resting on the jungle man’s broad chest. With the match over, I enter the ring with a canteen and towel. I say, “Congratulations, sir. You never cease to amaze me.”

My employer is beaming, but he calmly says, “Thank you, James.”

As I check with the crew, I see Mr. Moorhead order Sefu and Tau to carry the unconscious Tarzan to his tent. I can only imagine what he has planned for the ape-man now that he has won their battle.

Chapter 6: Seeding the Beast

I sit in my tent, but I cannot relax, my mind filled with images of Mr. Moorhead taking advantage of the jungle man. Tarzan is clearly a virgin. I mean there is no one else out here, is there? He certainly would never have experienced being with another man. I can guess what my employer has planned and I can think of nothing else.

My artist's mind can clearly visualize the unconscious Tarzan. His muscular body held aloft by Sefu and Tau, the jungle man unaware of anything. Mr. Moorhead is circling him, admiring his conquest. Tarzan is easily the most beautiful man Mr. Moorhead has ever seen. He takes his time, his white fundoshi enlarged as he surveys the mighty muscleman.

Mr. Moorhead looks the beautiful physical specimen up and down. He takes in his every contour, from his large feet to his handsome face. His gaze lingers on the sagging loincloth. My employer is not satisfied just looking. He must have this man. The thrill of besting him has stirred him to act.

In my mind, I can see him running his hands over the hard muscles that could have been carved by a master sculptor. Up the thick legs, pausing at the large pouch of Tarzan's loincloth. He strips the leather, exposing what is clearly an impressive display of manhood. From how it felt against my face and what I have observed, it is large, even when soft.

I know that right this minute, the victorious adventurer is continuing his appraisal, feeling the impossibly chiseled abdominal muscles and the large heaving chest. I can practically see Mr. Moorhead grabbing the ape-man's hair and lifting his head up to admire the handsome, noble face.

With the jungle man naked and unaware, the inspection continues to the rear. The broad shoulders and thick back are rubbed seductively. Then it is time for the real prize. Tarzan's large and magnificent arse. Mr. Moorhead cups massive mounds of flesh. He squeezes them as he kneels.

I lie on my cot, my swollen organ in my hand and my other hand rubbing my chest. I work myself, overwhelmed by my thoughts of what must be happening across the camp in Mr. Moorhead's tent. I go slowly, not wanting to unleash my seed too quickly. I return to my imagination, which I am convinced is reality.

My employer spreads the cheeks, peeking at the jungle man's hole. He massages the huge mounds of flesh, his own manhood stirring. Mr. Moorhead is so tempted that he boldly inserts his finger inside the helpless jungle man. Out of sight of the strong natives, he works his finger inside until the ape-man jolts and writhes out of instinct. Unable to wait any longer, Mr. Moorhead has the natives lay Tarzan on his back on the floor of the tent. When they exit, Mr. Moorhead strips naked and lies beside the unconscious jungle man.

Mr. Moorhead caresses the body then lightly slaps him awake. Tarzan stirs with a start, but is held down by the power of his conqueror. The older muscleman would soothe Tarzan, seducing him. He tells him of a custom that the loser in battle must submit. The naive jungle man understands. His primal upbringing has taught his to respect power and dominance. He acquiesces, allowing Mr. Moorhead to do what he wants.

Tarzan is rolled onto his stomach. He kneels, his arms out and his magnificent arse up. The muscular jungle man presents himself for entry, as he has no doubt seen animals do. The soothing voice of Mr. Moorhead keeps him at ease as he is violated again. The mature muscleman goes slowly, not wanting to lose his prey.

It takes some work, but soon, Mr. Moorhead is deep inside the jungle man. He begins to force himself in and out. The ape-man groans with pain, but he enjoys it. For the first time in his life, he is penetrated and he loves it. He feels stimulated in an entirely new way. Tarzan lets out guttural growls as the older man takes his virginity from him.

I can just imagine as Mr. Moorhead tells Tarzan that he will seed him. The jungle man understands, accepting his subservient role. He simply would not know any better.

