“So, once again, my lion it comes to this–you and I–I and you. This eternal struggle, we seem to find each other in. They call this game…a tug of war. And what are we but tug of warriors, destined always to strike the other down? But TODAY, Spike, you will know why Vahni Rage is UNEQUAL. WHY I AM A GOD. You. Me. A rope….and some of our friends. It goes down NOW. And when the dust clears, and I have buried you at last, this whole BEACH shall bow to me as their own, TRUE GOD. HAHHAHAHAAHHAHAA!”
Arms folded, head cocked to the side in confusion, Daemian and Iggy watched as Vahni Rage addressed the seagull staring back at him.
Daemian threw Iggy a concerned look. “Mate, who the hell are you talking to?”
“Um.” Rage flinched, shoulder slack as he turned around to face his team. ”Nobody.”
“Holy shit he was cutting a promo,” Iggy said.
Rage fumed. “I WAS NOT!” He coughed, clearing his throat. “I was merely…getting ‘pumped’, as you say.”
Daemian and Iggy, both in their snug fitting beachwear, confirmed with the other that neither of them had gone craz(ier). “You know that tug-of-war doesn’t actually involve physical combat, right?”
Rage blinked. “Not even with weaponry?”
“...No.”
The salty wind teased Rage’s raven-colored hair. He put a finger to his chin in contemplation. “But of course I knew that. It was merely a joke. It might surprise your miscreants to know that even I, the breaker of men, and capable of humor.”
Iggy Astro (who always looked as if they’d just put on a new coat of tanning oil) opened their mouth, when they noticed Akanemaru coming up the beach, with a very wide smile on their face. That can’t be good.
The surly oni approached his new friend, Rage and thumbed to somewhere over his shoulder. “Yo, I brought the swords. Don’t ask me how I got them on such short notice.”
Before Iggy and Daemian could muster up a comment, the screech of Colt’s whistle summoned them to the battle grounds.
The sun was high overhead, causing all beachgoers to slap more sunscreen onto their skin, scales, and fur. A small gathering of curious locals had gathered around the beachside proving grounds to check out this unusual assembly of good looking, muscular men.
Least of all the most muscular and handsomest of all of them (or so he thought of himself) standing at the front of the group. In classic yellow, square cut trunks, Colt looked more like a surfer daddy than a cowboy from Texas. Spike thought the sea-salt did wonders for his beautiful, manly mane. If there was a dad on this beach, it was him.
Colt twirled the whistle hanging around his neck, waiting for his unruly group of students, peers, and fellow coaches to get their act together. John Henry, the co-dad of the bunch, was mostly making sure everyone was well-fed and hydrated (a second-nature quality instilled into him by his restaurant-owning wife). As he handed out colorful ice pops to his students, his nose sniffed out the metal whistle hanging around Colt’s neck.
John Henry handed a blue icey to a grateful Kengo and muttered, “Who gave that man a whistle? Colt! Colt you can't whistle at the beach. What if someone mistakes you for a lifeguard?”
Colt growled softly to himself. “Well, what else in the blue blazes am I supposed to use?”
Mr. Iron thought for a moment, tapping his bald head to conjure an idea. Then, snapping his fingers, he reached into his board shorts and pulled something out of his pocket. “Here. Use this.”
Colt stared down, incredulously, at the green, plastic object in his hands. “John Henry Iron, mind explaining to me why you just happened to have a kazoo on your person?”
Spike, mid-conversation with Daemiain, looked up from his freezy pop to provide an answer. “Oh, it’s for the kazoo regiment during his training session.” He turned back to the angry looking punk. “Wait, you seriously call these things Zooper Doopers? You’re fuckin’ with me, right?”
With everyone finally corralled, Colt took a hard look at the impromptu instrument in his hands and decided his loud voice would command far more attention (and preserve much more of his dignity). “Alright folks, gather around for the first contents on the GSA’s Beach Day Bash!”
The crowd celebrated. Icewolf and Spike, sluts for applause, returned the gratitude by flexing for the audience.
Colt continued. “First up is a classic test of strength–the tug-o-war!” The cowboy motioned to the thick rope vertically set against the sand, across two dug lines. He’d used his own bandana for the flag. “The rules are simple.So simple, even you himbo can understand. Whichever team pulls the flag over their line wins. Yes Robert?”
Icewolf lowered his hand. “Uh…coach, could you explain the rules again?”
“Same question as Robbie,” Spike said.
