Rival Pro Wrestling 3: Slamsky vs. Steele (US Title Match)

RIVAL PRO WRESTLING. TV TAPING. 1982.

Narrator: El Presidente

Me. El Presidente. The Boss.

I own this place. People need to remember that. I fuckin' own it. I own that ring. That camera. That announcing table. Those chairs. That curtain. The title belts. I own every fucking thing in this building. Including the wrestlers. They work for me. I decide what happens to them. Who they face. How far they rise. I own this place. And I make the rules.

I'm El Presidente. The Boss. And nobody better forget it.

I feel hands grip my shoulders as I stand in the shadows, watching. I'm shirtless in black dress pants. The hands massaging me belong to my main boy, Kevin O’Shea. He's a rising star around here. Thanks to me. I'm 35/5’10”/200-lbs of rock-hard muscle. He's a lot younger and a lot bigger (6’3”/240-lbs). But he gets it. He knows when we're at Rival Pro Wrestling, it's all about me.

Kevin leans down and whispers, “You're too tense. Relax. This is going to be a great match.”

I growl, “I know it's going to be fucking great.”

Kevin kisses my neck then steps back, letting me be tense. I like that he gets me. He's respectful and subservient, but not scared. And I like that huge sexy body of his in tight and tiny green trunks. Fuck, I'd take him right now, but things are starting. I adjust my bulge. All in good time. I'll get Kevin over my desk and give him a victory fuck after this is over.

Kevin O'Shea. My boy.

For now, there's work to be done.

My announcer starts talking, “Welcome back to Rival Pro Wrestling. I'm Slim Jim Bartlett. I could not be more excited to be at ringside for this next match. Talk about a true main event. Hold on to your hats, fans, this could be the biggest battle of 1982, so far.”

The thunder of crowd noise, but cheers and catcalls drown him out. He pauses, like he's supposed to. Good. I'm liking Slim Jim. He gets to keep his job for another week.

Slim Jim continues, “We've got two of the best in Rival Pro Wrestling facing off in an international grudge match. Two champs. Two big musclemen. Russia vs. the USA.”

More cheers.

“It's for the US Title. We've got the champion. The Siberian Slayer. Spartak Slamsky -” That's right. Pause, knowing the mere mention of the villainous Russian’s name will get a reaction. And it does. Boos fill the arena. It dies down. “- against an all-American challenger ‘Cowboy’ Chris Steele, one half of the World Tag Team champion Country Boys. Wow.”

Slim Jim steps to the curtain. He welcomes the champ for a pre-match interview. The big, burly beast marches up to him, accompanied by his manager, the diabolical Jerry “The Genius” He-man. The 6’1”/230-lbs champ snarls at Slim Jim as he flexes his biceps in his tight black singlet. It's cut low in front and high over the hip with a hammer and sickle crest bulging out in front. The USA belt is around his waist. It's an affront to all patriotic Americans to see this Communist beast as our national champion, but I like it. Heat sells.

Spartak Slamsky. The Siberian Slayer.

Slim Jim barely suppresses his obvious disdain for the Russian. I like the tension. The guy is good. He says, “Tonight will be your toughest challenge, yet, when -”

Jerry puts his hand in Jim’s face. The sleazy manager sneers as he interrupts, “Toughest challenge? That's like being the tallest midget. The country bumpkin doesn't stand a chance against my man. Just look at this beast! 250-lbs of pure muscle! Look at these anaconda arms! This hairy barrel chest! These tree trunk legs! The champ is gonna break him, just like he broke the hearts of all you loud-mouth, low-class fans when he won this belt last year!”

Boos cascade down to ringside. Jerry “The Genius” He-man opens his arms and does a spin. He basks in the scathing jeers. Shirtless in red tights with white belt, pro boots and flowing scarf, the brilliant bastard is a nasty opportunist. I like his style. Behind his manager, the champ remains silent and stoic, seemingly unfazed by the chorus of condemnation.

Jerry 'The Genius' He-man.

Jim tries to ask a question of Slamsky, “Cowboy Chris Steele is also a champion -”

Jerry rips the mic away from Slim Jim, shoving him aside. Hm. At 5’9”/175-lbs of hot muscle, Jerry’s actually a pretty good wrestler, too. With Slamsky behind He-Man, Slim couldn't stop him from taking over. Still, I want to see fight in all my guys, even the announcer. He should stand up for himself. Get destroyed. Get his clothes torn off. Show off his hairy, muscled body lying defeated on the floor. Set up a feud. Give me some new drama to work with. I'll give him that note for next week.

The loudmouth manager points at his protege, “Yeah, take a good look at the future, America! The Siberian Slayer. With my brains and his brawn, we are unstoppable!” He points at Jim. “You can't stop us.” He points out at the crowd. “You losers can't stop us.” Jerry’s finger heads in my direction but he sees me. He puts his hand down. Smart boy. He knows I CAN stop him.

Jerry focuses back on the camera, “And country bumpkin Chris Steele can’t stop us!”

Slamsky beats his chest. THUD! THUD! THUD! He finally speaks, “I vill bend Steele until he break in half! I am champ! He is nothing! GRRRRR!!”

He-man smirks, “By the time this monster is done with Chris Steele, that flag-waving moron will be down on his knees, kissing the champ’s boots! I guarantee it!”

Jerry throws the mic back at Jim then the two heels stomp off the set. The lightweight announcer gathers himself for another interview, “Okay, well, thank you for your time, gentlemen. Now, let’s welcome the challenger and tag champion, Cowboy Chris Steele.”

Cowboy Chris Steele.

Cheers erupt as the handsome, tanned bodybuilder (5’10”/230-lbs) comes out with his tag partner, Battling Bart Stone (6’2”/240-lbs). The Country Boys are rough and tough, full of confidence without any hint of arrogance. Jim’s interview with Steele goes more smoothly. A lot of baby-face blabber and USA chants. The kind of stuff wrestling marks love.

After getting great sound bites from Steele, Jim asks, “Now, Bart is barred from ringside, because he's not a manager. Are you concerned about interference from He-man?”

Bart leans into the mic, “With all these fans behind him, I know Chris can handle anything. And I might not be at the ring, but I'll be watching. If that sneaky little worm Jerry ‘The So-Called Genius’ He-man tries anything, he'll regret it!”

Battling Bart Stone.

