BUTCH AMERICAN vs. RUSSIAN BEAR
Part 3 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.)
The truckers let out such a loud din of excitement at this turn of events, Tyrell included, that the Russian had to wait several minutes for the noise to finally die down so that he could respond to Butch’s challenge.
Vlad smiled broadly, basking in the moment, realizing that this was the opponent he was craving so badly for such a long, long time. He threw back his head and practically sang, “OH, FUCK YEAH, AMERICAN!! I WILL HAMMER AND SICKLE YOUR SOFT AMERICAN ASS INTO THE GROUND. HERE, I BET ALL MY WINNINGS BEATING SOFT TYRELL ARM WRESTLING. ONLY I WILL HAVE JUST AS EASY A TIME BEATING THE CRAP OUT OF YOU WITH MY HUGE RUSSIAN FISTS. YES, WE FIGHT!”
After another explosion of cheers died down, Carla said, “But it’ll be dark up in that old, abandoned barn.” Murray practically vaulted over to her. “Carla, get those kerosene lamps we used last year during the blackout. Carla nodded excitedly at this resourceful idea and raced into the back room.
Butch and Vlad put on a show for the salivating spectators as they manfully stepped forward to size each other up. They stood nose to nose letting the crowd admire their commanding physiques. Butch’s brown eyes looked deep into Vlad’s black eyes. Was there a look of crazy-madness in them, or did this guy just really like to fight? Well, Butch decided he must be just as crazy-mad as the Russian cause man he couldn’t wait to fight this fucker.
Butch suddenly became aware that Vlad was taking frequent glances at his two facial scars, the jagged one above his eyebrow and the long one running down his right cheek and also at the deep cleft in his square shaped chin. A hint of a smile appeared on the Russian’s face. He began tugging at his torn, dirty tank top.
Butch glared back angrily at the Russian. He thought to himself, “Goddamn, this bastard’s an impudent muthafucker!
“Shit, this middle-aged son of a bitch wants to FUCK ME.”
Carla emerged with four kerosene lamps and Murray began lighting them. She said, “Won’t it still be awful cold up there?”
Vlad, his eyes never leaving Butch’s said, “I HAVE LIVED IN SIBERIA BEFORE EMIGRATING HERE. FOR ME IT WILL BE A PICNIC.”
Butch not to be topped by this guy’s infinite bullshit said, “DON’T WORRY, WE’LL WARM EACH OTHER UP SOON ENOUGH. THE REST OF YOU WILL BE FEELING OUR HEAT TOO.”
At that everyone cheered again. The two opponents received hearty slaps on their broad backs as they continued to relish staring each other down.
Murray said, “I might get into a world of trouble for closing up the joint on a night like this, but FUCK IT, I AIN’T MISSIN THIS ONCE IN A LIFETIME FIGHT.” Murray and Carla very quickly started shutting everything down in the diner before everyone began the short trek up to the barn.
The truckers and Carla and Murray put on their coats. Butch and Vlad, refusing to cover up, gathered theirs and marched out of the diner side by side, the truckers forming a procession behind the focused fighters. Collectively, they left the diner and walked up the ridge through the snow to the barn. Murray stopped long enough to turn out the lights of the overhead sign of the diner and locked the door. Carla raced ahead with the lanterns. Fortunately, the snow wasn’t so deep that they couldn’t maneuver their way up to the barn entrance. The vast area beyond the barn was a flat, barren field as far as the eye could see. The falling snow turned everything into a white blanket.
The rusted lock had already been broken off by somebody long before. It lay useless on the ground just inside the double doors of the barn which were easily swung all the way open. Everyone once inside, the doors were quickly closed behind them. The lamps were spaced around providing just enough adequate light to see by. Unfortunately, what could be seen was wall to wall dirt, mold, rotting wood, an endless array of sticky spider webs and, mixed in with the dirt, what must have been a vast quantity of old, hardened horse shit covering the entire floor of the barn. Even more ancient shit and rotten straw took up space in the unoccupied stalls. The stench was overpowering. A large hole in the roof allowed snow to come drifting down.
Murray said, “Damn, this is even worse than I thought it would be. And it’s just as cold inside as outside.” Carla said, “But they can’t fight in the diner, there’s just not enough room.” Everyone turned to the fighters knowing, ultimately, it was up to them.
Both fighters had hardly bothered to take a look at their surroundings, they had remained so stoically fixated on each other. Giving every indication that the fight was indeed very much on, even in these drastically less than ideal conditions, everyone started finding “safe” places to stand or squat and wait to see what was sure to be one helluva spectacle. The spectators pulled their coats and scarves tightly against their faces and bodies and tried not to breathe the putrid air in too deeply.