Colt slapped his own face in frustration. “Mother of Goddess. Anyways, we’ve had to balance out the teams a little. Rosa and Gio will have to set this one out due to their powers giving them advantage.” He nodded respectfully to the large, canine demon looming over him (thankfully, demons of such stature were a common sight on Bondi). “You too, Brax.”
“Grrr. But I was looking forward to eating the rope and cementing our victory.”
Cian, wearing a bucket hat and shades to spare his pale skin from sun damage, stuck his hand up in the air. “Oi, wait a damn minute. Spike is the twink with super strength–how come he isn’t disqualified?.”
“TWUNK!” Spike spat back. “And not unless you hit me first.”
“Hmm. Well, I was thinking about it.”
Colt continued, hoping he might cut a brawl off at the pass. “To keep things fresh, each side has elected to send over one of their own to support the other team. Icewolf will join Team Babyface.”
“Yay!” Spike said, hoisted into the air by Kengo. “We’re the good boys!”
“And I’m the goodest boy!” Icewolf said, strutting over to the babyface side in his tight little trunks, earning him more than a few looks.
Under his breath, White Tiger muttered, “I thought I was the goodest boy.”
“And to Team Heel,” Colt started, before he was rudely cut off by Daemian and Iggy howling, hooting, and headbanging, as well as Rage making distracting jets of flame in the air. Cian just stood by with his arms folded, looking like he’d love to be anywhere else.
“AS I WAS SAYING,” Colt went on, “Team Heel will be joined by El Amante Intoxico.”
The crowd–men and women alike–sighed in rapture as the humble, hunky Victor walked over to the bad boy team–and was promptly slapped on the butt by his partner, Iggy. “Oh no,” Victor said, with a coquettish finger to his lips, “I have become a naughty boy. Is this a heel turn?”
Daemain clenched his fists in aggressive anticipation. “Finally, we got some beef on our side.”
Rag coughed and glared at his teammate.
“Er…besides you, that is, Rage! Hehehehe.”
“Hmph.”
As the spellbreakers on either side lined each other up according to size and strategy, Icewolf called out to Cian from the opposite end of the rope. “Oh my love, how cruel of fate that we must fight on opposite sides! It’s like…Bromeo and Juliette!”
Cian sniffed. “Okay. Sure.”
Next to him, Daemian–a great, big sneer plastered across his face–cupped his hands to his mouth. “Oy, Tiger, how’s it like to be on the losing side?”
White Tiger, who was 90% abs, clapped back without missing a beat. “I dunno, D-Man, when a rope and myself are involved, you’re usually the one who ends up losing.”
Even the crowd felt that burn.
And though Daemian snarled, fists clenched, and eyes briefly going ‘all black’, he whispered to Iggy. “I just love when he’s difficult.”
“I just love when he’s difficult,” Tiger, likewise, murmured to John Henry.
All of this posturing and foolishness was bothering Cian more than the harsh, Australian sun. Cian was content to just get this silly little game over with. He was only doing it to support the team, and to show Colt that he was serious about the GSA (even when the GSA wasn’t so serious about being…well…serious). In fact, Cian’s mind was already turning towards where he might catch a bite to each later, when he felt a firm hand on his shoulder, and the overpowering smell of high-brand tanning oil.
“Bom diaaaaaaaa,” came the sinister voice.
Cian flinched. “Y-y-es, Iggy?”
The pink haired hunk made a kissy face (the sinister kind) at his fellow trainee. “Remember, my delicious little piece of corn beef, you better win this for us. Or it’s the g-string of shame for you!”
Cian turned red. “Wh..what!?”
“CIAN IN A TH-TH-THONG!?” Icewolf squeaked, immediately crossing his legs in front of him to keep his shame from popping out. He turned to his teammates with excited lust. “Oh, bros, we GOTTA WIN THIS NOW.”
The Faeblood Brawler started to hyperventilate. To make matters worse, El Amante–the sexiest stud there was–came over to put his hand on Cian’s shoulder, matching Iggy’s in perfect symmetry.
“Ah, Cian! Iggy says you’re considering wearing something daring. I have a collection of exceptional thongs you can borrow, in all colors and cuts. For example, Zebra print…
Cian gasped. “Ze…zebra print…!?”
“Or…solid gold. That’ll show everything off.”
“G-g-gold?!”
El Amante eyeballed him suggestively. Was he…was he in on this? “But, if you want to be a real naughty boy, I even have one in pink lace!”
“NOT THE LACE!?”