Interesting. I note that comment. Kevin does, too, leaning in to whisper a question to me. I nod. We head to the back as Jim wraps up

The Match Begins

Narrator: Slim Jim Bartlett

Me. Slim Jim Bartlett.

I'm settled back at my announce table. The referee acts as ring announcer. Cowboy Chris Steele enters the ring first. Of course, he's cheered. Flexing, posing. Peeling off the USA t-shirt he's wearing just for this occasion. The wolf whistles and cheering shows how much the fans love that body of his. I add a few comments admiring that body, too. He deserves it.

The US title will look great on that waist.

The champion follows, accompanied by his manager. The boos make my life easier. I don't have to say what I'm thinking, because the crowd is doing it for me. I shake my head as I prepare my thoughts. Slamsky should be called Slowsky, the way he arrogantly saunters down the aisle. The only good part is seeing him hand over the belt to the ref. Hopefully permanently.

Suddenly, I see something to my left. It's El Presidente, the big boss of Rival Pro Wrestling. He sits down. The hunk is shirtless in black dress pants. Standing behind him is Kevin O’Shea in his signature gear. They're both breathing hard and looking pumped. Huh. I wasn't expecting company. As I start to ask what's going on, El Presidente signals for me to stay quiet. I regain my composure and wait for my cue. He's the Boss.

With introductions done, it's my turn to speak. I say, “Wow, what a treat, fans. I'm joined by El Presidente himself. Plus, young Kevin O’Shea is here to watch this exciting encounter.”

The Boss sneers, speaking into his mic, “I wouldn't miss this for the world, Slim Jim. But we're not just going to watch.”

I gulp, “You're not?”

“No, I'm going to announce this with you.”

I nod, wondering if that's all he plans to do. The Boss has taken an active hand in a few matches so far. Maybe he's going to make sure the belt is returned to American hands. I wouldn't mind that. I keep the conversation going, “All right, fans. Let’s get to the match. The ref has to check the men out, but we're just seconds away from history being made.”

The only saving grace is that the referee for this match is an experienced official. He's seen a lot and knows how to handle himself. In a black t-shirt and white pants, the mature, bald man eyes the opponents, assessing the issues. He immediately focuses on the champion and his manager. Good, he's ordering Jerry out and warning him not to interfere.

The referee will have his hands full.

Chris Steele bounces in the ring. The ref kicks Jerry out. We all know that won't last, but I bet that Bart’s got his buddy’s back. It'll take more than a curtain to stop him if things go sideways. Steele looks over as I talk. He seems surprised to see El Presidente and Kevin at the announce table. He doesn't like surprises. But the main thing he needs to worry about is Slamsky.

The champion is a beast. He looks softer and weaker than Steele, but he's not. He's powerful. He's resilient. He's ruthless. I've seen how he works. He wears his opponents down with raw, relentless brutality. Once he gets on top, he'll beat, smash and slam you until you're punch drunk then he'll go for one of his patented finishers, like his unbreakable reverse bearhug.

The ref checks the challenger first. He pats down Steele’s boots. His knee pads. His legs. His trunks. His ass. His torso. His arms. It's a long and possibly unnecessary search. I don't think it's necessary for him to be so thorough. Steele never breaks away from staring down the champ. Slamsky adjusts his bulge with a smirk, acknowledging the secret locker room stakes.

Slamsky gets checked out less thoroughly by the ref. He knows he won't find anything. If the Russian has a foreign object, He-man is the one who has it. Although the manager’s red pants are so tight, I don't think he could be hiding anything in there.

The crowd is cheering Steele and it energizes him. They're brought to the middle of the ring for a staredown. The men move in closer. Slamsky’s hairy body presses against Steele’s smooth muscular torso. Even their bulges collide. The ref talks about how he expects a fair match. Usual rundown. I take a drink of water to get ready. Once this preamble is over, I'll ring the bell then I'll be talking non-stop.

DING! DING! DING!

What the heck? The bell? I'm the one who rings the - oh. I see the boss beside me, holding the gavel. He rang it early. And he's grinning like the Cheshire Cat. The ref isn't even done talking. Steele waits, but Slamsky doesn't. A big clubbing forearm starts things. WHACK! OOF! I can't ask any questions, because I need to start announcing. The action is underway.

Slamsky clubs a surprised Steele across the head for a second time. WHACK! OOF! The challenger is staggered. The champ’s Russian Hammer is a forearm club and is one of his signature moves. He gets all his weight and power behind the brutal blows. The champ smashes Steele across the back with a double axehandle. WHOMP!

The American hunk drops to a knee. WHOMP! Clubbed in the head again, the handsome bodybuilder falls sideways. The middle rope cuts under his right armpit as he tries to recover from the blows. I'm calling the action, but the Boss is complaining about Steele obviously not wanting the title enough. He's actually praising Slamsky for his desire.

The Russian reaches for Steele. The kneeling muscleman plants his boot then launches forward. He drives his shoulder into Slamsky’s midsection. THUD! It's a hard hit, but the champ only goes back one step. Steele literally bounces off, falling onto his ass. The hairy beast moves in. He drives a big boot to the American’s head. CRACK! Steele collapses onto his back, shaking his head out.

The challenger’s head is right beside the announce table. Slamsky drives his boot down onto Steele’s chiseled abs and pecs. STOMP! STOMP! STOMP! Ouch. The bodybuilder is rock-hard, but the Siberian Slayer is a lot of man at this point. This is what he does. Wear you down with size and power. STOMP! STOMP! STOMP! The smooth bodybuilder needs to move.

Beside me, El Presidente says, “The Cowboy is really unprepared for this match. So far, he's a real embarrassment to me, to Rival and to America.” When I point out that it's early, the Boss waves me off, “Steele is obviously too used to tag matches.”

In the ring, all the champ has gotten out of the challenger are grunts as the American’s massive muscle wall holds firm. When Slamsky lifts his boot again, Steele quickly rolls under it. The Russian drives his boot down, hitting mat. WHACK! He jams his leg, leaving himself wide open for a kick to the knee that drops the hairy behemoth onto his back. BOOM!

Steele rises up fast then comes down with a big elbow to Slamsky’s hairy pecs. WHOMP! He grabs the thick black hair on the champ’s head. As the American powerhouse rises, he drags the big Russian up with him. When he reaches one knee, the champ tries to surprise Steele by reaching between his legs and lifting. Going for a body slam, probably.

