Ms. C: This is Ms. Clara--Your Lady of the Loud--the Mistress of Ceremonies--here backstage at the Atlas Arena in Upper Manhattan, about to interview our newest contender...Red Hot Johnny Hot Rod!
The muscular man strutted, confident and cocky, from behind the velvet curtain. Ms. Clara raised an eyebrow. The spellbreaker's outfit was nearly blinding; a dazzling, ruby-red, besequinned vest. A matching bowtie clung to the oversexed--and over tanned--spellbreaker's meaty neck, and his bright, red briefs hung on for dear life as he gyrated and swayed his hips in poor Ms. Clara's direction. The curly haired hunk, with muscles oiled beyond necessary, posed with his hands on his hips and gave Ms. Clara, dressed in her signature pink, faux-fur coat, a bleached-white grin.
Hot Rod: Hey there muh honey, how's tricks?
Ms. C: The name's Ms. Clara, and I am not your honey!
Hot Rod: Aw shucks, pretty mama, don't be so uptight like that, I'm just here to have a gooooood tiiiime!
Rodney swivelled and gyrated his hips yet again, much to the poor commentator and interviewer's disgust. Still, Ms. Clara was the consummate professional. She'd dealt with creeps worse than this.
Ms. C: Now, Johnny, you've been making a big name for yourself recently with your victory over Rai the Radiant from Okami spellbreaking in Japan.
Hot Rod: That's right! He showed me his big dragon, and well, The Rod showed him his! And it was much bigger! Turns out, that prissy boy from the Land of the Rising Sun couldn't stand the heat, so he had to get outta' my kitchen. I celebrated my stunning success by purchasing me a sweet--and sexyyyyy--little sports car that you'll be seeing tonight in my entrance. So all the pretty ones, look out for Johnny's ride. *blows kiss at camera*
Ms. C: Wow, the confidence, folks! Do you think you'll be able to carry that confidence into your match with Vahni Rage today? This is a man who not only dismantles opponents, but brands them with his cursemark. You don't seem intimidated!
Hot Rod: Well, that's because nothing--NOTHING--intimidates 'Red Hot' Johnny Hot Rod! *points to camera* Vahni Rage! You may think YOU'RE the big, swingin' dick around here, but there's only Rod bigger and badder than you. And that's me, baby!
Ms. C: It's notable that you're both fire magick wielders too!
Hot Rod: That's right! I'm so stupid hot, that I could burn up that muscle freak in an instant! Come on, Ms. C, touch Johnny's pecs. Feel the burn!
Ms. C: I'll...respectfully decline. Anything else you want to say before you go out there?
Hot Rod: Vahni, you think your chest is big? I'm gonna hypnotize you with these knockers here. And then I'm gonna knock you flat on your ass! Time these folks realize whose the hottest fire spellbreaker in the biz! You call yourself the god of the flames? HAH! Get ready to get on your knees and worship at the red hot altar, baby-cakes!
Rodney thrusted his hips out like a two-bit stripper, giving the camera the eye as he did. All the while, Ms. Clara looked at him sideways until he vanished from view, the camera fading to black, ready to transition to the action in the auditorium...
Production had cranked up the air conditioning units extra high tonight, in anticipation of two fire glyph wielders going at it in the ring. The sprinkler systems were checked. Fire extinguishers maintained. And even Upper Manhattan's helicopter-serviced fire brigade had been placed on standby, just in case the fight got too hot for comfort!
And what a hot fight it would be. Hailing from the Russian Empire's fed, Firebird, Vahni Rage was already clean-sweeping the circuits, putting men in their place and leaving behind a literal mark--his 'humility' brand, scarred in eternal agony on his opponents/victim's foreheads, marking them forever defeated by the wrathful, fire god. Though Rage made no attempts at hiding his villainy, he had gotten over with the fans early on for his brutal fighting prowess and his handsome figure. A man of few words, and rarely trifled with, Rage concealed a dignified and aloof aura.