The adventurer thrusts deep and hard, knowing that the powerful jungle man can take it. And that he is accepting it. I can almost hear Tarzan. The ape-man is moaning and crying out as the dominant mature muscleman ravages him. After losing in combat, he would not resist, even with the pain of a first penetration.

Mr. Moorhead extends the encounter for as long as he can, but the beauty of Tarzan is too much to resist. He soon explodes, unleashing his seed into the jungle man. He fills the hole of his prey, telling him of the honor of one man seeding another.

The younger muscleman just stays in his position, accepting the words as truth. He loses his will against the man who now owns him in a natural and primal way.

I moan loudly, as I get close to releasing my seed, even at this slow pace. To extend and increase my pleasure, I imagine the scene all over again. This time, my organ is painful as I hold back, trying to make the moment last.

I suddenly hear, "That looks fun. Can I play, too?"

I am startled out of my fantasy by the deep voice. I quickly place a pillow over my genitals and sputter, "Tarzan? Oh my. You're here. Here. Oh my. Um, I know this might look strange, but, um, well, um. Oh my."

The jungle man seems unconcerned by my present state. He idly asks, "Is this your home?"

I smile, put at ease by his lack of judgment, "No. Well, I suppose it is while I am in the jungle. But I have a real home a long way from here."

Tarzan nods, "I understand. I have a home, but I sleep in caves or trees when I cannot get back to it."

"Yes, it is like that. I am surprised to see you. I thought you would be with Mr. Moorhead."

"I was. We had fun, but now he is asleep. So I wanted to visit you."

I wonder if I was wrong. Perhaps they did not have intercourse. Tarzan sits beside me on my cot and I smell the lingering odor that tells me I was right. Even though I was happily fantasizing about it, I am surprisingly disappointed to know that they did have sex.

Our bare shoulders touch and I shudder as a chill goes through me. The jungle man turns to face me. We stare into each other's eyes and I am lost and confused. He places his hand on my leg then forces it under the pillow, rubbing my still swollen organ.

Tarzan asks, "Why do you hide yourself? Is it a game? Like the wrestling?"

I struggle to answer, but then I realize that it doesn't matter. I slowly reach behind his head. The mighty muscleman allows me to pull him into me. I kiss him deeply. Tarzan opens his mouth naturally. He is surprisingly submissive, letting me control him. When I break we stare into each other's eyes.

The jungle man says, "I like that more than what Moor-head did. Show me more."

I smile, "Happily. But please don't talk about Mr. Moorhead."

The curious muscleman offers himself as my wiling student. I guide him down on top of me. The cot creaks at the massive amount of weight. I can't help myself. I grab his head and pull him into me. I kiss his lips and neck, gripping his broad shoulders and clawing at his thick back. I have never felt a man as big and solid as Tarzan. It is an incredible feeling.

I am lost in the moment, my mind racing at the idea of making love to this magnificent muscleman. Suddenly, I hear a 'thud' then feel Tarzan collapse on top of me. He slumps to the side, toppling off me onto the floor of my tent. An angry Mr. Moorhead stands over him, the butt of his rifle marked with the jungle man's hair and blood.

Chapter 7: The Beast's Fate

Fifteen minutes later, Mr. Moorhead returns. He tells me what he has done. I am incredulous as I ask, "You caged Tarzan?"

"Of course. The beast has proven that it cannot be trusted outside of my presence. I have no interest in supervising it every moment. It will remain caged until it can be properly trained."

"Sir, please, do not be jealous. Tarzan was just -"

"Jealous? Jealous? Do not be absurd, my dear boy. It is not my lover. I am not attached to the creature. I see it for what it is."

"And what is that?"

"An animal in a man's body. And as an animal, it is where it belongs. In a cage."

I whisper, "Sir, I know you were, um, well, I know you did not treat him like an animal in your tent." I lie, "Tarzan told me everything. That is why he was curious. You exposed him to this new experience. You cannot expect him to understand -"

"James, it is an animal. Ruled by base instincts. Like a rutting pig or a dog in heat. Now, I suggest you do not get attached. Always remember that it is nothing more than the lion or python we captured. In time, I suppose I might grow fond of it, as one is fond of a pet."

"In time?"