“Oh yes,” Iggy said, clamping down on Cian’s shoulders even harder, practically nerve clawing him. “That’s definitely the one Cian will want to wear.”
Cian was five seconds away from passing out from sheer embarrassment.
“There is nothing wrong with showing off one’s body!” Victor advised, indirectly (or overtly) pumping his massive pectorals, and giving everyone within a five foot radius of him a massive boner (including the women). “Which is…why I am surprised you suggested I wear these board shorts, mi amor.” The masked man tugged at his rather roomy, but nice, trunks. “My muscular legs are just itching to tear these off!”
Before Iggy could playful admonish his himbo boyfriend, Daemian–looking like a vampire, beach model–slithered up alongside him and whispered–rather obviously, and loudly. “Igs, I got a plan.”
“What is it? And don’t call me ‘Igs’.”
“It’s an evil plan.”
Iggy grinned wickedly. “I’m listening….”
“HshshshsHSSHSH mate, and shssjshshshshs.”
“Uh huh. Uh huh. Oh my!”
Finally, the teams took the rope in hand, staring each other down, with Colt standing between the two sides. It was like a high noon standoff, right down to the cowboy (Colt). The beachgoing audience gathered around and whispered to each other, taking bets on who might win.
Naturally, Rage and Spike helmed the front of their respective teams, perfectly recalling their infamous rivalry. Rage leered down at his blonde boyfriend. “There is no dish sweeter than revenge. Prepare to be crushed, my lion. THIS BEACH WILL MARK YOUR GRAVE.”
Spike sighed. “Babe, c’mon, it’s just tug-of-war.” He could practically see the flames radiating off Rage, always hot-headed and passionate about one thing or another.
Colt looked down at the tiny, green kazoo in his hand. “Well, shit, here goes.”
FRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR!
The spellbreakers dove into their tug-of-war with unrestrained and unrelenting power, jaws clenches and arm veins bulging, giving the crowd quite the bit of eye candy–all these muscular hunks grunting and tugging. Of course, a tug-of-war does not make for an interesting scene description. If you have seen one, you have seen them all. They’re pretty basic. So that’s pretty much all there is to be said about that. The spellbreakers tugged, they warred, and they tugged some more.
Eventually, however, (and probably very dramatically too) Team Heel started slipping. Kengo and Mr. Iron were, after all, powerhouses–anchoring the back of the line. Rage grit his teeth and stared daggers into Spike’s pretty face.
“You…will…not…WIN!”
Spike returned to his ardor. “I’m…gonna…fuckin’....WIN!”
Daemian felt a burning in his hands, which he’d usually enjoy, except it meant this time that he was losing. “Grrr…we can’t lose. We’re the bad boys!.”
Iggy tossed their hair back.“Bad boys and bad gender nonconforming persons of exceptional beauty and talent! But you’re right.”
Even Victor despaired. “My big, gorgeous muscles…even they are no match for Mr. Iron and Kengo!”
“And Tiger, yayyyyy,” White Tiger pointedly added under his breath.
On Team Babyface, Mr. Iron gave his squad a pearly grin. “Ah, we got this in the bag boys.”
And while most onlookers assumed Kengo, Tiger, and Mr. Iron were doing all the work, the MVP was actually Icewolf–driven by force of will at the promise of Cian being forced to wear skimpy underwear. “Must…see…Cian…in thong…”
This was it. Now, or never. Deadboy stepped forward, initiating his devious plot. “Alrights, you dogs, it’s time we unleashed the secret weapon.
El Amante blinked in confusion. “What is that?”
“You.” Deadboy gave the single to Iggy. NOW!”
“Got it!”
Iggy let go of the rope, causing the crowd to gasp in horror. Had he just thrown the match for his team? Quickly, Iggy shot forward with his leg and grabbed his hands around Vic’s trunks, yanking them down, clean off.
!!!!!
“What!?” Victor gasped, looking down, wondering what everyone was looking at. “OH NO!”
To illustrate just how dangerous this act of pantsing (or ‘dacking’, as the Aussies say) was–the author would like to draw the comparison between the X-Man, Cyclops, always wearing his special glasses, and El Amante always wearing at least two layers of undergarment. For only Iggy Astro had sufficiently built up an immunity to laying eyes of the most potent of peens, possessed by the Warrior of Love himself. So powerful was Victor’s king schlong, that he didn’t even have a weird pet name for it, as some men predisposed to glorifying their genitalia, were wont to be. It was unspoken. It was hallowed. Only the pure of heart were meant to gaze upon it. Of course, as there were seldom few men walking the face of the Earth and benevolent and pure hearted as Victor Rivera (whose canonical last name, the author suddenly realizes, has only been mentioned once before). Vic’s monstrous, meat missile would do no harm. In fact, El Amante’s cockstrocity had quite the opposite effect of bringing death–though, to borrow Shakespearean parlance, it certainly brought a ‘little one’.