Slamsky gets the challenger up a couple of inches, but the cowboy blocks it with a forearm to the back. THUD! Slamsky drops back to one knee. The American stud locks on a front facelock. He squeezes tight then grabs the narrow side of the singlet. Steele lifts fast, powering the muscle beast up then suplexing him over onto his back. BOOM! The big Russian sits up, moaning.

Steele comes in from behind, driving his knee into the champ’s thick back. The handsome muscleman locks on a chinlock from behind. With control, the challenger starts the process to wear down the husky hunk. The Russian bear tries to pry the thick arms from around his neck. Outside the ring, He-man screams that it's a choke. The ref ignores the outrageous accusation.

The American forces Slamsky to rise then immediately turns, using the headlock to pull the beefy bear down over his leg into a backbreaker. CRACK! The champ bounces off the leg and onto his stomach, moaning. He-man complains that Steele pulled the hair. The challenger drives his knee down into the champ’s back. THUD! THUD! THUD! Jerry jumps onto the apron, but the ref stays focused.

Focus is something which is getting harder and harder for me to have. El Presidente is providing color commentary, dominating the announcing table. His muscular young protege is hovering over me, literally casting a shadow. When I look back, I see Kevin’s sizable shamrock-covered bulge at my shoulder. I look up. He has his arms resting on his hips, but the nearly-naked muscleman doesn't look relaxed at all. I turn back to the match, but I'm on edge.

Steele leaps up and splashes down onto the champ’s back. SPLAT! The Russian bear lets out a loud moan. The ref is telling Jerry to get onto the floor, but the manager ignores it. He-man yells at the cowboy and I get it. He's trying to draw him off his man. It isn't working. The American bodybuilder is mounting the champ, staying in control.

Slamsky fights, but Steele powers him up into a camel clutch. I'm excited to see this. With Cowboy Chris Steele being one half of the tag team champion Country Boys, I don't know his finishers in singles, but this camel has Slamsky moaning in pain. The big, beefy behemoth is sweating, his hairy chest well off the mat. That's 230-lbs of American muscle on the champ.

The ref asks for a submission, but Slamsky says ‘nyet’, which I believe means ‘no’. Steele pushes the suffering Siberian off his legs to mat. SPLAT! No submission, but that camel did some obvious damage. The challenger stands up then drives his boot into the small of the champ’s back. STOMP! STOMP! STOMP! The cowboy looks confident and focused. He's working on a plan with the obvious focus on Slamsky's core.

Steele grabs the back of the singlet to force the champ up. It wedges between his thick hairy butt cheeks, exposing them for all to see. The ref warns the challenger, but he's already moving on. With impressive strength, the American muscleman scoops the champ’s 230-lbs of Russian beef across his chest. He bodyslams the big bear down with authority. BOOM!

Slamsky actually bounces on the mat when he hits. Steele splashes down onto his stomach. SPLAT! The Russian bear’s head, shoulders and boots rise then fall back down as he tries to get his breath back. The American plants his hands then kicks his feet up into a handstand. Wow. He comes down with his knees into the thick, hairy midsection. THUD! OOF!

Steele slides off. He grabs Slamsky by the hair and wrist. The ref warns him about the hair, starting a five-count. The challenger uses his grip to force the champ to his feet. By the time the ref hits five, Steele has the beefy beast up and is whipping him to the farthest corner. CLANG! Slamsky bounces out, staggering right into a scoop up across the champ’s chest.

The challenger uses the momentum to spin and power slam the champ to the mat. KA-BOOM! The huge move has Slamsky in trouble. My play-by-play picks up speed as I see the Siberian Slayer sprawled out spread-eagle and unmoving. Could this be it? Steele is on his feet and moving to the corner. He climbs the ropes, watching the unmoving champ.

Outside the ring, things are happening, too. Jerry He-man is pounding the apron furiously. Kevin O’Shea has moved off to get a better view of this historic occasion. And El Presidente is up, too. I grab my mic and rise to my feet. When Steele hits this splash, it'll all be over.

The belt is coming home. The belt is coming back home!

I notice El Presidente on the apron. What? He's got the ref’s attention.

Steele has both arms up as he is perched on the top turnbuckle. Yes!

Suddenly, Kevin O’Shea grabs the top rope and shakes it. What?

The all-American muscleman wobbles. No.

His feet slip out and he falls straight down. NO!

Steele lands hard! The top turnbuckle smashes up between his legs! SQUISH!

NO! I'm shocked, but I keep talking. Kevin O'Shea has cost Steele the sure victory! OH, THE HUMANITY? Slamsky is still unmoving. He would've been splashed by 230-lbs of 100% pure all-American muscle. The US belt would've been back around an American waist. And what a waist! The chiseled washboard waist of one Cowboy Chris Steele.

The match isn't over, but it could have been. The crowd is stunned silent, but the boos start to ring out. They build. The ref finally turns to see Steele perched on the top turnbuckle. Outside the ring, Kevin O’Shea smirks up at him, “He slipped, sir. The guy’s a total klutz.” El Presidente grabs the ref by his shirt, demanding his full attention again.

The ref tries to do right. He tries to turn around, but the Boss is strong. In their struggle, El Presidente actually rips open the ref’s shirt. Then he tears it off completely. Oh. The ref is ripped with a tight torso and a dusting of salt and pepper fur. He looks amazing in just his white pants and shoes, but the Boss doesn't care. He calls the hunky official a mess, saying Rival has standards. He orders him to the back to get a new shirt. The ref objects, but ultimately obeys the Boss.

El Presidente claims the ref can't work
shirtless, but no one is complaining.

El Presidente smirks, “I’ll keep things under control out here until you get back. Now go!” As the only person with the ability to stop this carnage exits, I feel depressed, but helpless.

All I can do is ask, “WHY? WHY? WHY?”

Outside the Ring

Narrator: Cowboy Chris Steele

Me. Cowboy Chris Steele.

Son of a bitch that hurts. One minute, I'm Cowboy Chris Steele, the next US Champion. The next minute, the ropes move. The turnbuckle shifts. I slip. I might've blacked out for a second on impact. Damn. My balls feel like they're inside me. Pain is running through my body. I've built a rock-hard bodybuilder's physique. I can take punches, stomps and chairs, but there are a couple of places where you can't build muscle. I just crashed down on the worst one. Fuck!

