BUTCH AMERICAN vs. RUSSIAN BEAR
Part 1 of 7
(The Raunchy Punch-Drunk Sequel to Dads and Sons Fathers’ Day Fight Wager)
(Note: For the PC minded, even though I have matched an American fighter against a Russian fighter, this story is not political. It’s a Dad vs. Son scenario with sharp tongue in bloody cheek and punishing elbows to damaged ribs.)
Against common sense, Butch bore down on the gas pedal. The Mack truck he was driving containing a cargo of heavy farm equipment roared down the highway. The snow flurries had now turned to a steady snowfall. The windshield wipers swept back and forth, but visibility was still poor, and getting poorer as the night wore on. Butch flipped the switch on the tiny Hawaiian Hula Doll dangling over the dashboard. Her tiny red titties began blinking on and off.
The truck’s load was the very last goddamn thing on Butch’s mind. FUCK IT! He was sweating over getting to his Midwest city destination, dumping all this farmer bullshit, and then high tailin it to a closed-down factory at the edge of town round bout midnight where he had a fight set. Butch belonged to an underground fight circuit and he’d never been late yet to a fight he’d been scheduled to be in. His record stood at 16 fights, 16 wins. CHRIST! He fuckin lived for this shit now.
Unfortunately, he was at least two hours away and road conditions were worsening by the minute. FUCK! He banged his palms forcefully on the steering wheel. Just then, a truck stop came into view on his right. The small diner was lit up brightly, as if announcing it was indeed the last resort for truckers on a night like this.
Resigned, Butch let out a string of cusswords as he turned the truck into the parking lot where eleven other trucks were already lined up. He switched off the heater, the ignition, then turned off the tiny Hawaiian Doll’s blinking red titties. He pulled out his cell phone and breathed a sigh of relief when he successfully got through to the underground fight promoter. His opponent was already there waiting impatiently for him, but three other scheduled fighters were no shows due to the same situation Butch was in. “FUCKIN SNOW!” Butch instructed the fight promoter to make sure he told his opponent that the muthafucker had lucked out tonight and that he’d really fuck his shit up good when they finally faced off against each other in the future. He shouted, “BE SURE AND FUCKIN TELL HIM THAT! I’M GONNA FUCK HIS SHIT UP GOOD!”
Butch left the truck cab, quickly grabbing his leather jacket on the way out as he was only wearing a tight-fitting t-shirt to brave the cold and swirling snow. He adjusted the MAKE AMERICA GREAT AGAIN cap on his head and walked briskly towards the diner.
How did anyone live in this flat-assed area of the country with absolutely nothin around and nothin to do? It was then he noticed through the rough weather the gray silhouette of a barn located on a ridge above the diner.
He quickly reflected on the last three years that led him to his present moment. He and his lover, Lawrence (both 18 at the time), had walked out on their shitty fathers on Father’s Day over an absurd fight wager. The fathers would fight NHB and the winning father would fuck the losing father’s son. The sons ended up fucking the fathers then robbing Lawrence’s father’s safe of all the money it contained.
But the money ran out. The lovers ended up in a squalid dive located in a crap city. Lawrence fell into a depression. He had been so incredibly good-looking, but not anymore. His solid six pack abs had turned to flab. Athletics and maintaining his once-perfect body meant nothing to him anymore.
Butch, on the other hand, missed being the Golden Boy, the Star Athlete that everyone drooled over. The little stolen money that remained was used to buy Butch membership in a boxing gym. Butch’s new dream was to be an MMA superstar. Over the next years, he packed on a whooping fifty pounds on his 230 pound physique. Now at 280 (and 6’1”), he no longer had the muscular definition he had prided himself on. Instead, he was built like a fuckin tank. His face had filled out, and after sixteen underground fights had coarsened considerably. He had a jagged scar over his left eyebrow and another scar which ran down his right cheek. A broken nose left it flattened and with an even wider bridge than he had originally. These days he wore his sandy colored hair in a severe crew cut. Recently, he had grown a moustache. He looked older than his twenty-four years. No one would ever call him a pretty boy again.
His shitty, despicable father had always called him Butch Jr. After that Father’s Day, on the very day he had fallen in love with Lawrence, he went back to his birth name of Kevin. But Lawrence was pathetic to him now. The night Butch walked out on him, Lawrence was lying on the couch staring dumbly at the boob tube, the sparkle in his blue eyes dimmed forever. With Lawrence out of his life, he stopped using the name Kevin.
“WELL FUCK IT,” Butch thought.
As he pulled the door open to the diner, he heard shouting and commotion. The truckers were gathered around one booth table down at the far end. Two men were arm wrestling, although it was hard to see the competitors for all the excited bobbing bodies and heads.
Butch adjusted his MAKE AMERICA GREAT AGAIN baseball cap to make his entrance. Butch didn’t give two fucking shits about politics or political statements. The cap appealed to him because MAKE AMERICA GREAT AGAIN seemed to be saying to him, MAKE BUTCH GREAT AGAIN.