One of the truckers tried to brace one of the double doors so that it would remain ajar. Another trucker complained, “But it’ll be too cold.” The trucker responded, “But at least it won’t fuckin stink so damn much. Jesus, who knows how many wild animals have paraded in and out of here just to take a shit and urinate?” Another trucker said, “What about rats? There’s got to be a million rats in here.” Carla whined, “Oh, PUH-LEEZE don’t say that.”
The Russian broke in tauntingly, “DON’T WORRY, SOFT PEOPLE. RATS ARE AFRAID OF VLAD.”
Tyrell pointed upwards at one of the cross beams. “CHRIST, IS THAT AN OWL UP THERE?”
Murray said, “SHIT, I CAN BARELY MAKE IT OUT IN THE DARK, BUT YEAH, I CAN SEE THEM GLOWING EYES. FUCK, YEAH, IT’S A GODDAMN OWL LOOKIN RIGHT DOWN ON US!”
Vlad said, “SO LET THE FUCKIN OWL LOOK. HE’S JUST ANOTHER FUCKIN SPECTATOR JUST LIKE YOU. WHO GIVES A SHIT?”
Butch, after spitting on the ground as if he were marking his territory, said impatiently, “FUCK! LET’S FUCKIN DO THIS ALREADY!”
Butch wanted a fight so damn badly this night and now he was not only getting into a fight - but with an opponent he hated and found challenging in equal measure. Fuck the rotting wood – no doubt containing splinters and loose nails – spider webs, rats, shit, filthy straw and the god-awful fucking stink of everything. Yeah, this was the best thing that could’ve happened to him. He didn’t want to change a single thing.
Carla had taken into her care his and Vlad’s coats. Vlad ripped off what remained of his torn tank top and was taking off his boots. Butch peeled off his t-shirt and smugly cast it aside pretending not to notice it had landed in muck. What happened next though, raised his eyebrows and dropped his jaw. Vlad was in the process of shedding his jeans. Vlad noticed Butch’s shocked expression and said, “WHAT’S THE MATTER? JEANS ARE TOO FUCKING TIGHT TO FIGHT IN.”
tuffchap (1)
4/13/2021 8:34 PMBUTCH AMERICAN vs. RUSSIAN BEAR
Part 3 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.)
The truckers let out such a loud din of excitement at this turn of events, Tyrell included, that the Russian had to wait several minutes for the noise to finally die down so that he could respond to Butch’s challenge.
Vlad smiled broadly, basking in the moment, realizing that this was the opponent he was craving so badly for such a long, long time. He threw back his head and practically sang, “OH, FUCK YEAH, AMERICAN!! I WILL HAMMER AND SICKLE YOUR SOFT AMERICAN ASS INTO THE GROUND. HERE, I BET ALL MY WINNINGS BEATING SOFT TYRELL ARM WRESTLING. ONLY I WILL HAVE JUST AS EASY A TIME BEATING THE CRAP OUT OF YOU WITH MY HUGE RUSSIAN FISTS. YES, WE FIGHT!”
After another explosion of cheers died down, Carla said, “But it’ll be dark up in that old, abandoned barn.” Murray practically vaulted over to her. “Carla, get those kerosene lamps we used last year during the blackout. Carla nodded excitedly at this resourceful idea and raced into the back room.
Butch and Vlad put on a show for the salivating spectators as they manfully stepped forward to size each other up. They stood nose to nose letting the crowd admire their commanding physiques. Butch’s brown eyes looked deep into Vlad’s black eyes. Was there a look of crazy-madness in them, or did this guy just really like to fight? Well, Butch decided he must be just as crazy-mad as the Russian cause man he couldn’t wait to fight this fucker.
Butch suddenly became aware that Vlad was taking frequent glances at his two facial scars, the jagged one above his eyebrow and the long one running down his right cheek and also at the deep cleft in his square shaped chin. A hint of a smile appeared on the Russian’s face. He began tugging at his torn, dirty tank top.
Butch glared back angrily at the Russian. He thought to himself, “Goddamn, this bastard’s an impudent muthafucker!
“Shit, this middle-aged son of a bitch wants to FUCK ME.”
Carla emerged with four kerosene lamps and Murray began lighting them. She said, “Won’t it still be awful cold up there?”
Vlad, his eyes never leaving Butch’s said, “I HAVE LIVED IN SIBERIA BEFORE EMIGRATING HERE. FOR ME IT WILL BE A PICNIC.”