"Yes, in time. Tarzan is unique and I must possess it. The movie is worthless without it. People must know what I am wrestling. A real savage beast. A hairless ape. Not some run-of-the-mill circus strongman. It will be quite the conversation piece, don't you think?"

"Pardon?"

"Of course there is work to be done. I need to tame it. Break it. Train it. Imagine the amazement when people back home see my prize. I dare anyone to match Maximillian M. Moorhead's latest discovery."

"He's not an animal, he is a man! A walking, talking, living breathing man!"

"No, it is not, Mr. Porter. An ape can walk. A bird can talk. They are not men. As I have explained, it -"

"You believed he was a man before he entered my tent and saw him on top of me."

Mr. Moorhead stares at me with hard eyes. I don't often challenge him and never with such force. He calmly replies, "I was merely confused by its appearance, as you are. I am aware that you are attracted to its form. It might look like a man, but as I have gotten to know it, I have seen the truth. It is a strong, magnificent beast, but a beast nonetheless. If it learns its place, it will be a pet."

"What if you cannot change him?"

"If not a pet then a trophy."

I freeze as a chill goes down my spine. I shout. "SIR! With all due respect, I believe you are suffering from heat stroke or some other jungle malady. You cannot stuff and mount him. He is a man! A human being!"

SLAP! Mr. Moorhead slaps me across the face. He is red with fury as he says forcefully, "That is quite enough, Mr. Porter. For the final time, that Tarzan creature is NOT a man. It is a savage beast and I WILL HAVE IT. One way or the other. Is that clear?"

I can only nod, shocked at this man whom I respect. Or I did. I am too confused to know. He leaves my tent, ordering me to remain inside until I have calmed down.

Thirty minutes later, I surreptitiously make my way to the cages. Tarzan is awake. He is crouched, breathing heavily. His muscles are pumped and his body drenched in sweat. The jungle man looks exhausted, obviously from struggling against his prison.

"I am sorry, Tarzan. Please know, I had nothing to do with this." Tarzan just stares at me with hard eyes. He is clearly deciding if he should trust me or not. I move close and whisper, "I will free you. Tonight, when everyone is asleep. Once you are out of this cage, you must disappear again. Go deep into the jungle and never come back. I will only be able to help you once. And Mr. Moorhead will try to track you. You must use whatever tricks you can to hide."

The muscular man rises and moves towards me. He says, "Thank you, but do not put your life in danger, James. I will free myself."

I smile, "Mr. Moorhead will be very cross with me, but he would never harm me. Even if he did, it would be worth it. I cannot stand by and watch you treated this way."

"You are a good man, James." A tear runs down my cheek. Tarzan reaches out and wipes it away. I flinch and he sees the mark of the slap. "Moor-head has hurt you."

I brush his hand away. I say with great resolve, "You saved my life from the snake. Tonight, I will save yours. No matter what the cost."

Chapter 8: Definitely a Man

When I wake up, I am naked. I am not in my tent. I am in a ... I don't know what I am in. I struggle to remember. I freed Tarzan. I opened his cage. He fled. Then pain. I feel the back of my head. Ouch. A knot. I was knocked out. Where is this, then?

Where am I?

I notice a gap in the crude floorboards. Oh my. It is some kind of a treehouse. And rather high up. I freeze, but the room feels solid enough. I relax and absorb my surroundings. Small and sparse. I am on a tattered cloth that covers some jungle foliage. It is a surprisingly comfortable bed. I see several pieces of leather hanging up. Loincloths. And my clothes are laid out on the floor. Other than that, I see some books, pictures, suitcases and ripped clothes. Everything is terribly worn.

I notice there is a door. That is when I see him. Tarzan. Naked and majestic as he sits on a branch, staring out at the jungle. I wish I had my sketchbook. Without it, I carefully study him, trying to burn his image into my mind for all time. Every seductive contour. Every powerful muscle. Every handsome feature.

Suddenly, I am struck by the realization of where I am. Why am I here? Tarzan turns, watching me watch him. He rises and I'm struck by his beauty. The jungle man enters the room. He crouches in front of me and it is all I can do not to stare at his dangling manhood.

