BUTCH AMERICAN vs. RUSSIAN BEAR
Part 2 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.)
Butch sauntered down the narrow aisle of the diner and found a stool at the counter just diagonal to the booth table where the arm wrestlers were engaged in their intense contest. About ten truckers were gathered around them shouting encouragement to the man facing away from Butch – a giant black who was straining so badly, sweat was literally pouring off him, splashing onto the floor, drenching the table and soaking anyone who happened to be near him.
The opponent opposite was also a giant of a man, white, also sweating profusely (but not as much as his opponent). He had thick black hair with traces of gray, shaggy and unkempt, a thick black moustache and a long black beard, also unkempt and also with traces of gray. He had on a loose white tank top, torn, dirty and sweat stained. His chest, neck and arms were enormous. Like Butch, his torso wasn’t hairy but surprisingly smooth-skinned. He had a large nose, full lips and piercing dark eyes. Butch had brown eyes too, but this man’s eyes looked black. He wore an anxious, worrying expression on his face, but, oddly enough, one could detect if one were savvy enough, that he was more in control than he looked.
This was the Russian.
The black opponent’s muscular arm was exerting every ounce of strength he could muster. The Russian’s arm was at an angle where he was in position to be pinned, but Butch was now positive, despite appearances, that the Russian was in no danger of being defeated. Suddenly, the Russian looked over at Butch, acknowledged him as a newcomer, instantly seemed to recognize what Butch was thinking, and in response, his arm slipped closer to the table.
A wave of shouts and cheers erupted. They began yelling, “COME ON, TYRELL! BEAT THIS RUSSIAN ASSHOLE! YOU’RE ALMOST FUCKIN THERE!”
An expression of frantic desperation appeared on the Russian’s face. He yelled in his thick accent, “NYET, I REFUSE TO LOSE TO THIS AMERICAN FUCKER! ANOTHER THREE HUNDRED DOLLARS I BE BETTING! FUCKIN AMERICAN SHIT!! AMERICAN FUCKIN SHIT HEEL!! I REFUSE TO LOSE!! THREE HUNDRED…THREE HUNDRED MAKES ONE THOUSAND AMERICAN FUCKIN DOLLARS I BE BETTING! FUCK YOU!! FUCK YOU, AMERICAN BASTARD!! NYET!! NYET!!”
Cries of “RUSSIAN PIG, RUSSIAN ASSHOLE, RUSSIAN DOG” were shouted jeeringly in the Russian’s face. Many yelled, “COME ON, TYRELL!! I’M BETTING ANOTHER FIFTY BUCKS ON YOU!! More money was fished out of wallets all-round and quickly bet.
“Damn”, thought Butch, “this guy’s playin the cartoon Russian Heavy to the hilt and this sucker crowd is eatin it up.”
Murray, the diner’s skinny owner, totally engrossed in the arm wrestling, barked at the waitress to find out what the newcomer wanted to order. Carla the waitress, also totally engrossed in the arm wrestling, slowly sashayed her plump, middle-aged, bleached blonde self over to Butch as if she were still hot stuff. Butch asked, “How long they been at this?” Carla said, “Christ, it’s been almost a solid hour now. The Russian’s goin down though. Tyrell’s been comin’ in here for a long time. Believe me. Nobody’s beat him yet. Put your money on Tyrell before it’s too late.”
Butch said, “Nah, I’ll pass. But I will take a black coffee.” Murray yelled, “HE WANT SOMEHIN’ FROM THE GRILL?” Carla yelled back, “NO MURR, JUST COFFEE, NO NEED TO ROUSE YOURSELF!” Butch removed his leather jacket, placing it on the swivel stool next to him. Carla was now distracted by the sight of Butch’s t-shirt tightly clinging to his magnificent burly torso. The Russian glanced over quickly also taking in Butch’s commanding physique, then immediately squeezed his eyes shut and began uttering pathetic groaning noises, “NYET, NYET, NYET,” over and over and over again.
Tyrell let out a war whoop, shook his head causing sweat spray to shoot out in all directions and, quivering with excitement, put everything he had into one final effort. But then, preposterously, the Russian’s arm began moving up and up and up out of danger, then slowly began the steady decline of Tyrell’s panicked, trembling arm down and down and down. The Russian smiled demonically then slammed Tyrell’s arm on the table with such force the trucker spectators jumped back in astonishment.
Tyrell looked like he might pass out from shock. Enraged shouts erupted from the truckers. The Russian looked back at them defiantly and said, YOU AMERICANS OWE ME MUCH MONEY. HAND IT OVER.” Tyrell looked around imploringly at his buddies saying, “But guys, I don’t know what to say. I won the National Arm Wrestling Championship’s first prize two years in a row.”
