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  1. [Hey folks, first time posting a story here. Some of you may know me from my tumblr Broodingmuscle. This story will feature MMA fighting, dominance, forced exercise and feeding, and fast but realistic muscle growth. Eventually there will be some little bro revenge because that’s my jam. Let me know what you think, sorry no growth in the first chapter. - Broody] Fight Night: Part 1 Stick vs Meatball “Welcome back to the Underground Fighting Championship, I’m head commentator Fred Williams. Our next fight in the Flyweight division is going to be something I’ve never seen before. Curtis “Stick” Quick, the division’s tallest fighter will face his polar opposite, Tony “Meatball” Pizetti who replaces an injured competitor. I’ll ask my fellow commentator Al Sharp, what do you make of this crazy match-up?” “More like mis-matchup my friend, wow! As the fighters take their places in the ring you can see that the 6-foot-1 Quick just towers over Pizetti who stands a mere 4-foot-1.” “And yet, Al, and yet… look at these other stats, Pizetti is the heavier fighter, coming in at the regulation upper limit of 126 pounds, while Quick is a mere 123 lbs. What happened there did Quick over-correct trying to make weight?” “I asked his trainer this very question and the answer may surprise you. Curtis Quick has always been a super-lean guy, in fact he got into fighting as a kid because of how much he got picked on for being skinny. He’s never cutting weight for a fight, always trying to maintain or gain weight to stay competitive in the Flyweight rankings.” “And so he doesn’t blow away in a stiff breeze. Good Lord someone get that kid a sandwich!” “Well speaking of a meal, look at Tony Pizetti! “Meatball” is an apt nickname for the stud just look at all the muscle piled into this short stack. I just did a quick calculation and proportionally if Pizetti was as tall as his opponent, he’d be a whopping 280 lbs! Just look at those massive arms, they’ve twice as thick as Quick’s! Pizetti may not have the ultra long 80” striking reach of his opponent, but you better believe a body like that is going to do some damage if this goes to the ground.” “Pizetti’s wingspan is certainly respectable at 60” for a man his height. He’ll have to get inside to do any punching, but this is mixed martial arts! Expect some dominant wrestling from this pint-sized Hercules.” “And now the announcer is being ignored by both fighters during the introductions. What intensity as they yell smack-talk across the ring at each other. Quick says something about Pizetti shopping for his tights in the boy’s section. Pizetti-- oh my god!-- reaches into those same tights and pulls out his XXL cup! He holds it up to the audience and his tights snap back to form an outright elephantine bulge! Now he’s calling out Quick’s own fashion sense, with his loose shorts hanging down to his knees to hide his skinny legs, and what other inadequacies? As the referee scolds Pizetti, the short fighter grins and makes show of the compressing effort required to stuff those enormous genitals back into the protective device.” “Well Al, I don’t know about you, but the fight hasn’t even started and my blood is already flowing. I think the ring girl just fainted! And Quick looks a little pale, I don’t think he expected to be shown up this badly by a fellow just about four feet tall!” “Well as the bell sounds to start the round, we’ll see if Quick has a comeback to all that!” “And he does, a lighting fast left jab hits Pizetti full in the face! But he’s fast enough to raise his guard and block the follow up right which thuds impotently against the Meatball's thick forearm. Pizetti advances to try to get inside, but gets caught in the gut with a front kick from Quick that pushes him back into a more comfortable range for the taller fighter. This time Quick’s one-two combo hits the mark both times but Pizetti shrugs off the punches! He taunts Quick by sticking out his chin, his face plastered with a mocking grin and The Stick takes the bait, launching a straight right down the center which Pizetti ducks easily. The Meatball powers an uppercut drawn from somewhere in this arena’s basement and smashes into Stick’s jaw!” “Oh he’s hurt! Goddamn it if I didn’t feel the force of that punch from the ringside. How he’s even still standing after that hit I do not know but he manages to back away and bat aside Pizetti’s follow-up shots drunkenly. He was definitely rocked by that blow!” “The Meatball bulls his way inside and goes for a double leg takedown, no wait a double leg lift! He picks Quick’s slender body up like it’s a pencil and slams his foe brutally to the canvas! Oh my god, that has gotta hurt! Pizetti falls on him like a log dropped onto kindling and Quick tries to scramble out the side. No dice. Pizetti hauls him back, gets into full mount and rears up for some devastating ground and pound. A few hits from those sledgehammer fists and Quick’s face is bloodied up like raw hamburger. Quick's coach, his big brother Butch Quick, is yelling obscenities that would make a sailor blush from the corner.” “The ref calls out for Quick to fight back or he’ll end it and