I ask why I'm here. He says he found me in a clearing. Unconscious and alone. I had been left there by Mr. Moorhead and his men. It was too dangerous to leave me there, so he brought me here. I thank him. I can believe that Mr. Moorhead was angry, but I'm shocked that he would abandon me to die in the jungle.

Tarzan says, "I was abandoned by my tribe, too."

"You were?"

Tarzan nods. I finally learn more about him. He only remembers the jungle, so he must have been quite young when he arrived. He tells me about a man who taught him to read, but the man died when Tarzan was still young.

The handsome jungle man shows me pictures that he says are his tribe. They are photographs. Amazing. The people in them look quite wealthy. The scenery is England. Tarzan could very well be part of the aristocracy, if this is his family.

Tarzan touches my face. He moves on top of me and kisses me as I kissed him. I lose myself and forget about the mystery of the jungle man. I'm back in that moment before Mr. Moorhead found us in my tent. Before all this trouble. I realize what is happening and I stop it. I struggle to push him off, but he's too strong. Too heavy. But he feels my attempt, so he backs away. He wonders why.

"I know Mr. Moorhead has introduced you to sex -"

Tarzan says, "I knew about sex before Moor-head."

"You did? How? Instinct?"

"Many years ago, the Amuzi tribe used me like Moor-head used me. For sex."

"What do you mean?"

Tarzan explains that this tribe kidnapped him years ago. The tribe's witch doctor believed that the white jungle man was supernaturally powerful, a white jungle spirit brought to life in the form of a man.

They captured Tarzan and for months, the Amuzi used him to breed with the women of the tribe and to seed the Warriors to give them strength. The Chief personally seeded Tarzan many times in an attempt to control him. Tarzan escaped, but it sounds as though he was their prisoner for quite awhile.

"Oh my. How horrible for you!"

Tarzan looks confused, "Do not be sad. It was not bad. They fed and treated me well to avoid the anger of the gods who put me here. And I enjoyed the sex. Just not being a prisoner. Once I ... wrestled and did sex to their Chief, the tribe learned it was wrong to hold me prisoner. I go back many times for more sex and to see sons and daughters."

"Oh." I realize just how different Tarzan's life experience is. I cannot imagine what he has been through or how he thinks. Then I imagine dozens of Tarzan's half-breed children wandering around this Amuzi tribe. It is all too much.

Tarzan says, "It feels good. I can show you. You want to seed me or me to seed you?"

I stand up, confused by this man. He is so unencumbered by doubts and social protocols. My penis is engorged at the thought of what this jungle man is offering. I try to process things. Tarzan grabs me from behind and I sink into him. What follows is a shockingly savage session of kissing and fondling.

Lost in the passion, we ravage each other. I eventually slow things down, switching to more tender kissing and caressing. He again lets me lead and I show him how we do things in the civilized world.

Tarzan seems to enjoy my approach. When I take his large manhood in my mouth, he gasps. Apparently no one does oral sex in the Amuzi. He falls back and lets me have my way with him. In spite of my own limited experience, I must do well, because Tarzan's muscular body shakes and twists. He moans in pleasure.

I'm working away when he shocks me by shooting his seed down my throat. I struggle to take it all in, failing to swallow much of it. When I sit back, Tarzan looks at me with amazement. He tells me that it felt good. Tarzan asks if he can try. I spread my legs and welcome his mouth. I coach him and he is a fast learner.

Within minutes, I am overwhelmed by the moment. I cannot contain myself. I warn him that I am about to unleash my seed. While I shake with my orgasm, Tarzan drinks down my hot white seed. When I am drained, he pulls off. He has an unhappy look on his face and I get worried.

Tarzan says, "I don't like that taste."

"It does take some getting used to. But you can always spit it out." Tarzan spits out a wad of my seed out the window. I hand him a water jug and he cleanses his mouth. When he's done, I tell him, "I did warn you it was coming."

Tarzan smiles, "It is okay. I like to try things and then I keep doing the things l like."

I smile back, "Smart philosophy."

Tarzan furls his brow then scurries to the books. He pulls out one and looks, repeating the word 'philosophy'. He looks concerned, so I move over to him. It's a dictionary. He's in the 'F' section. I flip to 'P' and point it out. He nods, "I hate that 'PH' is like 'F'. Silly."