As the Russian collected his winnings, his eyes never left Butch. Butch looked back, refusing to be intimidated. Finally, the Russian, smiling broadly, said, “WELL, WELL, A STRANGER NEWLY ARRIVED. PERHAPS YOU ARM WRESTLE? YOU HAVE HUGE, STRONG ARMS AND VERY LARGE HANDS. YOU WANT TO TAKE ON VLAD? I EVEN GIVE YOU ODDS. AND TO BE SURE I MUST BE TIRED FROM FIGHTING THIS CHAMPION TYRELL, NO? IT WOULD BE TO YOUR GREAT ADVANTAGE RIGHT NOW INSTEAD OF LATER AFTER I HAVE RESTED. WE ARM WRESTLE NOW? WHAT YOU SAY?”
Butch knew this Russian asshole was working him, so he decided to play his own con game right back at him. He turned his swivel stool putting his wide back to the Russian, and after taking drawn-out sips from his coffee cup said, “Nah, I don’t arm wrestle.”
Vlad responded, “WHAT? THIS CAN’T BE FUCKING TRUE WHAT I AM HEARING. A SUPERIOR BUILT MAN LIKE YOURSELF NOT WANTING TO ARM WRESTLE ON A LONG DULL NIGHT LIKE THIS…WITH A CHANCE TO WIN SOME MONEY? NOT TO BE BELIEVED.”
Vlad eyed the unyielding broad back of Butch and let out a long, drawn-out braying laugh.
“I SEE YOUR HAT. MAKE AMERICA GREAT AGAIN. BULLSHIT! DID YOU EVER SEE AN AMERICAN PRESIDENT RIDING AROUND ON A HORSE WITH HIS SHIRT OFF? LIKE PUTIN? THEY WOULDN’T DARE!! ALL YOUR AMERICAN LEADERS ARE WEAK. SOFT AND WEAK. YOU WITH THE PUMPED MUSCLES AND THE MAKE AMERICA GREAT HAT ARE TOO FRIGHTENED TO ARM WRESTLE WITH VLAD!! YOU HAVE SIZE MY FRIEND…BUT YOU ARE SOFT. SOFT!!”
Vlad again let loose with the braying laughter, deliberately trying to mock and shame Butch into a confrontation. The wide expanse of Butch’s back was becoming a personal affront to the Russian. Vlad couldn’t stand being ignored. Butch similarly was suppressing his fury, taking comfort in the fact that he was now the one doing the setting up. He was pissing this clown off and that was just what he wanted to do. Just a few minutes more of baiting, but Butch was getting impatient himself. He managed to say in an even, calm voice, still looking at his coffee cup, “I told you, man, I don’t arm wrestle.” Butch glanced quickly over at Carla and even she was looking at him with disapproving eyes. Yeah, he was reeling everyone in all right…especially the damn Russian fucker.
Vlad stood up showing off his humongous size. “ANYONE ELSE WANT TO GIVE VLAD A CONTEST? IT’S GOING TO BE A LONG NIGHT HOLED UP IN THIS SHIT HOLE DINER WITH SNOW OUTSIDE AND NOTHING TO DO!!
Butch swiveled his stool around to fully take in this guy he decided was gonna be his foe. Yeah, he was one tough son of a bitch and exactly the kind of challenge he was looking for tonight. Butch swiveled back around, raised his voice slightly after draining the last of his coffee and called Carla over to him. He said, “Carla honey, I noticed that barn a short distance from here. Is that empty?” Murray responded for her. “Shit, that rickety thing? That old barn hasn’t been used by anyone in almost two years. The farm folk that owned it moved away.”
Butch nodded his head knowing that all attention was on him. He turned the swivel stool oh-so-slowly back around, gave his pectoral muscles a double pop for the benefit of the crowd and, glaring menacingly, directly addressed the Russian standing a few feet away.
“HEY VLAD! HOW BOUT YOU AND ME HAVE OURSELVES A GOOD OLD FASHIONED FIST FIGHT UP IN THAT BARN!!! Taking a wad of bills out of his wallet, he made an elaborate gesture of laying each and every bill one at a time side by side on the counter for all to see. “FIVE HUNDRED BUCKS! THAT’S ALL THE FUCKIN MONEY I GOT. I’LL BET EVERY GODDAMN SINGLE PENNY THAT I’LL KICK YOUR FUCKIN ASS!!”
tuffchap (1)
13/4/2021 20:30BUTCH AMERICAN vs. RUSSIAN BEAR
Part 2 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.)