In fact, upon crossing paths with Ms. Clara in the backstage, the celebrated announcer experienced Rage's softer side (if you could even call it that). Of course, the buxom beauty with the red lips and gorgeous ebony complexion feared no man, having interviewed many a muscle monster in her time. Despite her lack of magick, there was a fierceness about Ms. Clara, and she wore the respect she'd accrued over the years like a shield. She was inviolate.
So, when Vahni sauntered by, dressed in his burgundy turtleneck, expensive suit, and flashing his gold Rolex, she didn't even flinch when the vicious fighter looked her way. The only surprise came from when he introduced himself. He took her gently by the hand and gave the back of it a respectful kiss.
Oh no, I better not tell Boomer about this!
"Ms. Clara," he said in his deep, velvety voice. "I hoped to pay respects to someone worthy of announcing the great Rage. And I want to let you know that I found this...Hot Rodney, or whatever his name is, to be lacking in in gentlemanly conduct with that interview."
The commentator and spellbreaking interviewer, known for her brash zingers and quick comebacks, was caught off guard. "Oh! Well, Mr. Rage, I honestly didn't expect such...chivalry!" Even a few inches away, the heat radiating off his body was notable. Ms. Clara started feeling quite hot under her coat.
The fighter raised his head. "Do not misconstrue me, Ms. Clara. Any man or woman who challenges me shall be struck down and humbled all the same. Yet, I hold a very strong contempt for those who demean and disrespect women. Especially women who work hard, such as yourself. I believe this Johnny Hot Rod is in wont of some...humility." As Rage turned to walk away, leaving Ms. Clara perplexed, he leered back at her. "I expect your high class commentary, as always. Do take special care to highlight my greatness for those unlucky dregs who can only watch from their television sets at home."
Ms. Clara gulped, but as soon as Vahni Rage had gone into his private dressing room (she could only imagine the demands on his rider for that one!) she smiled, thrilled. This is why I love this sport, she though gleefully. Spellbreakers are such multi-faceted creatures! Quickly noting her watch, Ms. Clara rushed to the production staff to get ready for the big fight.
Dazzling lights swept over the crowded arena. The ref, wearing flame-retardant gear designed specifically for this match, stood in the center of Atlas Arena's ring. Next to him, the announcer boomed out the fight rules and spellbreaker stats. It was all formality--everyone in the audience was acutely aware of the title fighter's heights and weights. Johnny Hot Rod, hunky. Vahni Rage, beefy. Both were relatively same heights too.
BUT! Midway through the tuxedo-sporting announcer's diatribe, the obnoxiously loud sound of a revved up engine rudely cut off the cordial master of ceremonies, forcing all eyes towards the entrance archway at the helm of the stadium. Production and staff members scrambled out of the way, and milk crates and mic stands went flying, as the cherry-red sportscar bulldozed its way into the aisle. Loud jazz music blared from its souped-up stereos. Behind the wheel of the ride, clad in expensive sun shades, Johnny Hot Rod flashed his fans his prize-winning grin, flexing for all his many admirers. He slammed his hand on the horn, blaring out the first few notes of 'La Cucaracha'.
Though Ms. Clara had a heart for production's safety, she couldn't deny the raw entertainment value. Ha! I live for this ridiculous shit. "Ladies and gents, I think we are in for one HELL of a night. Red Hot Johnny Hot Rod has just come in hot and rammed his rod straight into our TV sets--and you better be wearing protection for THAT!
Johnny hopped from the velvet-upholstered driver's set onto the roof of his car, using the hood as his personal stripper stage. He gyrated his hips rudely for all the audience to admire. A throng of blonde, well-breasted women broke free of security and charged The Rod, swarming him in a violent cloud of perfume and hairspray.
"That's right, ladies," Johnny growled lustfully at this groupies. "Touch Johnny's chest. Touch Johnny's EVERYTHING! Hahaha! I am one fiiiiiine specimen."
