Search the Community

Trying something a little different this time out, hopefully some of y'all fighting fans enjoy! Feedback is welcome! Sam the SEAL's Greatest Hits: Part 1 It was the eve of Sam’s retirement from a decades-long career as a decorated Navy SEAL, and the grizzled yet handsome older man stood in his office, surrounded by mementos from his days on an elite special combat branch. He stood 6’1, long body like a swimmer and thick with corded muscle, sporting salt and pepper hair complemented by a neatly trimmed silver beard. Some light facial scarring and a flat boxer's nose were the only indications of his decades of combat. At 65, he was in incredible physical condition from a lifetime of rigorous physical fitness instilled in him first by his Navy SEAL father and brothers, and then by his superiors later on. He maintained close to 10% body fat, with jacked arms visible even through his clothes. Sam had kept exhaustive notes after each of his combat engagements, and calculated that he’d emerged victorious in 99.1% of his engagements. Indeed, he was always known for excelling in combat, and for his superior fighting ability. Tonight, though, he reflected on those .9%, not in sullen reflection, but more to explore the lessons he’d learned from them. He picked up a very small, framed photo taken shortly after he’d completed a particularly rigorous training program, and chuckled. The raccoon. It had taken him quite a while to shake that particular nickname. Which takes us to the first of what Sam considered his “greatest hits,” in a way. *** The Year: 1980 The Scene: Sam’s dorm at the base Sam, then 25, closed his flat's door behind him, dropped his gym bag, stepped out of his sneakers, and strode into the living room, peeling off his sweat-soaked t-shirt as he went. Still pumped from his sparring session at the training facility, the young buck turned to examine his swollen physique in a door-length mirror. His biceps and delts bulged and ached from the intense workout he’d just completed. His flat, hard chest was beet-red with visible veins still streaming across his ripped pecs. His eyes moved down to his chiseled midsection, any fat long washed away through endless laps in the pool. Sam’s sandy brown hair was slick with sweat, his long, boyish, and unblemished face beaming with the post-pump glow. He’d started growing a mustache, and turned to admire its progress. It had always been instilled in him that vanity should be shunned, but he had to admit, he was quite the stud. He raised both arms synchronously in a double bicep pose, making his taut muscles dance in the moonlight, thick veins streaming across the peaks. He couldn't hide a smile. It was then that he heard a low whistle from behind him. Sam turned on a dime with one fluid motion, fists up, ready for anything, clad only in his short blue gym shorts and calf-length socks. Before him stood a small man of indeterminate race, dark hair, dark clothes. Sam assessed his height to be around 5’6, with a lithe, seemingly delicate frame. Sam kept his fists in a fighting stance but lowered his guard just a bit. “Identify yourself!” Sam barked, fists clenched, lowering his voice for tough-guy emphasis. The man smiled. “Easy, Arnold. Wanna see my ID? Like the government-issued one for your little combat troop you’re getting your photo taken for tomorrow?” Sam’s breath caught. “What? How did…” “I know all about you, Sam,” the man replied calmly. “It’s part of my job to know everything about the highly trained agents that go undercover to fuck with my employer’s shit.” Sam’s eyes narrowed, attempting to betray nothing. “Interesting. What’s the other part?” The compact man took a step forward, smiling darkly and cracking his knuckles. “Beating up on ugly white boys to send a message.” At this, Sam actually laughed, lowering his guard even more as he started slowly stalking toward the smaller man. "My friend," he started. "I'm not sure you know what you're getting yourself into here." "Oh, I do know," the man replied flatly. "Like I said. And when I saw you flexing those big muscles in the mirror, I've gotta tell you, I had some serious second thoughts about taking you on." "There's still time to act on them," Sam answered. "I've decided to let you walk away, if that's what you want to do." The man smiled. "You misunderstand me. I'm going to act on my first and my second thoughts. My first thought was to focus on the body so as not to leave any visible marks. But on second thought, I don't think I'm going to mind leaving some visible marks. Sam shrugged, smiled, cocked his head, and without hesitation launched a hard right hook straight for the smaller man’s jaw that cut an audible “whoosh!” through the otherwise silent dorm room. The man effortlessly ducked under Sam’s arm, and came up with a vicious uppercut that literally launched Sam off his feet, BAM. Stunned, Sam shuffled back on his socks, barely finding his footing before a hard right hook smacked him right across the jaw, this blow sending him stumbling back toward the living room wall. Feeling a tooth dislodge, he barely had time to register what was happening before he felt two powerful hands plant themselves on his chest and shove him into the wall. “UGH!” he grunted as his bare back connected with the unyielding drywall. The man was on him