I gotta focus. At least Slamsky isn't moving yet.

If I can recover first, I can still end this.

Move, dammit!

Where the fuck is the referee? My eyes are watering, but I see him. He's shirtless and El Presidente is sending him away. Fuck. Suddenly, I see punkass Kevin O’Shea jump onto the apron beside me. I swing my left arm, but he just swats it away. The kid is big and I'm in a bad spot, balancing on my balls on the top turnbuckle. With a powerful shove, the Boss’s boy sends me toppling over.

I fall towards the floor. I try to grab the ropes with my left arm to slow myself, but I still crash on the apron, right shoulder first. WHACK! ARGH! I fall the rest of the way to the concrete floor. SPLAT! It's only covered by a thin mat, so it hurts. I land awkwardly, spinning onto my sore shoulder. I roll over, taking the pressure off it.

Jerry He-man that piece of shit is there in a flash. Fuck. He drives his boot into my aching shoulder. STOMP! STOMP! STOMP! I fight to rise, trying to ignore the shots. STOMP! STOMP! STOMP! I'm succeeding, too, until 230-lbs of young Irish muscle crashes on top of me from the apron. SPLAT! O’Shea whispers, “Boss’s orders. No belt for you.” He stands as I growl at him.

O’Shea and He-man high-five as I lie at their feet, suffering. I force myself up to hands and knees, but their boots drive me back down. STOMP! STOMP! STOMP! Either one I could take, but both? And after the ball shot and fall? Little bigger challenge. But I'm not giving up. STOMP! STOMP! STOMP! I just need to get back to my feet. STOMP! STOMP! STOMP!

While I get mauled outside the ring, I wonder where the heck is Bart? He was supposed to have my back. I turn to look at the curtain, hoping for the cavalry to arrive. As if reading my mind, Kevin laughs, “Don't bother, Steele. Your meathead partner’s a little tied up at the moment.” Fuck, I can guess what that means. I'm on my own. STOMP! STOMP! STOMP!

The guys drive me down but knowing Bart’s in trouble powers me up. I start to shake and quiver. My muscles swell as they take the big boots. I close my fists and rise. Jerry and Kevin are shocked as they fail to put me back down. I reach standing, my entire body pumped and shaking. I roar at the ceiling as my two attackers stand stunned on either side of me.

I spin and clock Kevin with a forearm to the head. CRACK! He takes a step back into the ringpost. I spin the other way and hit Jerry with one, too. CRACK! He drops to a knee. I turn back to Kevin and kick my boot into his abs. THUD! I turn back to a rising Jerry. I club down, hammering him on the back of his shoulder. THUD! He drops to both knees.


I hear Slim Jim excitedly scream, “Slamsky’s not the only one with a hammer!”

These two want a fight? They're gonna get one. I'm back to the young muscleman against the ringpost. I take two steps and leap at him. My 230-lbs of bodybuilder muscle splashes onto him, crushing him between the immovable metal post and the irresistible force of me. CRUNCH! I bounce off and O’Shea looks like O’Shit, his handsome face etched in pain.

Suddenly, Jerry’s arm comes flying up between my legs. Fuck! SQUISH! I feel my balls crushed by the force of his lean, sculpted arm. I squat and freeze, paralyzed by pain as my tender manhood suffers the vicious blow. I whimper, trying to focus. Kevin pushes off the ringpost, coming at me with a clothesline. I can't duck and it nearly takes my head off. WHACK!

I flip in the air, landing hard, face down on the thin mat covering the concrete floor. I hear the slap of hands as the cheating punks stand over me. SMACK! They celebrate with more boots to my broad back. STOMP! STOMP! STOMP! I fight to rise again, but my adrenaline ran out when He-man hit my balls. I try to focus as they break down my muscle wall.

He-man and O’Shea stop their attack. They each grab an arm and help me up. Not because they have a change of heart. No, as soon as I'm standing, they shove me, abs first, into the ring apron. WHOMP! OOF! I fall forward onto the bottom rope. I gasp for breath when I see the unmistakable black leather pro boots of the Siberian Slayer in front of me. Fuck.

The two cheating punks put their hands on my ass and armpits. Together, they shove me back in the ring. I hear the ref, finally back in the ring. Jerry swears that they were just helping me back in after my “accidental fall”. He says, “It was quite a tumble, ref. Clumsy meatheads like this guy shouldn't try the high-flying stuff.”

Slamsky grabs me by the hair and the back of my trunks. He lifts and I feel my denim-patterned spandex briefs crush my tender balls. The big bear drops me onto his leg in a gutbuster. THUD! OOF! He pushes me onto the mat. I hold my abs and kick my feet as I try not to puke. The ref asks me if I'm okay to keep wrestling. I growl for him to fuck off.

The Match Resumes

Narrator: Slim Jim Bartlett

Me. Slim Jim Bartlett.

El Presidente sits back down beside me, looking pleased with himself. He says, “All right, fans, I got the ref straightened out. Sorry you had to see that, but we have standards around here. Can't have referees out of uniform. What’d I miss, Slim Jim?”

I give him a nasty glare as Slamsky’s manager and El Presidente’s protege force the ailing Cowboy Chris Steele back into the ring.

The Boss smirks, “Something wrong?”

I ignore the question, trying to remain professional and call the action. I say, “This is the dirtiest match I've ever seen, fans. Dirty, dirty, dirty. Cowboy Chris Steele could've won. Should've won, if not for outside interference. Now, after a ruthless assault outside the ring, he's helpless. Oh, now the champ is using Steele’s hair and trunks to lift him up for a gutbuster. Now that he's back and shirted, the ref needs to get the ring under control.”

Slamsky drops Steele into the gutbuster. THUD! OOF! I keep focused. Fans want to hear about the wrestling, not me berating the boss for cheating. Slamsky rises then comes down with a knee to the challenger’s chiseled midsection. THUD! OOF! The champ bounces up then walks across the all-American abs, using his 230-lbs to treat Steele like a doormat.

El Presidente gleefully says, “Oh, man, that’s how you break down abs of steel. I'm surprised Steele isn't throwing up. Cockyboy Chris Steele sure was unlucky, but the lesson here is that musclebound guys shouldn't try to fly.”