Back at her desk, Ms. Clara rolled her eyes, while security wrangled Johnny's bimbo brigade and drove them back to their pens. "Folks, we might be here awhile. The Hot Rod likes to interact with the audience. A lot. Oh come on, Rodney, don't do that--kids are watching!"
Covered in lipstick marks, Johnny Hot Rod whistled for the crowd, flexing his bulging biceps--wrapped, like two Christmas hams, in red arm bands. He commenced his goofy strut towards the announcer's table.
But Ms. Clara made an "X" with her two fingers. "No. Back, white devil."
"Why you gotta do me like that again, babe?" Johnny Hot Rod fake-pouted, before he thumbed his nose at everyone's favorite commentator. The oversexed spellbreaker slid through the ropes like an exotic dancer gliding across stage, and then proceeded to hump the air a few times for good measure, letting the audience get their fill of his bubble butt.
"Folks, rarely do I ever root for the heel," Ms. Clara said, yawning, "but I'm willing to make an exception just this once. Johnny Hot Rod, stop thrusting at the ref!"
Hot Rod was content to ham it up in the ring, slowly peeling off his sparkling vest to let the audience gawk at the masterpiece that was him, before using it to 'floss' between his meaty thighs. After spinning the gaudy garment around his head like a helicopter, he tossed it to the nearest, prettiest girl in the audience. She caught it and promptly fainted. Johnny Hot Rod blew a heart-shaped flame her way.
At last, the lights in the arena dimmed, stealing Hot Rod's lustre. Vahni Rage's fiery entrance music boomed over the speakers. Hot Rod sulked as the crowd popped for the villain, his glory robbed by this aggressive boor taking his time walking down the ramp as if he had no care in the world. No style. No substance. No moves. Just a giant, muscular man in a tight, white, tee that looked dangerously close to ripping right off him should he flex.
Still, Ms. Clara couldn't help direct her eyes towards what was 'beneath' his shirt, perfectly contrasted against Rage's darker skin tone. The tee only accentuated his bulging trunks, red with gold flame trim. Rage looked confident, cocky, mean, sexy as hell--the usual. His blank stare, directed towards Jonny, wasn't explosive but ice cold. Rage sniffed the air, like a great beast huffing before fighting for territory, and rubbed the sweat from his nose.
A heel like Rage didn't need to grandstand to get his message across. He leered at the audience, these peons not fit to polish his boots. He even took his time stepping through the ropes, making sure this Johnny fellow stewed in anticipation of what he'd do once he got into the ring.
Rage summoned the ref with a two-finger wave, not even giving him the dignity of eye-contact. Besides, his venomous stare was reserved for Johnny only. Rage glared at him while the pasty, weaselly ref pat him down.
Johnny snorted. Enough with this preening, long-haired prick! He took up the microphone and cooed at his female admirers. "You ready to see the Hot Rod in action, gorgeous ladies?"
The female audience members squealed with delight. The men--even the gay and bi ones--booed. Rage did not roll his eyes or otherwise react. He was like a shark. Dead-eyed...or so Ms. Clara intoned over the mic.
That's when Johnny flinched, the first threads of doubt creeping in. He shook off the momentarily lapse in confidence, replacing it with raw bravado. He leaned in towards his opponent.
"What's wrong Ragey?" He smirked at his tall, broad-shouldered rival, and flexed his pecs, bouncing them up and down to intimidate the larger man. "These bodacious pecs too hypnotic for you?"
Rage lowered his stare, grit his teeth, and then clutched the center of shirt--his forearms flexing, veins bulging out.
"RAAHHHR!"
With a flash, his shirt caught flame. Vahni ripped the fabric across his chest, his pectoral muscles protruding through the flash-fire. Glistening with sweat, Rage grinned down at his round chest and flexed them with perfect muscle isolation, bouncing each one to its own rhythm. Compared to Rage's tits, Johnny's were nothing but mosquito bites.