The effect was instantaneous. Team Babyface, standing right in front of El Amante, lost their composure (among other things). Eyes rolled into the back of skulls. Tongues lolled. Speedos threatened to tear themselves off the bodies of their hosts. In a split second, the entirety of Team Babyface involuntarily produced more cream than a British dairy.
“Ohh no I’m GONNA–”
“IT’S HAPPENING! IT’S HAPPENING!”
“N–not here. Not in public!”
“I’m having one…I’M HAVING ONE!””
“Ohhhhh!!”
“Fffffffff.”
“MY LEG!”
“I-I thought this was supposed to be a classy party!”
The team dropped, all hands covering the front of their respective swimwear, allowing Team Heel to easily pull their flag over to their side!
Unfortunately, the crowd behind them also got a look at El Amante’s ‘glory’, and soon reacted in turn. A flame demon in cherry red briefs roared, a jet of flame blazing out of his speedo and scattering the crowd, screaming. Human beach goers fainted. The lifeguard, in a panic, ran towards the crowd, only to catch sight of El Amante and fall down to the sand in violent, orgasmic fury.
It was pure chaos. It was a jizzdemic
Note: at this point, the author would like to note that he had to step back from his computer and consider the fact he’d once taken out student loans for a creative writing minor, and perhaps they didn’t deserve to be forgiven after all)
In any case, while all positioned in front of El Amante were coming to (after coming everywhere), Team Heel was celebrating their tactful victory.
“Wooooo!” Deadboy howled, pumping the air with his fist.
Rage gave him a thumbs up. “Ah, truly a devious strategy. Even I am impressed. Perhaps I have misjudged you GSA villains after all.”
Back on the other side of the line, a sweaty and panting Colt tossed back his hair, ran a finger through it, and lit a cigarette with his electricity, taking a long, satisfied drag. “Winner…Team Heel,” he coughed. “Anybody got a change of pants?”
John Henry, dapping his brow, nodded. “Yeah, back in my bag. Wait, where did you pull out that cigarette?”
“Where did you pull out that kazoo?” Colt snapped back.
All in all, the spellbreakers agreed it was an interesting kickoff to the Beach Challenge.
All except for Spike, who could not stand the thought that Rage and his team had shown him. The little blonde beefcake, stewed (like beef stew). “They cheated,” Spike seethered through clenched teeth. He was so angry, in fact, that he single-handedly picked up the empty lifeguard chair and threw it clean across the beach.
“HEY MATE, YOU GOTTA PAY FOR THAT!”
Spike ignored the lifeguard and pointed damningly at Colt. “Okay, first off, you don’t smoke–so I’m gonna tell Buck. Second, you can’t just let them win like that, teach!”
Colt shrugged. “Well, there’s nothing in the rules that says you have to play with your clothes on. I’ll allow it.”
“What, like you know the official world tug of war playb…”
Before Spike could finish, Colt slammed a large textbook into his chest. Spike looked down at the bold faced title. International Tug-of-War Conduct, Fifth Edition. Frustrated, Spike looked up and glared at his coach.
But Colt had said what he’d said. He held up his hand. “Edition FIVE, son.”
There was no sense arguing with his boss, so Spike was content to drop it, shrug off the sting of losing, and focus on the next game. That was, until his boyfriend–and former rival–sauntered over to him with quite possibly the biggest, self-satisfied grin that Spike had ever seen on a human face.
“Seems you have tasted defeat at last,” Rage said, brushing back his beautiful, black hair. “Mmmm, how does it taste, I wonder? I wouldn’t know. Does it taste bad? I bet it tastes bad.”
Spike gave him a Brooklym glare. “We’re not talking,” he said, damningly, before walking away.
Rage’s eyes widened in what might be mistaken for ‘hurt’. “But…my lion!” Then, the heel snapped back into place, trumping the starry eyed romantic. “Hmph. For a so-called-hero, you’re a poor loser. What would your fans say?”
Team Babyface gasped.
Spike’s back straightened. Then, he turned and gave Rage the look-of-death. “DO NOT ATTACK MY FANS, BITCH. You want a fight, Rage? You got one.”