The Siberian Slayer grabs Steele by the hair. The ref starts the five-count. The challenger is dragged up. The tanned bodybuilder is scooped across the bear’s hairy chest then bodyslammed to the canvas. BOOM! He gets dragged up again, but this time he's spun around. The champ pulls Steele into a reverse bearhug.

“The Russian Bear Breaker! The champ’s signature finisher! Oh no! Steele’s in trouble now!”

El Presidente laughs, “Trouble? He was in trouble the minute this match was signed. Now, he's doomed. And notice, even his buddy Bart Stone is afraid to come out. The Country Boys are cowards. Embarrassing. I want to see an American champ, too, but Steele’s not the guy.”

It takes all my strength to hold back, but I call the bearhug. It's a vicious hold. All the torso work was building to this moment. Steele’s face is etched with pain as he's crushed in the killer grip. The thick arms tighten around the chiseled abs, collapsing the muscle. The smooth bodybuilder tries to pry the arms from around his waist, but they're locked on tight.

As the Russian works the hold, I notice that the champ is thrusting his hips. He drives his bulge, which is covered in the hammer and sickle, into the all-American ass of the cowboy. I'm appalled at the sight of the hairy beast dry humping the challenger, but no one can stop him. Steele is visibly weakening as his fiendish foe squeezes tighter and tighter.

The ref asks, but Steele refuses to submit. I've never seen such determination. But is it enough? Slamsky must be getting frustrated. He starts shaking the challenger back-and-forth, violently whipping the 230-lbs of gym-built muscle around like a dog with a bone. The American muscleman cries out, moaning in pain. Uh oh, I think he might be done.

“Do you give, Steele?”

Cowboy Chris Steele shakes his head, no. Or is Slamsky doing it with his violent throws? When the whipping pauses, the challenger verbally confirms he's not submitting, “Never!”

Oh my god, look at Slamsky! The refusal only seems to anger the Russian. He growls. His muscles seem to grow even thicker as sweat builds up. He leans back, lifting the American bodybuilder of his feet. The champ roars then whips the 230-lbs of muscle around even more violently. Oh no! This is Russian Bear Breaker times a thousand!

Steele looks like a ragdoll being tossed around. His arms and legs fly back-and-forth, completely limp. The challenger gasps and chokes. When Slamsky pauses, the ref actually checks to see if the smooth stud is still conscious. He lifts the thick right arm into the air. Outside the ring, He-man has his arms raised in victory.

The ref lets go. Steele offers no resistance and his arm drops. ONE!

Up again. Once again, the arm falls unimpeded. TWO!

Steele's head hangs down, his body still crushed in the vice. Slamsky is back to thrusting his manhood against plump bubble butt of the weakened challenger, humiliating the massive muscleman.

The ref lifts the arm for the third time. He lets go and it falls. But wait! It only falls to the shoulder! Cowboy Chris Steele is back! He stops his arm, holding it out in front of him. His hand forms a fist. He raises his arm in defiance!

Slamsky is shocked. Steele plants his feet and uses his mighty legs to push back. The two musclemen are run back into the corner, with Slamsky crushed between the turnbuckles and 230-lbs of all-American muscle. CLANG! The champ loses his grip around Steele’s waist, allowing the challenger to stumble forward, free of the brutal bearhug at last!

Steele lifts his boot with a donkey kick that slams deep into the unprepared Russian’s thick, hairy stomach. THUD! OOF! The champ falls forward as Steele spins with a driving forearm to the side of Slamsky's head. CRACK! The blow sends the big beast tumbling to the side. He lands on one knee against the middle rope.

Outside the ring, He-man is hysterical. He jumps up and down, his tight muscles tense and throbbing. He runs around to his champ, demanding he rise. El Presidente stands up. Kevin O’Shea slides behind me. I reach out my hands, grabbing both my hairy hunk of a boss and the big, young buck by the forearm, “Going somewhere, guys? How about you let it play out?”

Both men could pull free from me with ease, but the very fact I'm standing up to them and calling them out causes them to pause. El Presidente growls and sneers, but he sits down. Kevin follows his mentor’s lead and returns to standing behind him. I remain calm on the outside while secretly feeling immense relief that I didn't get attacked.

A slow-moving Steele moves in on Slamsky. The challenger is in rough shape, but he's a tough man with a lot of stamina. He's now the first and only man to ever escape the Russian Bear Breaker. This is his second chance. He needs to make the most of it. The cowboy grabs the Russian by his hair then pulls him off the middle rope. The ref starts counting for the hair pull.

The champ fights to pull free, so Steele smashes his forearm down onto Slamsky’s back. WHACK! The blow does its job, ending the resistance. The challenger lifts his knee into Slamsky's face. CRACK! The hairy beast is sent flying backwards. He moans and writhes on the mat. Steele runs back into the ropes then comes off with a big splash. SPLAT!

Slamsky lets out a big moan as Steele literally bounces off him. The challenger rolls onto his butt. He's holding his midsection, the splash hurting him, too. After the earlier ab assault, the bodybuilder needs to remember that he's not 100%. Neither man is rising, both trying to recover. It's tense in the arena. He-man is pounding the apron. Kevin is shifting back-and-forth behind me. Even El Presidente has stopped talking. All we can do is wait.

Both men finally rise slowly. Slamsky moves in first, bringing down his clubbing Russian Hammer. Steele blocks it. Yes! He comes in underneath with a big fist to the champ’s abs. THUD! OOF! Steele unleashes a flurry of forearms and elbows that stagger the burly beast. POW! WHACK! THUD! The burst of blows sends Slamsky back against the ropes.

The champ looks dazed as he endures the punishing pounding. The powerful American drives forward with a big knee lift. THUD! OOF! He grabs Slamsky by the wrist then whips him across the ring. When the hairy beast comes off, he runs right into a big shoulder block. THUD! OOF! Somehow, the Russian keeps his feet under him, only staggered backwards.

Steele races backwards into the ropes, planning to come off with momentum. Whether he's planning another shoulder block or a forearm or a cross body, we’ll never know. The bodybuilder doesn't realize that he's run into the ropes where He-man is standing. The sneaky manager casually grabs the challenger by his leather pro boot, tripping him just enough.