And that’s exactly what Butch intended to make happen. One tough fight at a time.
tuffchap (1)
13/4/2021 20:23BUTCH AMERICAN vs. RUSSIAN BEAR
Part 1 of 7
(The Raunchy Punch-Drunk Sequel to Dads and Sons Fathers’ Day Fight Wager)
(Note: For the PC minded, even though I have matched an American fighter against a Russian fighter, this story is not political. It’s a Dad vs. Son scenario with sharp tongue in bloody cheek and punishing elbows to damaged ribs.)
Against common sense, Butch bore down on the gas pedal. The Mack truck he was driving containing a cargo of heavy farm equipment roared down the highway. The snow flurries had now turned to a steady snowfall. The windshield wipers swept back and forth, but visibility was still poor, and getting poorer as the night wore on. Butch flipped the switch on the tiny Hawaiian Hula Doll dangling over the dashboard. Her tiny red titties began blinking on and off.
The truck’s load was the very last goddamn thing on Butch’s mind. FUCK IT! He was sweating over getting to his Midwest city destination, dumping all this farmer bullshit, and then high tailin it to a closed-down factory at the edge of town round bout midnight where he had a fight set. Butch belonged to an underground fight circuit and he’d never been late yet to a fight he’d been scheduled to be in. His record stood at 16 fights, 16 wins. CHRIST! He fuckin lived for this shit now.
Unfortunately, he was at least two hours away and road conditions were worsening by the minute. FUCK! He banged his palms forcefully on the steering wheel. Just then, a truck stop came into view on his right. The small diner was lit up brightly, as if announcing it was indeed the last resort for truckers on a night like this.
Resigned, Butch let out a string of cusswords as he turned the truck into the parking lot where eleven other trucks were already lined up. He switched off the heater, the ignition, then turned off the tiny Hawaiian Doll’s blinking red titties. He pulled out his cell phone and breathed a sigh of relief when he successfully got through to the underground fight promoter. His opponent was already there waiting impatiently for him, but three other scheduled fighters were no shows due to the same situation Butch was in. “FUCKIN SNOW!” Butch instructed the fight promoter to make sure he told his opponent that the muthafucker had lucked out tonight and that he’d really fuck his shit up good when they finally faced off against each other in the future. He shouted, “BE SURE AND FUCKIN TELL HIM THAT! I’M GONNA FUCK HIS SHIT UP GOOD!”
Butch left the truck cab, quickly grabbing his leather jacket on the way out as he was only wearing a tight-fitting t-shirt to brave the cold and swirling snow. He adjusted the MAKE AMERICA GREAT AGAIN cap on his head and walked briskly towards the diner.
How did anyone live in this flat-assed area of the country with absolutely nothin around and nothin to do? It was then he noticed through the rough weather the gray silhouette of a barn located on a ridge above the diner.
He quickly reflected on the last three years that led him to his present moment. He and his lover, Lawrence (both 18 at the time), had walked out on their shitty fathers on Father’s Day over an absurd fight wager. The fathers would fight NHB and the winning father would fuck the losing father’s son. The sons ended up fucking the fathers then robbing Lawrence’s father’s safe of all the money it contained.
But the money ran out. The lovers ended up in a squalid dive located in a crap city. Lawrence fell into a depression. He had been so incredibly good-looking, but not anymore. His solid six pack abs had turned to flab. Athletics and maintaining his once-perfect body meant nothing to him anymore.
Butch, on the other hand, missed being the Golden Boy, the Star Athlete that everyone drooled over. The little stolen money that remained was used to buy Butch membership in a boxing gym. Butch’s new dream was to be an MMA superstar. Over the next years, he packed on a whooping fifty pounds on his 230 pound physique. Now at 280 (and 6’1”), he no longer had the muscular definition he had prided himself on. Instead, he was built like a fuckin tank. His face had filled out, and after sixteen underground fights had coarsened considerably. He had a jagged scar over his left eyebrow and another scar which ran down his right cheek. A broken nose left it flattened and with an even wider bridge than he had originally. These days he wore his sandy colored hair in a severe crew cut. Recently, he had grown a moustache. He looked older than his twenty-four years. No one would ever call him a pretty boy again.
His shitty, despicable father had always called him Butch Jr. After that Father’s Day, on the very day he had fallen in love with Lawrence, he went back to his birth name of Kevin. But Lawrence was pathetic to him now. The night Butch walked out on him, Lawrence was lying on the couch staring dumbly at the boob tube, the sparkle in his blue eyes dimmed forever. With Lawrence out of his life, he stopped using the name Kevin.
“WELL FUCK IT,” Butch thought.
As he pulled the door open to the diner, he heard shouting and commotion. The truckers were gathered around one booth table down at the far end. Two men were arm wrestling, although it was hard to see the competitors for all the excited bobbing bodies and heads.
Butch adjusted his MAKE AMERICA GREAT AGAIN baseball cap to make his entrance. Butch didn’t give two fucking shits about politics or political statements. The cap appealed to him because MAKE AMERICA GREAT AGAIN seemed to be saying to him, MAKE BUTCH GREAT AGAIN.
And that’s exactly what Butch intended to make happen. One tough fight at a time.
It was then he heard a very loud Russian accent.