the fighter finally responds, flipping his legs up to catch Pizetti’s head between them. Quick wrenches down and the power of long limb leverage launches The Meatball halfway across the ring to land on his head! Pizetti pushes himself up to one knee but looks wobbly. Quick is dripping blood from his face but makes it to his feet. He lunges and strikes like a kicker after a field goal, his foot hits Pizetti’s gut with a dull thud. Quick winds up for another shot but The Meatball turns aside at the last moment, lashing out with a left hook to the body that nearly snaps The Stick in half.” “Holy shit, I think Quick’s liver just got made into paté. Spread him on a cracker, he looks done.” “Oh what a mess, his face ruined, fallen to his knees gasping, the wind knocked out of him. Now Pizetti approaches and reaches out to hold his head almost tenderly. He whispers something in his ear and the pulls him close, burying his face in his meaty pecs. He locks his muscular arms around Quicks head and cranks it. Forget breathing, Quick taps out in an instant so that his skull doesn’t pop like a zit!” “Oh my, over already just as I was getting excited.” “Looks like you’re not the only one! Pizetti pull out his cup yet again as Quick collapses to the canvas, chest heaving. He may be David but I’d call that cock Goliath: wide, rock hard and bursting up right out of his tights well past his navel!” “He gets grief from the ref and from Quick's corner, but the fans seem to love it! He drops the cup onto Quick’s face and then grinds his foot on it, forcing the defeated fighter to breath in his sweaty ball stank. Pizetti does a victory double bicep flex that gives the ring medic pause as he rushes in to check on the flattened loser.” “Pizetti grinds out a most muscular pose and blows Curtis Quick a kiss as security enters the ring to keep the two separate. As the referee raises his arm in victory, he points at Quick and mouths ‘I’ll be seeing you soon’ with a leer and a wink.” “Well Al, I’d sure like to be in the room for that meeting. Maybe even film it! Well, this has been quite the fight. On behalf of my colleague Al Sharp, this has been Fred Williams for the Underground Fighting Championship. Thanks for joining us and see you next time!” *** Fight Night part 2: Don’t Call Him Little The next day, Curtis Quick woke from his doctor-mandated bedrest to a pounding coming from the door of his room. He lived in a run down two story motel that rented rooms monthly for cheap. He dragged his poor battered body to the door shouting. “All right already, I’m coming, hold your horses. Jesus!” The noise was making his headache worse, but that was nothing compared to the shock he got when he opened the door and looked down to see Tony Pizetti outside his room on the balcony. His stomach churned but he put on a brave face, swollen as it was. “What are you doing here, huh, didn’t get enough of humiliatin’ me yesterday?” Tony wore a low cut white tank top that showed off his massive hairy pecs. He held a 15-lb bag of potatoes over each shoulder. “I’m here ‘cuz I’m your new coach, Stick.” Tony took a step back and then hoisted the potato bags, swinging them around like nunchucks. Curtis watched dully, still blinking the sleep from his eyes. With a last swing, Tony threw both bags at his chest and he flew back into the room, knocked flat on his back. “How did you know?” Curtis groaned weakly from the floor. His coach Butch, his older brother, had quit in disgust yesterday after the fight. Tony stood over Curtis’ flattened form, folding his thick arms over his chest.. “Everybody knows, Stick. He talked to the media this morning. I believe his exact words were. ‘I ain’t training a loser who lost to a midget.’ What an asshole.” Curtis got to his knees, still sore, but anger over Butch was riling him up. “He is a fucking asshole! That’s not the word you’re supposed to use. It’s like… little person, right?” “Look at this shit. You see anything little?” Tony flexed a bodybuilder-style double-bicep pose. His lats flared out into meaty buttresses holding up arms that were so thick with huge hard muscle that his biceps, triceps and forearms had to fight for space. “From now on you call me Coach or Sir, got it?” Curtis mouth hung open as he watched Pizetti show off. He remembered the power in those arms and thanked God Pizetti hadn’t broken any of his bones. “Got it, Coach! Damn are you bigger than yesterday?” “Fuck yeah, I hate cutting weight for a fight, after I was done with you, I went out with my buddies for a huge steak dinner and then went to the all night gym and blasted these muscles hard. Speaking of which….” Tony chuckled and reached over to tousle Curtis’ hair. With Stick on his knees they were the same height. “I like you kid. You got potential and I need a project. All I get for fights are gimmicks and last-minute replacements.So I’m switching to coaching. I’ve booked you a light-heavyweight fight 4 months from now.” Curtis shook his head. “It’ll take me that long to recover from that beating you gave me. How could I recover and train AND gain thirty pounds to fight as a lightweight in just 4 months?” “Clean out your ears, bumpkin, I said light-heavyweight, that’s 