The cowboy stumbles slightly. As he regains his balance, Slamsky charges at him. Steele can't dodge in time. The champ comes with a vicious Russian Sickle, a clothesline that nearly decapitates the American hunk. WHOMP! The force flips Steele over, sending his feet over his head. He lands flat on his stomach. SPLAT! The champ shakes out the cobwebs as He-man barks orders at him.

The Siberian Slayer reaches down, grabbing the challenger by the ears. The muscular American is forced up to hands-and-knees then his head is shoved between Slamsky's thick thighs. The champ closes in tight on the standing head scissors. With Steele trapped, the Russian reaches down, locking his arms around the chiseled waist of his opponent.

I cringe as the champ lifts, pulling Steele up. There are so many moves that he could do and all of them are devastating. Slamsky lifts up fast, flipping Steele's legs onto his shoulders. The bodybuilder rolls until he's practically sitting on the burly beast’s shoulders. The champ then drives the helpless hunk with with his version of a power bomb, the Siberian Slam!

BOOOOOM!

The sound of the impact echoes through the arena. El Presidente cheers beside me. He-man yells, “Pin him! Pin him! Pin his sorry ass to the mat!”

Slamsky rolls Steele up, shoulders down, ass up. He lies his 230-lbs of beef on top, using his own shoulders to push the American's knees towards his head. The Siberian Slayer presses his hammer and sickle bulge onto the firm ass of his opponent.

The ref drops to the mat and counts.

ONE!

TWO!

THREE!

Slamsky wins. Slamsky wins. The Siberian Slayer retains the gold in an entirely unjust outcome. This match was criminal. It's theft. El Presidente enters the ring and hands the belt to the champ. He-man puts it around his man’s thick waist with pride. The hairy beast and his manager put their boots on Steele’s battered body and pose over him. Disgusting.

Kevin and El Presidente start to exit, but Jerry stops them. He asks for their help and they agree. The young Irish muscleman and the diabolical manager grab the ailing Steele under his armpits. They lift him to seated then force him to kneel. He-man grabs the ailing American’s head. Together, they push his face down towards the waiting boot of the champ.

He-man made a guarantee and now he's fulfilling his promise. Poor Cowboy Chris Steele. He can't resist the two young punks as they control him. The all-American hunk is about to taste Russian boot leather. What a terrible result!

After the Match

Narrator: Cowboy Chris Steele

Me. Cowboy Chris Steele.

As I kneel before the champ, Kevin holds my hands behind my back. Jerry grabs my head then pushes my face down. I fall closer to the shiny red boot. I try to resist, but after the beating I took, I don't have much hope. That's when I feel El Presidente’s boot between my shoulder blades. He pushes down and my face drops on top of the Russian’s boot.

El Presidente laughs, “Kiss it, boy! Kiss - what the?”

Suddenly, my hands are free. The guys around me scatter. BONK! CRACK! I see El Presidente fall onto his back beside me, holding his head. I spin around to see my tag partner, Bart Stone, waving a chair. He decks Kevin O’Shea. BONK! CRACK! The young punk drops down, unmoving. Of course, Slamsky and He-man have left the ring, wanting no part of this.

I get a sudden burst of energy. El Presidente is trying to escape the ring. I grab him by the back of his pants. I lift him up by the black leather belt and waistband. I toss the dirty dealer at my partner’s feet. Bart brings the chair down onto him. WHACK! I'm about to ask what took him so long when I see the ropes still tied under his pecs and trailing from his ankles. Bastards.

I point at El Presidente, “These fans expected to see some boot kissing!” The arena fills with cheers. “And they're gonna get what they want!”

Bart bends down, seizing the stunned boss’ head. He forces him over to my boot, mashing El Presidente’s face into my brown leather cowboy boot. He moves the hairy hunk around, rubbing his lips all over the smooth surface.

Kevin is back up and looking to save his boss. I warn my tag partner, who moves just in time. The young muscleman flies in. He misses Bart, instead crashing on top of his boss. WHAM! We grab the shocked young stud by his hands and feet. We stretch him out and suspend his 230-lbs of beef over El Presidente.

“Jamboree Time!”

The Country Jamboree is our finisher. We lift Kevin up then bring him down faster than gravity. Normally, were slamming the guy into the mat, but this time we drive him down on top of the hairy hunky mastermind of all this. SPLAT! Both guys are stunned. We put our boots on the young muscleman’s back and flex. The crowd cheers for us.

I might've lost and even had to kiss a Russkie’s boot, but at least I got some revenge. Bart and I hug then hop out of the ring. As we leave the arena, I grab the rope around his torso, “I was wondering where you were.”

Bart grimaces, “Sorry, Bro. The four of them came at me as soon as you went through the curtain. While you were being introduced, I was being beat up and tied between the columns like Samson or something. I heard everything, but they tied some good knots. For city boys.”

RIVAL PRO WRESTLING: FACE LOCKER ROOM.

Narrator: Slim Jim Bartlett

Me. Slim Jim Bartlett.

The cameraman and I walk into the face locker room. The good guys, Steele and Stone, are standing naked in white towels, getting ready to head to the shower, I guess. I clear my throat. They look at me, none too pleased to see me.

Chris Steele's unhappy.

I turn to the camera, “I'm here with ‘Cowboy’ Chris Steele after a devastating and some might say, humiliating, loss. Chris, you failed to put the US Title back into American hands. You were pinned 1-2-3 by the Siberian. You even tasted Russian boot leather. What happened?”

Steele grabs the front of my shirt. He slams me into the lockers. BANG! I gulp. He snarls, “Listen, Jim, what happened out there wasn't wrestling. It was theft. I'm gonna get revenge. We hereby challenge Slamsky and He-man to a tag match! No disqualifications. They're gonna find out why you don't mess with the Country Boys!”

Behind the angry muscleman, I see the locker room door open. Jerry He-man and a naked Slamsky enter in. He-man waves the US title at the Country Boys, “Make it for your belts and you've got yourself a deal, chump. We can always use more gold.”

Stone takes the lead. He points a finger in the manager’s face, “Hell yeah, we accept. The commissioner won't be able to save y’all next time.”

He-man smirks, “I'll write up the contract.”

The burly Russian bear stands naked and proud. He speaks in his deep voice and thick Russian accent, “Bend over. Your ass is mine, Steele.”

Slamsky wants more than the belt.

Bart laughs, “Y’all get the heck outta here.”