Butch sauntered down the narrow aisle of the diner and found a stool at the counter just diagonal to the booth table where the arm wrestlers were engaged in their intense contest. About ten truckers were gathered around them shouting encouragement to the man facing away from Butch – a giant black who was straining so badly, sweat was literally pouring off him, splashing onto the floor, drenching the table and soaking anyone who happened to be near him.
The opponent opposite was also a giant of a man, white, also sweating profusely (but not as much as his opponent). He had thick black hair with traces of gray, shaggy and unkempt, a thick black moustache and a long black beard, also unkempt and also with traces of gray. He had on a loose white tank top, torn, dirty and sweat stained. His chest, neck and arms were enormous. Like Butch, his torso wasn’t hairy but surprisingly smooth-skinned. He had a large nose, full lips and piercing dark eyes. Butch had brown eyes too, but this man’s eyes looked black. He wore an anxious, worrying expression on his face, but, oddly enough, one could detect if one were savvy enough, that he was more in control than he looked.
This was the Russian.
The black opponent’s muscular arm was exerting every ounce of strength he could muster. The Russian’s arm was at an angle where he was in position to be pinned, but Butch was now positive, despite appearances, that the Russian was in no danger of being defeated. Suddenly, the Russian looked over at Butch, acknowledged him as a newcomer, instantly seemed to recognize what Butch was thinking, and in response, his arm slipped closer to the table.
A wave of shouts and cheers erupted. They began yelling, “COME ON, TYRELL! BEAT THIS RUSSIAN ASSHOLE! YOU’RE ALMOST FUCKIN THERE!”
An expression of frantic desperation appeared on the Russian’s face. He yelled in his thick accent, “NYET, I REFUSE TO LOSE TO THIS AMERICAN FUCKER! ANOTHER THREE HUNDRED DOLLARS I BE BETTING! FUCKIN AMERICAN SHIT!! AMERICAN FUCKIN SHIT HEEL!! I REFUSE TO LOSE!! THREE HUNDRED…THREE HUNDRED MAKES ONE THOUSAND AMERICAN FUCKIN DOLLARS I BE BETTING! FUCK YOU!! FUCK YOU, AMERICAN BASTARD!! NYET!! NYET!!”
Cries of “RUSSIAN PIG, RUSSIAN ASSHOLE, RUSSIAN DOG” were shouted jeeringly in the Russian’s face. Many yelled, “COME ON, TYRELL!! I’M BETTING ANOTHER FIFTY BUCKS ON YOU!! More money was fished out of wallets all-round and quickly bet.
“Damn”, thought Butch, “this guy’s playin the cartoon Russian Heavy to the hilt and this sucker crowd is eatin it up.”
Murray, the diner’s skinny owner, totally engrossed in the arm wrestling, barked at the waitress to find out what the newcomer wanted to order. Carla the waitress, also totally engrossed in the arm wrestling, slowly sashayed her plump, middle-aged, bleached blonde self over to Butch as if she were still hot stuff. Butch asked, “How long they been at this?” Carla said, “Christ, it’s been almost a solid hour now. The Russian’s goin down though. Tyrell’s been comin’ in here for a long time. Believe me. Nobody’s beat him yet. Put your money on Tyrell before it’s too late.”
Butch said, “Nah, I’ll pass. But I will take a black coffee.” Murray yelled, “HE WANT SOMEHIN’ FROM THE GRILL?” Carla yelled back, “NO MURR, JUST COFFEE, NO NEED TO ROUSE YOURSELF!” Butch removed his leather jacket, placing it on the swivel stool next to him. Carla was now distracted by the sight of Butch’s t-shirt tightly clinging to his magnificent burly torso. The Russian glanced over quickly also taking in Butch’s commanding physique, then immediately squeezed his eyes shut and began uttering pathetic groaning noises, “NYET, NYET, NYET,” over and over and over again.
Tyrell let out a war whoop, shook his head causing sweat spray to shoot out in all directions and, quivering with excitement, put everything he had into one final effort. But then, preposterously, the Russian’s arm began moving up and up and up out of danger, then slowly began the steady decline of Tyrell’s panicked, trembling arm down and down and down. The Russian smiled demonically then slammed Tyrell’s arm on the table with such force the trucker spectators jumped back in astonishment.