Tarzan reads the definition, thinks then puts the dictionary down. I ask about the books, but the jungle man tackles me down. He says, "Talk later. Sex now."

Who am I to object? Again he asks if I want to 'seed or be seeded'. I tell him lets do both. He eagerly agrees then dives onto the makeshift mattress, ass up. He tells me to go first. I look at his massive posterior and my penis swells up immediately. What a magnificent man.

I move in behind him as he pushes his spectacular behind into the air for me. I wet my fingers then work the jungle man open. He moans, saying no one has ever done that before. I ask him to make sure he does it with me and he agrees. The last thing I need is Tarzan forcing his oversized organ into my unprepared hole.

When I've loosened him up, I proceed to ride Tarzan. He enjoys it, asking me to go faster and harder. I hold onto his firm hips and thrust in as deep as I can go. I reach forward and grab his long untamed hair. I pull and he rises onto his hands, head arched back. I swat his behind and he gasps then demands I do it again.

I ride Tarzan like a stallion, holding his hair and swatting his behind as I move in and out. He moans loudly, crying out for more. I can't contain myself any more. I explode into his arse, filling him with my warm seed. I keep pumping until I have nothing left. When I pull out and fall back into my ass, Tarzan spins and dives on top of me.

"That was very good, friend James! Can we go again?"

I smile, "Yes, but not right now. Do you want to take a turn?" In response, Tarzan grabs me and throws me onto the mattress. I roll onto my back and lift my legs.

As the jungle man moves in, he asks, "What are you doing?"

Tarzan looks on in wonder as I pull my legs back. My cheeks spread and he smiles at the sight of my open arse. He licks his fingers and presses against my hole. He uses his fingers just like I showed him. His fingers are thick, giving me ample practice for the massive monster that rests between his legs.

The jungle man guides his penis inside me then begins to thrust. I guide his speed, helping him understand how to make it last. It feels so incredible to have my fantasy man deep inside me. I grow hard again, the joy of being young and fit. Tarzan drives deeper and deeper inside me.

I look at his handsome face as his wild mane hangs down. He is determined and focused, owning me better than any other man ever has. It doesn't take long before Tarzan is filling me with his seed. The jungle man is clearly about immediate satisfaction.

When he finishes, I feel warm and full. I pull him beside me and introduce the concept of the cuddle. He likes the intimacy, but grows bored quickly. We decide to walk. Tarzan pulls his tiny loincloth on then hands me a piece of animal skin. Using my belt, I fashion my very own loincloth, wishing I had a mirror.

We head off into the jungle. I look around, enjoying the moment. Suddenly, I realize Tarzan is gone. I'm alone. I call for him, but he doesn't answer or appear. I'm not worried, yet, but it seems strange. I remind myself that Tarzan cannot be judged by the same standards of politeness.

Just then, I hear a voice behind me. It is Mr. Moorhead, kneeling in his tracking pose. Sefu and Tau are with him, their rifles are raised. I freeze in fear at the sight of them.

Mr. Moorhead, expert tracker

My (former) employer says, "Hello, James. Lovely to see you again. Where is the animal? I have some unfinished business with it."

"What business?"

"I told you that it is mine, James. One way or the other. I would have treated it well. Sadly, it has chosen the other way."

Chapter 9: The Beast Unleashed

I stammer out, "How did you find us?"

Mr. Moorhead proudly says, "Admittedly, I had trouble tracking Tarzan. I did try, but it left no trail. Since you were still unconscious from your traitorous act of freeing it, I decided to use you as bait."

I blurt out, "That's right. I was knocked out! I watched him go into the jungle then I heard rustling. One of the men grabbed me. I struggled. I was punched unconscious. But you used me as bait?"

"Yes. I watched from a distance. We had to be far away in order to not arouse the beast's suspicions. We planned on seizing the ape when it came for you, but I did not account for the beast having its amazing ability to swing through the trees. I was looking down when I should have been looking up. Quite outstanding. Fortunately, carrying your unconscious body brought it down to earth often enough that it made things much easier."

"Oh no."