He-man shakes his head, “No, no, no. We had a deal. A contract. That I wrote. There's no out for your partner. And I know an honorable man like the great Cowboy Chris Steele will live up to his word. My client won. He lost. That activates stakes.”

Bart growls, “He won dirty!”

“Irrelevant. As Slamsky’s manager, I made sure the contract was clear and unambiguous. My man won. Your boy lost. Now, unless you want to bend over for me, stand aside, Stone. The champ has some all-American farmboy ass to plow.” He lets out a laugh, “HA! Get it? Plow? ‘Cause you two are stupid hick farmers. I gotta write that down.”

Steele speaks up, “Let him through, Bart. He's right.”

The Russian moves in. By the time he reaches Steele, Slamsky's cock is at full mast. It's average length and girth, embedded in a nest of coarse black hair. He rips the towel off Steele. Wow, what a man. No wonder the Russian wants him so bad. I'm sad that the American won't be using his impressive cock on Slamsky, but the bodybuilder's ass is amazing.

The champ orders the loser to turn around. The smooth, tanned muscleman turns. He assumes the position. Steele braces himself by putting his hands on the metal lockers while open his legs up. He thrusts his ass out and back. The cameraman pans over the magnificent body. He-man hands his man the title belt. Slamsky actually puts it around his waist.

Slamsky slaps the belt as He-man laughs, “Enjoy this moment, chump. The belt slapping your ass is the closest you'll ever get to it.”

The champ is ready. He grabs Steele’s hips then forces his cock inside the loser. Steele grits his teeth but refuses to react. When Slamsky pushes all the way in, the title belt presses into the American's meaty ass cheeks. Steele growls, “I'm ready. Stick your cock in already.”

Stone laughs. Slamsky's mouth drops as he gets insulted. He-man blurts out, “Shut up! You're gonna regret that! Split him in two, champ!”

The Russian starts riding Steele. The bodybuilder bottom refuses to react, still acting like Slamsky isn't inside him. Isn't pounding his ass. Isn't breeding him. The champ focuses on the fuck, but he's getting nothing from the loser. I see Steele straining, but he's successfully staying silent. It's clearly angering the hairy beast.

Steele breaks his silence, saying, “So, all you want to do is slap my ass with your pelvis and the belt? Is that what you Siberians call sex? Or maybe you're just having trouble getting hard. Have He-man fluff you. I've got things to do.”

Slamsky growls, driving in harder and faster. The fuck gets brutal, but the American stays calm. I see him biting his bottom lip and his cock is hard. But all Slamsky sees is a broad back and all he hears is unsatisfying silence. Steele. Ignite have lost, but he's still fighting. The belt continues to slap against his ass as the champ gets sweaty from the fast-paced fuck.

As the sleazy manager watches the seven unfold, he moves closer to Bart. Jerry smoothly reaches behind the big Country Boy. The Genius slides his hand up under the short white towel around the muscleman's waist. He grabs hold of Bart’s big, firm ass, squeezing the cheek. “Jealous? Bend over, big man. I will rock your fucking world.”

Bart’s eyes narrow, “He signed your contract. I didn't, little man.”

“You should sign with me. I'll make you a champ in a month.”

“I am a champ.”

Jerry snorts, “Pffft. Tag. I mean a real belt.”

“Move your hand or you'll be using that scarf as a sling.”

He-man smirks but obeys. He rubs the noticeable hard-on in his red pants, “Your loss.”

Slamsky continues to hammer his cock deep into Steele’s ass. Finally, the cowboy can't stay silent, moaning and gasping, but still keeping things as calm as he can. The champ is sweating and grunting faster. This is turning into an exhausting fuck for him. His firm ass is flexed and his beefy body is pumped. The Russian’s mouth drops open and his face changes. He must be getting close. The rhythm of pelvis slapping ass fills the locker room.

The champ pulls out, uncovering his cock. He aims and explodes, firing ropes of Commie cum up Steele’s broad, tanned back. Slamsky milks his cock as the loser’s head hangs down. He must feel the seed hitting him. I'm sure it's a terrible feeling, especially knowing what might have been. Instead of a belt around his waist, he got a dick up his ass and cum on his back.

Slamsky finishes up, wiping the last few drops on Steele’s form white ass. The American muscleman rises to standing, “Finally. Now, get the - URK!” Suddenly, the Russian grabs Steele from behind in a Siberian Sleeper. The signature choke is applied fast and it works just as fast. The American barely has time to register what's happening before his arms are limp.

Bart takes a step forward to help his tag partner, but He-man is ready. The smaller stud swings his fist into the farmer’s firm midsection. THUD! It bounces off harmlessly. The smaller stud fully blocks the bigger man’s path. Bart grabs He-man by the scarf and chokes him with it. He tries to throw the tightly muscled man aside, but The Genius grabs him, blocking the move. He-man manages to turn them, expertly distracting Stone.

A furious Bart tightens the scarf around He-man’s neck. The smaller stud is no match for the farmer’s angry power, but he doesn't need to be. He just wanted to slow the big man down, because he's not alone. The Siberian Sleeper has already worked on Steele. The bodybuilder is on the floor, sprawled out. He's naked and unconscious from the surprise choke.

He-man is also being choked out. He tries to kick up for a low blow, but Stone shifts and the kick does nothing. Bart’s finally able to throw He-man aside when Slamsky moves in behind him. The Russian grabs Stone, locking his patented choke hold around the neck of the unprepared tag champ. Just like his partner, Bart is no match for the Russian’s signature grip. His big body goes noticeably weak as he's drained of consciousness.

Jerry orders, “Slower! I want him awake for this.”

Slamsky eases up on the hold, not putting the weakened beefcake out. He-man saunters up. With a flick of his finger, the American’s towel drops to the floor. The sleazy manager grabs Bart by the cock then fires his fist into the smooth, hard midsection. THUD! THUD! THUD! Jerry shakes out his hand then goes back at it. THUD! THUD! THUD!

The semi-conscious stud can only take the vicious shots. THUD! THUD! THUD! Stone’s abs are red as Jerry wraps his fingers around the base of the helpless hunk’s cock and balls. “You and your loser partner are nothing. Your belts are nothing, but I'm still gonna take them. Because I can. I'm just letting you rent them. You could've been my star. Now, you're my bitch.”