in a second. Sam seized the brief moment to try another right hook, and again the man ducked, lightning fast, and hammered a stiff right hook into Sam’s obliques that landed with a dull WHUMP. Sam winced and tried a hard left; once again the man crouched under, slamming his fist into the other side of Sam's body with the dull thud of fist on hard muscle. The man then delivered a brutal knee to Sam’s torso that folded him over like paper with an “ooof!”, and the next thing Sam knew he was airborne, and then crashing back-first through his dorm’s cheap standard-issue coffee table. Sam’s head lolled as he gazed toward the ceiling, still dazed from the blows to the head, a sickening feeling of defeat starting to spread through his hard belly. He had been top of his class, expertly trained in combat, 100% victorious in all of his (relatively few) previous engagements, and now this much smaller opponent had gotten the drop on him and was primed to beat the stuffing out of him, or worse. He heard footsteps as the man strode over to him. The man appeared to tower over him now, Sam’s prone body between each of his legs. To Sam’s surprise, the man promptly sat down, his butt placed directly over Sam’s groin. “Ugh!” Sam grunted with a mixture of pain, surprise, and involuntary arousal. “Don’t get excited, stud,” the man chuckled. He grabbed Sam’s arms and placed them at Sam’s sides, and then locked his legs around Sam’s waist and trapped arms, preventing any defense or escape. “I’m just getting better leverage so I can do this.” And with that, the man slammed his right fist deep into Sam’s exposed stomach. “OOOF!” Sam exhaled, his cheeks expanding like a trumpet player. He instantly regained his composure—all those body conditioning sessions in training hadn’t been for nothing—and tightened up his abs to turtle shell hardness. The man launched his left fist into Sam’s gut, the thud now duller and louder than it had previously been. “Ooh yeah!” the man hissed through gritted teeth as he began peppering Sam’s midsection with progressively harder blows. “Tighten ‘em up. Like beating on a drum.” Left.Right.Left.Right. Sam’s face was stoic and purple with determination and exhaustion as he took the barrage of punishment. Both Sam and the man were starting to grunt in off-time now, Sam with the effort to protect his internal organs, and the man with frustration that Sam wouldn’t break. But eventually, after a few minutes of rough body punches, Sam exhaled sharply, and the sound of the blows changed again. “There we go,” the man said as he continued pounding. Sam was groaning and grunting with each slam now. “I thought a good soft-gutting might make you think twice about any further involvement in my employer’s affairs.” After what felt to Sam like an eternity, the man delivered one final body-crumpling slam and stood, and allowed Sam to finally curl up clutching his battered midsection. The man took a handkerchief from his pocket and dabbed his brow. “Oh, I almost forgot,” he added mischievously. Sam’s already-destroyed stomach dropped with dread. “It’s picture day tomorrow. We want you to look your best, right?” The man then pulled Sam onto his back and straddled him once again. Sam’s vision blurred as the man yanked him up by the hair and delivered two sharp, targeted jabs, one to each of Sam's eyes. BAM BAM. Sam’s head snapped back with each impact, and then dropped back to the floor. “There,” the man said, mimicking dusting off his hands. “Now you’re gonna be all handsome for picture day.” Sam heard him leave at some point after that. He reported the incident to his superiors, who advised he be pulled from this particular mission. As if Sam could ever forget this first, impactful beating he’d receive over his long and storied career, he’d always have his framed ID photo showing off his mustache-of-the-moment, a missing tooth, and two perfect black eyes to commemorate the occasion. Part II Present-day Sam, recalling the woman at the facility’s shocked expression on seeing him limping toward her, impeccably dressed in his finest suit yet sporting two black eyes and a missing tooth, chuckled at the memory a little too heartily, causing a sharp ache in his right ribcage. Sam grimaced and rested his hand on the desk, reminded of a more recent assault he’d endured while undercover as a drill instructor at an elite military base. He’d been rescued eventually, but his mission to ID members of a marine cohort calling themselves The Wolfpack—smuggling in drugs and dispensing justice to any marines they felt violated their code—would be one he would never forget. The year: 2008 The scene: An empty gym at the base’s training facility, save Sam Sam heaved the barbell up with a deep grunt, pecs bunching under his sweatshirt, arms fully extended, face contorted in a grimace of concentration as deep lines furrowed his cheeks and forehead. Sweat clung to the ripped 53-year-old’s forehead, face, and neck, and pooled into a deep v-shape down his tight sweatshirt. He lay flat on the bench, feet on the floor, his braided, hairy quads on full display as his short, standard-issue olive gym trunks bunched to his mid-thigh. His sweatshirt was also bunched, revealing a strip of a taut, gnarled torso blanketed by silver fur between the bottom of his sweatshirt and his shorts’ waistband. He was