"Oh yes. You see, James, I have you to thank for leading me to the ape. As I knew you would. Please know that I would never have really left you to die. I knew Tarzan would rescue you before any harm came to you."

I ask, "There are predators everywhere. How could you be sure?"

Mr. Moorhead smiles an evil smile, "Well, nothing is ever 100% certain. Consider it a calculated risk by a man of the world. You know that I am seldom wrong. Now, I will ask again, where is the creature? I have a blade destined for its heart."

Suddenly, we hear a ruckus behind Mr. Moorhead. It is Tarzan. With one leap from the trees and a spinning kick, he has dispatched Sefu and Tau, rendering both unconscious. He moves towards us in a crouch, like an ape. His hair hangs down, his muscles are tensed and he is snarling. I am shocked to see this full-on animalistic side, the least human I have seen the jungle man.

Mr. Moorhead tries to pick up a rifle, but I grab it at the same time. I fight long enough to distract the hunter, while Tarzan sprints at us. He leaps and tackles us down, the three of us falling to the ground. The jungle man throws the rifle away, only to get a kick in the jaw from the boot of Mr. Moorhead. CRACK!

The jungle man falls back, stunned. The adventurer pulls out his knife and dives on top of his prey. He drives the knife straight down. Oh no! Tarzan manages to block the blow, but his forearm is slashed in the process. He bucks wildly, throwing the mature muscleman aside. The jungle man rolls into a crouch as Mr. Moorhead rises, waving his knife at the bleeding Tarzan.

I run into the fray, trying to protect Tarzan. I face Mr. Moorhead, hands up, begging him not to do this. Meanwhile, I toss the jungle man my loincloth, telling him to wrap his wound.

"James. Move out of the way. I do not want to harm you, but I will. This beast's head will be a trophy on my wall when I am finished with it!"

Naked, I stand my ground, "No. He is no beast. He is a man. Aristocracy. Perhaps even royalty!"

That stops Mr. Moorhead cold. He looks confused then laughs. I explain the pictures, but he sees through me. "Even if true, I do not believe that is why you want to save it, James. You are fond of this beast. You are under the illusion that you love it."

"I am. Please, sir. If I have ever meant anything to you, please let him go."

"I have no children, James, but I have treated you like a son. It pains me to see you so confused. It is best for all of us if this beast is dispatched so we may move on."

I start to argue further, but Tarzan takes the decision into his own hands. The jungle man leaps over me, kicking the knife out of the hairy strongman’s hand. He envelops the stunned adventurer in his arms, actually lifting him off the ground with a bearhug.

Mr. Moorhead cries out in pain as his spine is crushed. The hairy strongman fights to escape, pounding on the shoulders of the jungle man, but it is no use. Tarzan is too strong, his rage increasing his strength and seemingly his size. He viciously shakes his helpless prey until Mr. Moorhead goes limp.

Tarzan drops the hairy adventurer to the ground. He beats on him with hard fists, kicks and forearms, smashing the 220-lbs strongman into the ground. Mr. Moorhead curls into a defensive position, unable to withstand the power of the mighty jungle man.

I am shocked at the ferocity and power of the attack. I suddenly understand why Sefu and Tau feared Tarzan so much as I realize the difference between Tarzan at play and Tarzan at war. This is the man who can survive in the savage jungle on his own. This is the man who can wrestle a hungry python and win. This is the man who can hunt great beasts with only his strength, wits and a knife.

Only when Mr. Moorhead is no longer even moving does Tarzan stop. He rises, but he does not relent. The jungle muscleman drags the hairy strongman to his feet. I am stunned as the jungle man presses the 220-lbs adventurer over his head. He hurls Mr. Moorhead forward, slamming the hairy muscleman into a tree. WHAM!

My former employer collapses, moaning. Tarzan is on top of him immediately, pounding on the hairy strongman. Mr. Moorhead begs him to stop, but Tarzan will not. He drags the hunter up by his shirt then lifts him overhead by his neck and leg.

I am in awe of the strength of the mighty jungle man as he holds Mr. Moorhead aloft again. Tarzan hurls the adventurer, sending him flying through the air before he crashes to the ground. My former employer is barely moving. His clothing is torn and disheveled. He has never been manhandled in such a manner.