205 lbs. You’re gonna gain eighty pounds of pure muscle. And you're gonna learn to punch and wrestle like a man, not those girly blows you sent my way. And as to how. You leave that to me. Now get up and take this.” Tony pulled Curtis to his feet and shoved the motel ice bucket in his hands. “Go get ice. Lots of it.” While Curtis went back and forth to the ice machine to fill the bathtub, Tony stomped up and down the balcony stairs to his car, unloading the potato bags, 20 in total, till they filled one corner of the kitchen. When he was done, he checked the ice level in the tub. “Alright that’s enough. Come with me. It’s time for your first training session.” Tony popped the trunk of his classic 1983 Buick Grand National and Curtis flinched. “Is that a body?” Tony scowled. “What, you think I’m a gangster or something? Just ‘cause I’m Italian? That’s racist.” “I don’t think it’s r—” “Take another look, bright boy.” Curtis gingerly pulled at the bloody cloth wrapping. “Jesus, it’s a whole side of beef.” “Lift it out, kid. You’re taking it upstairs.” “What? How? It’s gotta weigh 300 lbs.” “Probably 325. Think of it as CrossFit.” “Shit.” Curtis said. He shucked his shirt and tucked it in the back of his shorts. Compared to the boulders of muscle fighting for space on Pizetti’s short body, Curtis’ thin muscles looked like strings stretched along a giant banjo. He strained hard to lift one side of the bloody mass over the lip of the trunk. The effort left him heaving breaths in and out his bony chest. He looked from the truck to the stairs going up to his second floor balcony and then back in despair. “Damn, son, you look like the carcass left over from last night’s roast chicken.” Tony jibed. Curtis hauled more on the mass of meat until he had two thirds of it over the lip. “I got…” he grunted, “a fast… metabolism… fuuuuuck!” Curtis tried to figure it out. He thought he could manage it if he got the side over both his shoulders. But the trunk was below his waist level and there was no way his skinny legs could rise up from a deep squat with that much weight. He looked over at Tony. “Y-you got a jack or somethin’?” Pizetti rolled his eyes. “Alright, soft boy, I’ll help ya, but it’ll cost ya later.” Pizetti scooted his legs under the bumper of the car. He spread his arms out straight and pressed them flat against the asphalt, then tucked up his thighs to his chest and pressed his feet to the undercarriage. Curtis heard first the groan of shocks and then silence as Tony leg pressed the back end of a loaded Buick. The trunk rose up level to Curtis’ chest and he ducked under the mass of meat to brace his shoulders. “Oof. Almost there, a little higher.” “Get ready, punk,” Tony growled. The trunk lowered down again as Tony’s legs pressed to his chest and then shot up fast and hard. Curtis pulled the weight freely onto his shoulders. He teetered over to one side but solidified his core and managed to keep from tumbling over. “I got it, I got it, Coach! Look, I’m doin’ it.” Curtis slowly turned around carefully keeping the huge load balanced on his shoulders. Tony was still under the car, grunting out leg press reps. Goddamn. Curtis made a mental note to google its curb weight. “That’s great kid, let’s see if you can get up the stairs in the time it takes me to do 3 sets.” Curtis let out a grunt of his own. “You’re on coach!” Curtis adjusted the ponderous weight and then stomped step by step toward the stairs. He got to the bottom and looked up. It looked impossible. He flexed his abs and thought of his older brother, mocking him yesterday for weakness. He raised his right foot and set it on the first stair. He pressed hard, feeling his quads solidify and contract. He stepped up and then planted his left. “Fuck yeah, I can do this!” He repeated the process and got to the third step. His heart was pounding. He heard Pizetti counting out reps: “Fifteen! Where you at, boy?” “Halfway up!” he lied. “You better go faster if you want to beat this chicken carcass.” He heard Pizetti breathing heavily. “Oh I’m gonna enjoy this.” Curtis heard the bouncing of shocks as Pizetti started pumping out his next set twice as fast. Curtis visualized the bloated strength of Pizetti’s tree trunk quads and willed it to transfer to his own slim legs. With the next step he forced his left leg to skip a stair. Then his right leg did the same. He was no longer inching up the staircase like an old lady, but taking it normally, like he didn’t have half a cow on his shoulders. The tension in his limbs was intense but he took a deep breath and stomped up the rest of the stairs, reaching the top just as Pizetti yelled out his final rep. “I did it coach!” He huffed, a huge shit-eating grin on his face.. Pizetti set the Buick down and stood up. His thighs were so swollen with pump they rounded outward like beachballs. “Nice job kid!” He stamped his right foot down and his quads exploded, rending the overstretched lycra of his gym shorts right up to his crotch, with a loud RIIIIPPPP!. “Fuck yeah!” he growled. Reaching into the trunk he pulled out a huge meat cleaver. “Now get that meat on ice. It’s time to grow!”!” Cont.
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