Stone swings his limp arms, trying to get at Jerry, but it's more pathetic than dangerous. Jerry laughs then slides his hand in between the country hunk’s legs. He pushes deeper until his finger rests against Bart’s hole. The Genius forces two fingers inside the helpless hunk’s hole. He finger-fucks the big man, humiliating him.

Jerry laughs, “Damn, you're pretty loose. Guess we know who the bottom is on this team. Lucky I'm big. I'll fill this up real nice. I won't even need to be gentle.”

The devious manager steps back then gives the signal. Slamsky finishes the sleeper, putting Stone out in seconds. He discards the beefy farmer on top of his partner. PLOP! The US Champion and his manager put their feet on Stone’s back and flex over the humiliated hunks. They make a signal for belts around their waist, warning us of what's to come when these teams meet up officially. They saunter out, their job done and point proven.

As the cameraman pans over the unconscious tag champions, I hope the Americans can figure something out, because I really don't want to see the Russian have two belts around his waist. And Jerry ‘The Genius’ He-man is already insufferable. Imagine him as a champ? Please, no. I leave the locker room to get back to the announce table.

However, there's obviously more of this rivalry to come.

RIVAL PRO WRESTLING. FACE LOCKER ROOM. 2017.

Narrator: Buck

Me. Buck.

I ask my buddy, “So, Bro, you gonna confront Javi? That was mighty shady.”

My bodybuilder bro shakes his head, “No, Buck, what's the point? He's still upset with me. It'll just devolve into another argument. Besides, he didn't even do anything wrong.”

“What? How do you figure that?”

Brody sighs, “This is what we all signed up for. An 80’s pro wrestling experience made real. We discussed these exact storylines, outside interference, the whole thing. I've got nothing to complain about except I'm the victim instead of someone else. Yeah, he's punishing me, so it's not done in fun like it was supposed to be, but I'll just come across as whiny.”

“I don't think it's -” My phone rings. I grab it, “Hold up, buddy. It's Cody.”

Brody sighs, “Great another friend who now hates me.”

Cody is co-owner of The Cave, along with Ryan, his best friend. They're mad at Brody for setting up Rival behind their back. See, The Cave is a gay-oriented wrestling video company, too. Their gimmick is a superhero theme. They feel betrayed. Weird thing is that now they're handling the sales for Rival. Brody arranged that behind Javi’s back, which is why he feels betrayed. It all sucks, but I'm about to make things a whole lot better. At least, I hope so.

I ignore Brody’s sulking, hoping that Cody has good news for me. He does. I tell him, “Thanks for setting this up, Cody. You're the best.” I laugh as he says that I say that a lot, but he likes hearing it. I ask, “And you're okay with … my other request?” Cody knows exactly what I'm talking about and reluctantly agrees, swearing it means nothing. I thank him again.

Brody lies on the bench, staring at the ceiling. As I put my phone away, he asks in a sad tone, “So, you've got another match set up with Cody? That's nice. And on top of the one you set up with Ryan yesterday. It's good that my enemies are keeping you busy while I'm at work.”

I shake my head, “They're not your enemies. And it's a match, but not WITH Cody and Ryan.”

“Oh. Look at you, getting around. At least one of us is popular.”

“Don't be like that, Bro. You're just on a post-match, post-sex crash. I told you I'd help you fix everything. By next week, I think you'll be back with Cody, Ryan, and if everything goes right, even Javi will be happier with you.”

That gets my buddy’s attention. Brody sits up, “What are you talking about?”

I smile, “I'm not wrestling with Cody and Ryan. I'm wrestling FOR Cody and Ryan. You're looking at the newest member of The Cave. I'm gonna be their new Captain Marvel. I start practicing with Cody tomorrow afternoon. The match is next Saturday.”

Brody's surprised and not totally happy. He stands up, “WHAT? The Cave? You're wrestling for THEM? WHY? If it's to make them forgive me, it's not worth it.”

I reassure him, “It's not. I've already gotten Cody to forgive you.”

“You have?”

“Well, he doesn't wanna admit it yet, but yeah, I have. I'm still working on Ryan, but you said he follows Cody's lead. Since him and me started talking, it's going well.”

“Oh, Buck. I appreciate you trying, but Cody and Ryan aren't easily manipulated. I'd bet that Cody’s playing with you. Using me to bring you on board. He'd like nothing more than to -”

I interrupt, “No, he's not. This was all my idea. Well, it was inspired by something Cody said, but mostly my idea.”

“Uh huh. That's how Cody gets you. You only think it's your idea. LA is full of guys he's inspired to do what he wants, thinking it was their idea. I warned you to be careful.”

“They're both good guys, Brody. You know that. No tricks. They hate being mad at you. They want to forgive you. And I know they appreciate honesty, so I gave them a ton of it. I think things will work out. You'll see for yourself next week, because you're coming with me.”

Brody shakes his head, “They're not gonna like you springing me -”

“I'm not. They know you're coming.”

“They do?”

“They do. And they're cool with it. I can't win this match without you at ringside. So bring your Colossus gear. Or you can be a Marvel. Cody says he has the whole rainbow, plus black, silver, pink and white versions. I'm wearing red.”

Brody holds up his hands, “Wait, wait, wait. Now I'm wrestling, too?”

“Maybe. You'll be at ringside, but you might have to get your hands dirty.”

“Oh, Buck. Cody really suckered you big time. Getting both of us working for him? When we're supposed to be exclusive here? No. Javi will freak out. I get it now. He's breaking Rival up. Fuck. I've brought the old Cody back with a vengeance.” Brody sighs, looking even sadder.

“It's not like that. Look, let’s clean up and I can explain over dinner.” I get a skeptical look. I tell him, “Please, just trust me, Bro. I might be new to the LA scene, but I'm not a fool. I've solved plenty of worse beefs than this. You know how petty folks can be back home. Hell, this is no worse than the great fence fight of 2010 between your pop and Mr. Gibbons. And who solved that?”

Brody nods, “You did. And plenty more squabbles. Maybe you're right." He thinks then says, “I do trust you, Buck. Really. I don't understand, but I'll trust you. Whatever happens, I know you're only trying to help.”

As we head to the shower, I put my hand on his shoulder and squeeze. It's all going to work out. I hope.

To be continued …

The Cave Undercard 22: Red Marvel vs. [REDACTED]