I am ashamed to say that I find it arousing, my manhood standing at full attention as I watch the man I used to admire be so thoroughly dominated by this smooth muscleman. Tarzan grabs Mr. Moorhead from behind. He begins to choke the very life from the hunter.

Mr. Moorhead struggles, desperately fighting for his life. He kicks and thrashes wildly, but with the jungle man towering behind him, he cannot escape.

I beg Tarzan not to kill Mr. Moorhead. I beg him to trust me. I know that killing Mr. Moorhead will bring more people and trouble to the jungle looking for Tarzan’s head, but it is impossible to explain, especially in the heat of battle.

Finally, Tarzan relents. He releases the hairy muscleman who collapses at his feet. I thank him for complying. I tell Tarzan that it is better this way. We hug and kiss. When we break, I try to figure out what we should do.

Unfortunately, Mr. Moorhead has not agreed to submit. The despicable adventurer kicks out. WHACK! His boot connects with the jungle man’s leg. Tarzan collapses and I fear his leg is broken. I attack my former employer, but he throws me off as he rises. A boot to my temple keeps me down. CRACK!

Mr. Moorhead moves towards Tarzan. The jungle man is rising, but a running boot to his head drops him again. CRACK! The hairy muscleman searches for a knife or gun, but none are easily visible thanks to me. That doesn’t stop him. Mr. Moorhead moves behind Tarzan and grabs him from behind around the neck.

Tarzan is dragged up to his feet in a chokehold, the same move that knocked him unconscious just yesterday. The jungle man struggles, but he is still dazed from the blow to his head.

Mr. Moorhead says, “Enjoy your last moments of life, beast. For when you wake, I shall be cutting our your heart!”

Chapter 10: Death of a Legend

I still cannot rise as Mr. Moorhead squeezes and Tarzan weakens. The hairy strongman confidently crushes the neck of the ape-man, just as he did before. I fight to rise, knowing I have to save Tarzan.

Suddenly, Tarzan dives backwards. The two men topple backwards with the jungle man crushing Mr. Moorhead under his powerful body. The adventurer loses his grip and Tarzan bursts free, rolling to hands and knees. He coughs and shakes his head, clearly weakened by the powerful hold.

Mr. Moorhead rises and moves in. He grabs Tarzan’s thick brown hair and wrenches his head up. He says, “This is what you are, a beast to be led by the fur! A firm hand and proper training is what you need, ape!”

The hairy strongman drags Tarzan by his hair to the nearest tree. He forces the jungle man to his feet, pushing him into the tree. Mr. Moorhead pounds on Tarzan’s magnificent body, ravaging the beautiful bronzed muscles with his fists.

My former employer shows his formidable skills as a pugilist. When Tarzan attempts to push Mr. Moorhead away, his arms are batted away then he is assaulted by another series of punches. The smooth muscleman grows weaker, caught between the immovable tree and the irresistible force of a crazed madman.

Mr. Moorhead backs away, surveying the damage he has done. Tarzan’s mighty muscles look smaller. His thick arms hang limp. His massive legs are bent. And his head hangs down. I suspect that the tree is the only thing holding him upright.

The world’s greatest adventurer grabs Tarzan’s hair once again. He lifts the sagging head then puts his left hand on the ape-man’s chin so that he may look him in the eye. He smiles a cruel, arrogant smile that sends chills down my spine.

Mr. Moorhead says, “Are you willing to serve your betters, beast? Or shall I gut you and hang you on my wall.”

In response, Tarzan attempts to charge. Instead, Mr. Moorhead brings his right fist up and across the jungle man’s handsome face. The nearly naked muscleman drops to the ground, unmoving. Oh no.

“A pity.”

Mr. Moorhead searches and finally finds the discarded knife. He picks up the sharp weapon and returns to Tarzan. I charge to defend Tarzan, but my former employer is ready for me. Without missing a step, he brings his boot into my stomach then a right fist to my temple, knocking me to the ground. It is all I can do to remain conscious.

The smooth strongman kicks the jungle man onto his back. He looks down at the unmoving muscleman and I wonder if his sanity is returning. Mr. Moorhead bends down with the knife in hand. He seizes the side of Tarzan’s loincloth, slicing it open. He repeats the cut on the other side.