“I…I…thought we were on vacation.”
“Oh, now he wants to relax! You’re so competitive!”
“I am but a dark reflection of your soul, your shadow self. By which I mean NAH NAH NAH, SAME TO YOU, SMELLY!”
Spike gasped. “Smelly? Well, enjoy all these HUNKS alone. I’m gonna get drunk and make out with the first hot Australian I meet.” With that, Spike made a slit-throat motion and began storming off. “Spoilers, THAT’S EVERY AUSTRALIAN MAN.”
Spike’s destination: the beach pub.
Rage, quite literally left in the dust, stood with his jaw slack–and for the first time in his wicked life, he regretted his words. “It is true,” he said aloud. “How can I compete with that? After all, Australian men possess good looks, pleasant dispositions, and a dignified sense of culture.”
Behind him, Deadboy Daemian finished chugging beer out of his own shoe and burped loudly. “WOO! You hear that yous cunts? We’re the FUCKING SHIT!”
Iggy took the shoe, threw back their hair, and did the same. “Mmmm, tastes like foot.” Having watched Spike and Iggy come to blows, the pink-haired rockstar could barely contain their amusement. “Ah, but I think we might have caused some trouble in paradise, my delicious little devil.”
Deadboy laughed, and threw his shoe over his shoulder–just narrowly missing White Tiger by a hair. “Yeah, isn’t it great?”
“No, it’s not.”
Suddenly, the air around Iggy and Daemian grew colder. Both looked over their shoulders to see El Amante, towering above them, his arms crossed over his chest in the typical luchador hero pose. He was not pleased.
El Amante was rarely, ever un-pleased.
“As the Warrior of Love, I cannot abide by villains driving wedges between lover’s hearts.” He looked between both of them. “Also, you tore my pants down without my permission. And though I do enjoy the sight of my own nudity very much–”
“As we all do,” Iggy added, nervously.
“It was still a rudo move.” He stepped forward. “Repair the rift between Rage and Spike. Or else.”
While Iggy Astro and Deadboy Daemian’s relationship was the stuff of legends, nobody could quite figure out how the two–diametric opposites, as they were–had ever managed to work it out. The reasons were actually varied, and surprisingly mundane, but the biggest of them all was ‘respect’.
So it was a surprise to El Amante when his lover challenged him, with a cocky sneer. “Or else what?” Iggy said.
El Amante was taken aback, at first. Then, his lips curled into a smile. “Hmmm. I’ll use you all as practice dummies for my new submission move.” He looked over at Robbie, sitting idly on the icebox in a new change of speedo. “ON ALL OF YOU HEELS.”
Robbie pointed at himself.
“YES, YOU TOO ROBERTO.” The masked man then cracked his neck, and then his knuckles. “I call it…the Guadalajara Goatsucker.”
“Oh shit,” Robbie cried out. “A wrestling move named after a random city and a random animal!? Everyone knows that’s bad news!”
As Robbie freaked out, Gio and Rosa–taking a leisurely stroll on shore, hand-in-hand–stopped to listen in on. Rosa cleared her throat. “Technically the goatsucker–or chupacabra–is a cryptid.” Which is all she said, before moving on.
Author’s note: this satisfies the mandatory female gender quota for this chapter/
Now, all the villains on Team Badboy, Akanemaru included, were somehow trapped beneath the shadow of El Amante, whose wrestling moves were both legendary and feared.
“Hehehe. I expect it to be a move so heinous that it will be banned on live television. IT WILL MAKE SEX LOOK LIKE A CHURCH!” The hero coughed into his hand, demuring. “Anyways, you have been warned. Fix the heartbreak, chicos. Or your goats get SUCKED.” And with that, he walked off to try and console Rage, who had–in turn–wandered on after Spike.
As soon as he was out of ear shot, Robbie–in a panic–clutched the side of his face and addressed his terrified accomplices. “Not our goats, bro!”
It seemed that Iggy and Deadboy had finally met their comeuppance, and now it was going to cost everybody their limbs (maybe).
Akanemaru was the first to break the dread silence. “Well, that was weird. But hey guys, I got a freakin’ POINT! That’s one more step closer to motorcycle town, baby.”
But the only thing Team Heel could do was stare at their feet and quietly disband, leaving Akanemaru alone and confused with just the seagulls to keep him company.
“Uh…guys? What, aren’t you happy for me? YOU GUYS ARE LAME!”
To Be Continued