Tyrell looked like he might pass out from shock. Enraged shouts erupted from the truckers. The Russian looked back at them defiantly and said, YOU AMERICANS OWE ME MUCH MONEY. HAND IT OVER.” Tyrell looked around imploringly at his buddies saying, “But guys, I don’t know what to say. I won the National Arm Wrestling Championship’s first prize two years in a row.”
As the Russian collected his winnings, his eyes never left Butch. Butch looked back, refusing to be intimidated. Finally, the Russian, smiling broadly, said, “WELL, WELL, A STRANGER NEWLY ARRIVED. PERHAPS YOU ARM WRESTLE? YOU HAVE HUGE, STRONG ARMS AND VERY LARGE HANDS. YOU WANT TO TAKE ON VLAD? I EVEN GIVE YOU ODDS. AND TO BE SURE I MUST BE TIRED FROM FIGHTING THIS CHAMPION TYRELL, NO? IT WOULD BE TO YOUR GREAT ADVANTAGE RIGHT NOW INSTEAD OF LATER AFTER I HAVE RESTED. WE ARM WRESTLE NOW? WHAT YOU SAY?”
Butch knew this Russian asshole was working him, so he decided to play his own con game right back at him. He turned his swivel stool putting his wide back to the Russian, and after taking drawn-out sips from his coffee cup said, “Nah, I don’t arm wrestle.”
Vlad responded, “WHAT? THIS CAN’T BE FUCKING TRUE WHAT I AM HEARING. A SUPERIOR BUILT MAN LIKE YOURSELF NOT WANTING TO ARM WRESTLE ON A LONG DULL NIGHT LIKE THIS…WITH A CHANCE TO WIN SOME MONEY? NOT TO BE BELIEVED.”
Vlad eyed the unyielding broad back of Butch and let out a long, drawn-out braying laugh.
“I SEE YOUR HAT. MAKE AMERICA GREAT AGAIN. BULLSHIT! DID YOU EVER SEE AN AMERICAN PRESIDENT RIDING AROUND ON A HORSE WITH HIS SHIRT OFF? LIKE PUTIN? THEY WOULDN’T DARE!! ALL YOUR AMERICAN LEADERS ARE WEAK. SOFT AND WEAK. YOU WITH THE PUMPED MUSCLES AND THE MAKE AMERICA GREAT HAT ARE TOO FRIGHTENED TO ARM WRESTLE WITH VLAD!! YOU HAVE SIZE MY FRIEND…BUT YOU ARE SOFT. SOFT!!”
Vlad again let loose with the braying laughter, deliberately trying to mock and shame Butch into a confrontation. The wide expanse of Butch’s back was becoming a personal affront to the Russian. Vlad couldn’t stand being ignored. Butch similarly was suppressing his fury, taking comfort in the fact that he was now the one doing the setting up. He was pissing this clown off and that was just what he wanted to do. Just a few minutes more of baiting, but Butch was getting impatient himself. He managed to say in an even, calm voice, still looking at his coffee cup, “I told you, man, I don’t arm wrestle.” Butch glanced quickly over at Carla and even she was looking at him with disapproving eyes. Yeah, he was reeling everyone in all right…especially the damn Russian fucker.
Vlad stood up showing off his humongous size. “ANYONE ELSE WANT TO GIVE VLAD A CONTEST? IT’S GOING TO BE A LONG NIGHT HOLED UP IN THIS SHIT HOLE DINER WITH SNOW OUTSIDE AND NOTHING TO DO!!
Butch swiveled his stool around to fully take in this guy he decided was gonna be his foe. Yeah, he was one tough son of a bitch and exactly the kind of challenge he was looking for tonight. Butch swiveled back around, raised his voice slightly after draining the last of his coffee and called Carla over to him. He said, “Carla honey, I noticed that barn a short distance from here. Is that empty?” Murray responded for her. “Shit, that rickety thing? That old barn hasn’t been used by anyone in almost two years. The farm folk that owned it moved away.”
Butch nodded his head knowing that all attention was on him. He turned the swivel stool oh-so-slowly back around, gave his pectoral muscles a double pop for the benefit of the crowd and, glaring menacingly, directly addressed the Russian standing a few feet away.
“HEY VLAD! HOW BOUT YOU AND ME HAVE OURSELVES A GOOD OLD FASHIONED FIST FIGHT UP IN THAT BARN!!! Taking a wad of bills out of his wallet, he made an elaborate gesture of laying each and every bill one at a time side by side on the counter for all to see. “FIVE HUNDRED BUCKS! THAT’S ALL THE FUCKIN MONEY I GOT. I’LL BET EVERY GODDAMN SINGLE PENNY THAT I’LL KICK YOUR FUCKIN ASS!!”