Mr. Moorhead pulls the leather loincloth free, stripping the jungle man. "Beasts do not wear clothes, creature." The hunter smells the worn leather deeply. He tucks the fabric in the waistband of his shorts. The hairy strongman moves the knife, pointing it at Tarzan’s face.

“How should you die? A blade to the heart? Across the throat? Or perhaps something slower, as punishment for your disobedience?”

I start to weep, “No! Please, stop!”

Mr. Moorhead turns to me, “Oh do shut up, Mr. Porter. I’ve had quite enough of your insolence. You have not wept for the beasts we have eaten together. Nor the game we have hunted. So please do spare me your tears now.”

“He is not a beast. Nor is he game. Please Mr. Moorhead. Please do not do this.”

My former employer looks at me sternly, “When we get back to civilization, I shall find you an attractive male traveling companion if you are so desperate for physical contact that you are willing to lay with an animal such as this. Now, be quiet. It will all be over in a moment.”

Mr. Moorhead turns to finish the job of murdering Tarzan. Yes, it is murder. I close my eyes, unable to bear witness to this heinous crime. Suddenly, I hear my former employer cry out. I open my eyes and see the jungle man tackling the hairy strongman down. I see the knife lying three feet away. My heart rises.

The two musclemen struggle for top. Their muscles are swollen with blood, power and rage. Mr. Moorhead is attempting to punch Tarzan, but they are too close. He cannot get any force behind the blows. The weight of the jungle man is too much for him to easily push away.

Mr. Moorhead finally manages to throw Tarzan off. He attempts to reach the knife, but Tarzan overwhelms the hunter. He grabs him from behind and lifts him into a reverse bearhug. The mighty muscleman holds the hairy strongman aloft, throwing him back and forth, like an animal playing with its prey.

Tarzan is relentless. He is literally squeezing and shaking the life from my former employer. The jungle man throws the hunter to the jungle floor. He beats his chest and roars in anger.

In desperation, Mr. Moorhead reaches for the knife. My heart sinks as he successfully grabs it. Tarzan is moving in as the hairy strongman spins to slice him open. The jungle man just barely manages to grab hold of his wrist. The two men roll on the jungle floor, the knife between them.

Tarzan fights under his attacker. Suddenly, I see blood seeping out between them. They freeze. I gasp. Mr. Moorhead falls to the side. Tarzan’s body is drenched in blood, but it is not his own. The mighty jungle man rises and stares down as the last bits of life drain from the world’s greatest adventurer.

By the time I reach him, there is nothing to do. Mr. Moorhead is dead.

Epilogue

It has been three months since I left the jungle and Tarzan behind. Sefu, Tau and Tarzan helped me cover Mr. Moorhead’s body. They also helped me lie about what happened to the men at our camp. We held a makeshift funeral in the heart of the jungle.

As far as the world is concerned, Mr. Moorhead died heroically, defending us from a lion attack. He died as he lived, as the world’s greatest adventurer.

Only four men alive know the truth and three of them are in Africa. No good would have come from sharing the horrible details. I have convinced myself that he had taken ill. It is the only explanation I have for his sudden change. The irrationality. The violence. As such, he should not have his reputation sullied for no reason.

To my great surprise, I inherited a considerable sum from Mr. Moorhead. It is enough to change my station in life. I considered refusing the money, given the circumstances of his death. However, I did not. Instead, I used my new stature to open doors and to uncover secrets.

Specifically, I have uncovered the secret of Tarzan using a photograph I took from his treehouse. I now believe him to be John Clayton, who disappeared as an infant with his parents when their ship went missing off the coast of Africa.

I have been granted an audience with John Clayton’s maternal grandfather, paternal uncle and cousin. As I stand in the library of Greystoke Manor, I am nervous. Out of place. But I maintain the veneer. I am wearing the finest clothes. I use my experience and training from my time with the late Mr. Moorhead to carry myself as the aristocracy does.

I breathe in deeply, thinking about Tarzan, wondering what he is doing and wondering what he will think if and when I appear with his long-lost relatives.

The End