really cranking out the reps…14…15…16…intensely focused. So intensely that by the time he heard the gym door slam followed by many rushed footsteps, it was already too late. He’d been lowering the bar back down to his chest when it was suddenly gripped on both sides by two figures who immediately crashed their full weight down, pinning Sam under the bar and its weight. “Got ‘im!” someone boasted. Sam gasped as the weight pressed into his upper chest, looking left and right to see figures on each side in marine fatigues. The Wolfpack. His cover was blown. Sam grinned despite the pain of the bar pushing down on him. "Figures it'd be all of you," he grimaced through his teeth. "Five on one...sounds about fair." "Shut up, gramps," one of the men holding the bar on his side barked. "You're fuckin' in it now." Sam pushed with all his might to get the bar off of him, but his effort was stunted another the young marine who kneeled to Sam’s side, hands clasped in supplication. Sam actually thought the guy was about to start praying, right up until the kid raised his still-clasped fists high into the air, only to SLAM them down on Sam’s vulnerable torso with a growl of determination. All the air went out of Sam’s diaphragm as his body jackknifed with an "OOOF!’. “Yeah!” another marine shouted. "Fuck him up!" Sam usually reserved dirty moves for when the situation truly called for it—it was only the honorable thing to do—but the prospect of a 53-year-old taking on five trained marines in their mid 20’s? That called for it. Sam released the bar and smashed his fists out on each side of him, catching the two who had trapped him right in their baby-makers. Both hollered in pain and released the bar, clutching their aching boys for dear life. Sam took the opportunity to hoist the bar and weights off of him, that familiar feeling of adrenaline kicking in. It felt good to be back on the game. Sam nimbly leapt to his feet to get some distance from his attackers, but only made it a few feet before he felt a yank on the back of his sweatshirt. “Ohhh no you don’t!” someone about his height snarled in his ear, yanking him back and locking in a full nelson. Sam flung his head backward in an attempt to break his captor’s nose, but the spry marine expertly dodged the blow. “Know all your moves,” the man taunted, forcing Sam’s head up as he locked in the nelson. “Gahhh!” Sam panted as the younger man brutally forced him upright. His sweatshirt rode up now, almost like a midriff, his solid core peeking out above his shorts. “Check it,” one of the other marines observed, stepping in front of Sam and pointing. “Dad abs, haha.” Sam flushed in irritation. "Hope I'm as jacked when I'm 80!" “Break this geezer down!” the man holding Sam commanded. And then it was on as two other man stepped forward, all starting to hammer at Sam like a communal punching bag, trash-talking the bigger, older muscle man the whole time. "Yeah!" THUMP. "Them muscles just for show, huh??" WHUMP. "Not doin' much good now, yeah??" THUMP. All Sam could do was grit his teeth and take it like a man. He'd been here before, but age was taking its toll, and he doubted he could endure too much more punishment. Rights and lefts, knees and kicks pounded his body from all sides, one well-placed kick in particular eliciting a discernible snap from one of Sam’s ribs as he grunted in pain. “Show ‘em what happens when you fuck with The Wolfpack!” the man holding him egged on. Sam’s head started to slump from the assault. One of the marines rolled up a sleeve and flexed a baseball-sized bicep in Sam's face. "This is real muscle, gramps." "Bro," one of the other marines chuckled. "The old man's still bigger than you, even all rag doll like he looks now, haha!" "Shut up," the marine retorted, and slugged a fist deep into Sam's drum tight breadbasket. “Where’s Ortiz at??” “Don’t use my name, man” came a voice from behind them. Ortiz, a young, wiry marine, emerged still clutching his balls from Sam’s escape. “He already knows, and he’s not gettin’ out of here anyway,” the man replied. “My man Ortiz was on his way to a Golden Gloves title before some shit got in his way,” the man explained to Sam. Now addressing Ortiz, he barked, “Show him why!” Ortiz smirked and stepped in front of Sam. He was probably 20, lean as fuck, negligible body fat—a true boxer’s build. Saying nothing, Ortiz crouched into an expert boxer’s crouch, throwing a few shadow punches to warm up, and without warning FIRING a hard right into Sam’s tensed gut. “OOOOOF!” Sam gasped from the impact as his knees almost buckled, shocked at the force of the blow. He’d taken a lot of lumps over the years, but this kid Ortiz was dangerous. Ortiz, sensing how quickly playtime would be over, backed off, and began jabbing still-hard rights and lefts all over Sam’s aching body, the sound of thudding echoed across the empty gym. Sam was dimly aware that he was starting to drool on his sweatshirt. After a few minutes, the lead marine still holding Sam in the full nelson spoke. “Ok, I think that’s enough for now. We gotta motor before they notice we fucked with the cameras in here. Put this fucker out, and we’ll bounce.” With that, Ortiz nodded, and launched a vicious right to Sam’s head, jolting it to the side. Sam grunted, feeling Ortiz wind up for another shot, and then felt no more.