Rage looked at up at the preening, red peacock and smiled. "What's wrong, Roddie? You look as if you want to touch them." He pressed his index finger in the crevasse between his pecs, which nearly swallowed his digit. "Perhaps your face right here?"
"It's Johnny!" Hot Rod snarled, finally losing his cool. Smoke, literal smoke, billowed from his ears. His tan skin turned a ruddy red, his glyph activating.
Rage met his challenge and his grin abated. "It's not going to be ANYTHING when I am done with you!"
The bell rang. Johnny didn't waste a second. He needed to tear into this loser, hard and fast! And Johnny Hot Rod is alllll about hard AND fast, he thought confidently, smashing his super-heated fists into that roided up Rage's big chest, pounding away like it was a speedbag.
"That's. Not. HOW. NAMES. WORK!"
Tired, his knuckles steaming and sore, Johnny surveyed the damage. Rage grinned back at him, looked down at his unblemished chest muscles, and bounced them again...just to prove the sequined sissy hadn't made a dent.
"UHHH..." Johnny started, taking a step back. "Uh-"
He didn't get a chance to finish. Rage caught him by the throat at once and pulled him onto his feet with one hand, holding up in mid-air. The crowd gasped! Even Ms. Clara spat out her water.
Johnny's hands went to Rage's iron-claw grip around his trachea. His legs kicked out in panic, the world growing dimmer and darker, both blood and air cut off.
"My favorite part," Rage said softly, staring into Johnny Hot Rod's watering eyes. "The sudden shift in your eyes from arrogance to fear. Like the flames growing ever higher; the pig on the spit beginning to seer." He cocked his head to the side, loosening his grip. It would be no fun just to choke him out, though it certainly would be easy. No. He wanted to send a message. This dog in heat needed neutering.
"What's wrong, piggy? Where is this fire power of yours?" He looked down at Johnny's bulge. "Is it...here?"
Rage's other hand shot out to Johnny's crotch, gripping it tightly. He blinked. Then, Rage smiled. "Oh, what do we have here?"
He let Johnny fall to the mat. The preening stud gasped and flopped around like a fish, his hands grasping at his sore neck. The camera man zoomed in at the big red hand prints around Hot Rod's throat.
Rage reached down into Johnny's snug little briefs and pulled his hand back before the move looked too risqué. A crumpled, white sports sock rested in Rage's hand. He laughed and held it up to the audience to get a good look.
"Looks like the Rod is stuffer!" Rage boomed, eliciting whoops and hollers from the crowd.
"Give...that...back," Johnny gasped weakly.
Rage grinned and the sock went up in flames and cinders. The bigger fighter thrust the ashy remains right into Johnny's face, blinding him. "Okay!"
"GAH!" Johnny reeled back, eyes and face burning, the scent of charred sweat and cotton making him gag, sputter.
Rage took the opportunity to kick him right in the chest with his shiny red wrestling boot, and enjoyed watching the spittle fly out from Johnny's mouth. Then, he took aim at the ribs, giving the man a another blow.
Wait for it. Wait for it...
"Hey!" the ref started, before one look from Rage sent him cowering back to his corner.
Now! Rage went for the gut. Johnny Hot Rod made a sound midway between a yelp and a gag, before rolling onto his back. Just where Rage wanted him. He scooped up the mans legs, then pulled them apart in a mid-air spread eagle.
The fiery spell breaker looked down and cocked his head to the side. "Hmm. Looks pretty small to me."
It was only then that Johnny realized what was about to happen. "N-no, not that! Not my--"
WHAM! Rage's boot STOMPED down right between Johnny Hot Rod's legs.
The so-called Casanova squealed, high pitched, clutching his nuts in agony. "AAAAAAAAAAAAAEEEEE!!!!"