Butch not to be topped by this guy’s infinite bullshit said, “DON’T WORRY, WE’LL WARM EACH OTHER UP SOON ENOUGH. THE REST OF YOU WILL BE FEELING OUR HEAT TOO.”
At that everyone cheered again. The two opponents received hearty slaps on their broad backs as they continued to relish staring each other down.
Murray said, “I might get into a world of trouble for closing up the joint on a night like this, but FUCK IT, I AIN’T MISSIN THIS ONCE IN A LIFETIME FIGHT.” Murray and Carla very quickly started shutting everything down in the diner before everyone began the short trek up to the barn.
The truckers and Carla and Murray put on their coats. Butch and Vlad, refusing to cover up, gathered theirs and marched out of the diner side by side, the truckers forming a procession behind the focused fighters. Collectively, they left the diner and walked up the ridge through the snow to the barn. Murray stopped long enough to turn out the lights of the overhead sign of the diner and locked the door. Carla raced ahead with the lanterns. Fortunately, the snow wasn’t so deep that they couldn’t maneuver their way up to the barn entrance. The vast area beyond the barn was a flat, barren field as far as the eye could see. The falling snow turned everything into a white blanket.
The rusted lock had already been broken off by somebody long before. It lay useless on the ground just inside the double doors of the barn which were easily swung all the way open. Everyone once inside, the doors were quickly closed behind them. The lamps were spaced around providing just enough adequate light to see by. Unfortunately, what could be seen was wall to wall dirt, mold, rotting wood, an endless array of sticky spider webs and, mixed in with the dirt, what must have been a vast quantity of old, hardened horse shit covering the entire floor of the barn. Even more ancient shit and rotten straw took up space in the unoccupied stalls. The stench was overpowering. A large hole in the roof allowed snow to come drifting down.
Murray said, “Damn, this is even worse than I thought it would be. And it’s just as cold inside as outside.” Carla said, “But they can’t fight in the diner, there’s just not enough room.” Everyone turned to the fighters knowing, ultimately, it was up to them.
Both fighters had hardly bothered to take a look at their surroundings, they had remained so stoically fixated on each other. Giving every indication that the fight was indeed very much on, even in these drastically less than ideal conditions, everyone started finding “safe” places to stand or squat and wait to see what was sure to be one helluva spectacle. The spectators pulled their coats and scarves tightly against their faces and bodies and tried not to breathe the putrid air in too deeply.
One of the truckers tried to brace one of the double doors so that it would remain ajar. Another trucker complained, “But it’ll be too cold.” The trucker responded, “But at least it won’t fuckin stink so damn much. Jesus, who knows how many wild animals have paraded in and out of here just to take a shit and urinate?” Another trucker said, “What about rats? There’s got to be a million rats in here.” Carla whined, “Oh, PUH-LEEZE don’t say that.”
The Russian broke in tauntingly, “DON’T WORRY, SOFT PEOPLE. RATS ARE AFRAID OF VLAD.”
Tyrell pointed upwards at one of the cross beams. “CHRIST, IS THAT AN OWL UP THERE?”
Murray said, “SHIT, I CAN BARELY MAKE IT OUT IN THE DARK, BUT YEAH, I CAN SEE THEM GLOWING EYES. FUCK, YEAH, IT’S A GODDAMN OWL LOOKIN RIGHT DOWN ON US!”
Vlad said, “SO LET THE FUCKIN OWL LOOK. HE’S JUST ANOTHER FUCKIN SPECTATOR JUST LIKE YOU. WHO GIVES A SHIT?”
Butch, after spitting on the ground as if he were marking his territory, said impatiently, “FUCK! LET’S FUCKIN DO THIS ALREADY!”
Butch wanted a fight so damn badly this night and now he was not only getting into a fight - but with an opponent he hated and found challenging in equal measure. Fuck the rotting wood – no doubt containing splinters and loose nails – spider webs, rats, shit, filthy straw and the god-awful fucking stink of everything. Yeah, this was the best thing that could’ve happened to him. He didn’t want to change a single thing.
Carla had taken into her care his and Vlad’s coats. Vlad ripped off what remained of his torn tank top and was taking off his boots. Butch peeled off his t-shirt and smugly cast it aside pretending not to notice it had landed in muck. What happened next though, raised his eyebrows and dropped his jaw. Vlad was in the process of shedding his jeans. Vlad noticed Butch’s shocked expression and said, “WHAT’S THE MATTER? JEANS ARE TOO FUCKING TIGHT TO FIGHT IN.”