" You know kid, I will fucking squeeze the shit outta this big body of yours, I will snap your back in half and I will smash your inner organs" Ryan said squeezing the young big bodybuilder. A noise of bones breaking was humming in the air like something that slowly but inexorably was blowing to pieces. Cody could not move, his arms were powerless, his head bowing back for the pain and the back was arching for the strong and tight squeeze of my friend Ryan. I was again stupefied to such power, my friend was unstoppable, violent and deadly. I repeat that I have never seen this dark side of my friend but I must be honest, I like it more than when he overvalues his built body and he shows off his muscle as they must be shown. Ryan was grunting, while squeezing and I could hear proud and fury in his voice while Cody screaming like a crazy person and his tone of voice pitched up like it was a sound effect. I set down on the couch to watch the show, I was enjoying. I will burn in hell for not stopping my friend and let the kid be destroyed or maybe killed. Cody wanted the fight, he desired that fight, he got what he wanted. I suddenly changed my mind, I stoop up, I went close to the massacre, I put myself beside the titans so that I could admire show even better. Ryan looked at me, smirking. "I will kill him in few minutes but I want to snap him in half before stopping" Ryan said. "I guess you will do my friend" I replied. Cody started crying, tears ran off his face, he invoked his mother's name as if he was in the kindergarten, he begged for mercy, Ryan did not pay attention on purpose but I did. "You can call whoever you want, all the gods you know, no one is going to help you. You wanted this match, you knew the different outcomes. Well this is one of the many. You are very lucky that I decided not to intervene of your body will be ending up like a Rubik Cube, with all the colours messed up. Now shut the fuck up and suffer in silence" I said. Ryan released the hold, opened his arms and Cody fell off onto the floor. My friend stepped back but he did want to continue his torture, he approached Cody like a giant while laying on the floor semi conscious, he bent over his prey. Violently lifting Cody up like he had no weight, Ryan spread his leg and wrapped his massive quads around Kevin's waist. Held two feet off the floor, like he was suspended by wires Cody was held and crushing in The Crushing muscled pythonic legs. The crushing pressure was horrible making Cody gasp for air squirming without a plan on escape. That was just the preparation. The actual squeeze suddenly began as Ryan started squeezing Cody's waist. “This is my favourite hold," Ryan said, as if he thought it might be something of interest to Cody. "I call it the human wringer.” my friend said. Cody's feet were moving in the air convulsing in spasms of pain. He screamed with all the air he had left . The internal damage from the crush was mounting as Ryan increased the pressure. Kevin's waist was reduced and compressed to a narrow space, his ribs cracking and the internal organ bursting. He started crying and begging, “Please... stop it you're ...killing me! I beg you!” His cried and begging hissed and spurted around floods of gore. “You embarrass yourself by begging. You are already dead,” said Ryan. "I will finish the job now." Ryan took Cody's right hand and pulled it across his chest to go the left side of the neck, creating a slow but deadly moment that Cody's body started twisting. Cody body was twisting wringing through the horrible internal damage he had already endured from Ryan's crushing legs. His muscles were ripping apart, his organs were torn and destroyed and his hips were locked in place and his torso twisted in a way no man could survive. The last thing that Cody saw, once the twist 180 degrees of movement, was Ryan's face and head framed by the lights on the ceiling. With a pulse of his legs and one more inch of turn, Cody's spine snapped in several places. Cody's body was completely twisted from the waist up. Somehow he was still alive, crying and in pain. Ryan grabbed his head and snapped his neck with a violent wrench to the right! Then again to left! A loud crack echoed through the house.