"Not much of a man to begin with," Rage spat. He had Johnny where he wanted him. The man wasn't his opponent, or even his victim, so much as he was his toy now. A toy fit to be broken.
Rage grabbed Johnny's legs, making sure to seer his palm print into his flesh as he did, adding onto the brutal punishment. He yanked the squealing, sputtering mess onto his belly, then tucked either of his legs beneath his arm pit.
"Hehehe." Rage laughed. "My favorite. Boiled crab."
Slowly, and sadistically, Rage bent backwards, putting strain on Johnny's spine while his vertebrae curled painfully again each other. It felt like his lower back was about to pop right out from his skin and shatter into pieces on the mat.
Johnny howled, his hands flailing in agony. The ref went down to his knees. "Whaddy'a say, Johnny? You give!"
"N-no," Johnny Hot Rod cried out. Streaks of tears ran down his reddening face. He had never been wrenched and strained this way before. His tendons screamed to for release, every cell in his body begging him to give up--if Rage would even allow it.
Still, Johnny Hot Rod was, if anything, tenacious. "N-n-o way. The Rod never bends!"
"You look like you're bending pretty good to me," Rage snorted. But this was amateur hour. He had other delights in mind for this idiot. "Here. Here. Relax."
Rage switched sides faster than Johnny Hot Rod could crawl away. He brought his weight down on his back, giving the Rod's spine just a little more love, before propping the underside of Johnny's arms onto his knees. Then, he wrapped his hands around Johnny's chin, pulling it up into a slow, gruelling camel clutch.
Johnny's face contorted with pain as a new part of his back felt ready to split. He grunted, the ref going to his side and asking--no, imploring him--to give!
Ms. Clara at ringside was certainly no sadist, but she wasn't too sad seeing a creep like Johnny get the clutch. "Wow, I haven't seen a camel clutch like that since Colt the Bolt popped The Serpent's spine and hog-tied him! Guess he's decided to bend the rod while it's still warm!
"You think you're hot?" Rage whispered into his struggling opponent's ear. "You do not know the intensity of my all-consuming heat. Now, here is an old torture technique, perfect to silence such a rude tongue."
Rage, already grip-clawing the spellbreaker's poor face so tight that he'd begun to draw blood, took it one step further and hooked his fingers into Johnny's mouth too. Rage let intense heat travel into his fingers, heating them, transforming them into searing hot instruments of pain that burnt the fleshy, soft parts of Johnny's mouth, lips, and tongue.
"GAWWWWWW!" Johnny choked, his saliva and flesh sizzling.
"Brutal!" Ms. Clara shouted from the mic. "That's one flamin' fish hook!" Really, though, this was starting to turn her stomach!
"Ahhhh...." Rage said, leaning back even further. He smiled, as if he'd walked out onto a warm summer's day, and not the blistering inferno Hot Rod was trying to conjure. "Thank you for fuelling my flames. Such warmth! But what is the flicker of a mere candle IN FACE OF THE MIGHTY SUN!"
It hadn't worked. Rage had only absorbed the heat. In fact, if one looked closer, they would have seen his muscles bulge ever slightly, and sweat coat his body like precious anointing oil. Rage's eyes turned ruby red, and he smiled with the grin of a beast from Hell.
Ms. Clara drew back, whistling at the almost ethereal shift. "Is Rage going to finish Johnny off with one of his sick, nasty, twisted finishers! Golly, I hope so!" Goddess knows he deserves a bit of humble pie anyway...
"No!" Rage answered her, slamming Johnny Hot Rod's face into the mat. He yanked Johnny's head up and repeated it, ad nauseum, only stopping once he noticed blood on the blue canvas.
"Impotent fools do not deserve such honorable defeats," Rage growled.
Dazed, bloody, and bruised, Johnny's eyes rolled around, trying to lock onto the ref. At this point, he couldn't even utter a submission if he wanted. Instead, the ref realized Johnny's predicament, shook his head and motioned for the bell master to call it. The bell rang. The announcer proclaimed Rage's victory. But even the ref knew better than to try and and tear a wild animal away from its meal.
Breathing heavily, and dripping sweat and perspiration onto the twitching, dazed Johnny on the mat, Rage reared his head back and roared, tongues of fire sprouting from his body. His eyes glowed like coals in a fire. Golden flames wrapped around him, cloaking him in an infernal mantel. The audience covered their eyes, turning away. Like the gods of yore, looking upon his superior form would only bring pain and blindness. None present were worthy.
Least of all, this pitiful husk lying at Rage's feat. Johnny's hands trembled towards Rage's boots to implore mercy.
The heel merely stamped down on his knuckles, knocking the jobber's hand away. "You stared at the sun too long, worthless Rod."
He leaned over and pulled Johnny's face towards him.
"Look. At. Me."
Johnny's eyes fluttered. Fear prevented him from heeding his master's command.
Rage spat into his face. "Look at me, WORM."
Whimpering, the emasculated Johnny Hot Rod did just that. "Y...es?"
"You are NOTHING. Do you understand? What are you?"
"N-nothing, sir! Please stop hurting me! I'm too handsome for this!"
"Ha! Not for long..." Rage wrapped his hands around Johnny's back and brought him in close, right into the center of his massive pectorals. "Now, you shall be smothered! Consider this a mercy!"
At ringside, Ms. Clara piped up. "The ref has rung the bell, BUT RAGE IS STILL GOIN'! I...I hate to admit it folks, but I'm a bit jealous of the position Johnny is in."
Already weakened, Johnny flailed his arms, desperately trying to get away. "Mmmmfmffff!" He moaned pathetically into the muscular man's chest. Oxygen slipped away. His vision tunnelled and the world grew darker.
The bell rang again, and even the ref tried to pull Johnny out of his humiliating predicament. It was no use. Johnny's arms went slack. Yet, Rage held the limp man against his chest. He even gripped it tighter, forcing his head in, threatening to break his face against his body if it came down to it.
"Every time you ring that damn bell," Rage roared, "I hold him closer. Do you want him to die like a worm? Let me have my fun, scum!"
The bell stopped. Rage grinned. He retracted his hands--innocently--and let Johnny drop to the ground, drooling onto the canvas. Rage held his hands out to the corners of the room, motioning for all present to look upon him.
"You will ALL worship me." He kicked the unconscious Johnny at his feet, right in the gut.
Spittle and drool pouring from his puffy mouth. Johnny groaned, forced back into a painful reality. He looked up, in fear and resignation, at the massive man towering above him. His judge. His torturer. His god.
"Least of all, YOU. On your knees. Now."
Shivering, and trying not to break out into a fitful of sobs from the pain and humiliation, Johnny got to his feet. He looked upon Rage with new eyes. His ego shattered, his machismo buried, Johnny Hot Rod's mind was re-wired. Perhaps the intoxicating scent of Rage, combined with the loss of brain cells, had turned him into pliable servant.
Johnny reached his hand out to Rage's chest. Indeed, it was far bigger than his. He was muscular beyond mortal ken. A god. Glistening, like polished copper. Johnny looked up hungrily at his new master.
In a moment of mercy, Rage looked down and nodded. "You may."
It was all Johnny could want. He touched Rage's chest and instantly went hard. Nothing else mattered.
"Lick it," Rage ordered.
"Oh yes, sir," Johnny said, blessed. He closed his eyes and tongued Rage's pec, long and slow. "Your sweat tastes so good."
Rage grunted. Pathetic. "The other one. Now. Good boy."
"Y-yes," Johnny said eagerly. He couldn't even hear the disgusted sounds from the audience, or the anguished wails of his female admirers. They didn't matter. Only pleasing his new master mattered. "I worship you, sir. I worship you. Please let me suck your nips."
Rage yanked his head back. "Do you think you're worthy enough?" Rage yelled. He spat right into Johnny's face, watching the wad of drool slide down as his little slaveboy averted his eyes.
"I am not worthy, sir. No. Please. I am at your mercy."
"You are," Rage growled softly. His upper pectorals flexed themselves in front of Johnny's red, bruised, and bloodied face. "Put them in your mouth. Be my servant."
Johnny could have wept for joy. Lustfully, he suckled at Rage's large, round nipple with the hunger of a newborn.
"You WILL worship me, nameless one," Rage said, pulling Johnny's hair. "And you will never STOP."
Tired of giving his broken toy what he wanted. the vicious heel pushed Johnny's head back. To some, it looked like he was ready to sacrifice him, slide the knife along his throat and bleed him out on the canvas. The reality was only slightly more merciful.
Taking in a fistful of Johnny's curly, black hair, Rage brought him close. He held his index finger up to his eyes, making sure that Johnny watched it glow bright red.
"I mark you, Johnny Hot Rod," Rage said, enjoying the sight of a broken man on his knees, head only inches away from Rage's manhood, as he prepared to mark him. "I mark you with my brand of humility."
Johnny's eyes watered, but even he knew it was foolish to try and tear himself away now. "N-n-no sir. Not my face! Not my gorgeous face!"
This was what Rage cherished most of all. The sadism was sweet. He drank it in, looking out into the horrified audience. "All shall look upon this pathetic waste and KNOW he has been beaten by the superior man."
The blade fell. Rage pressed the tip of his finger into Johnny's forehead, watching flesh seared--abandoned of the mercy of soma. Rage weaved his dark curse into Johnny's flesh.
"WEEP!" Rage said, making the "V" on Johnny's smoking brow.
"Noooooooo!" Johnny cried out, in horror and in pain. "AGHHH!"
The deed was done. The shame engraved. A charred, scabbed "V" ran just above Johnny's nose. No healing magicks, no enchantments, could ever lift it. Only upon Rage's death, or his mercy, would the spell lift--and neither of those two things was likely to occur. Johnny would be marked forever. All would stare upon him and shudder, knowing what had been taken from him, and who had done the taking.
"Now stand, worm, and show them your shame!"
Johnny, weeping, robbed of ego, got onto his feet. Rage helped him, yanking his head back and gesturing to his mark. He smiled with sadistic glee.
Ms. Clara, disgusted at this display of brutality, walked away from her table. "I need a drink. They don't pay me enough to watch men get branded..."
Rage walked Johnny around to the corners of the ring, making sure all four sides of the audience looked upon his work. "Everything you owned is mine now," Rage growled. He looked hungrily over at the red sports car parked by the entrance. "Including your little hot rod. And your women!"
"Nooo!" Johnny cried. "Don't take my bitches!"
Rage's reply was to deliver a swift roundhouse kick to Johnny's face. His head snapped back, and unconsciousness took him yet again as he fell to the mat.
"If you DARE call women 'bitches' again," Rage roared, noting the medical magi running to the ring with a stretcher in tow, "I'll MARK YOU TWICE."
The fiery spellbreaker left his broken toy to the attention of the medical staff. Rage, glistening with sweat, every muscle on full display, walked the aisle towards his prize. No fans dared reach out to try and shake his hand or high-five them. If anything, all present drew back in fear, terrified he might look their way.
A blonde and a brunette in revealing tops await Rage in the car. They curled their hair around their fingers and winked at him.
He laughed. If only they were pretty men. Still, they would do. He sighed, bounding over the car door and into the open seat, before turning the ignition. He found either woman at his beck and call right away, their hands on his chest, rubbing him and worshipping just as Johnny did.
Playfully, Rage turned to each one and gave them a quick kiss on the mouth. This was going to be a fun night indeed. "Now, ladies, let Vahni Rage show you what a real gentleman tastes like..."
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