Day of the Deadboy - Naughty Version

The crunch of loose pebbles and discarded candy bar wrappers drew Buck Tamberly's eyes downwards to twisting path ahead. Candles, likely placed by the target of Buck's consternation, dripped wax onto the road, and illuminated the hunched over, leather-speedo clad forms of Buck's peers. Eyes bewitch with ghostly glow, Sanjay and Blue Dragon moaned and looked up. The dark magi's magick had turned them into his puppets.

Fittingly, Buck found Deadboy Daemian--and his demon tag partner, Braxius, nestled on a throne made of skulls piled high. Deadboy munched down fiendishly on a Dracula Delight, one of Australia's ghoulish treats. The bright, cherry filling made it look like blood was dripping from his mouth. Deadboy's open mouth chewing was even more nauseating than the fact that he had turned almost all of Buck's employees into his zombie servants.

Caught in the act, Deadboy looked up and blinked at his new boss. "Oi!" he greeted, wiping cherry blood from his lips and giving Buck a mischievous, toothy grin. "Don't worry, the skulls are fake."

Behind him, Brax (whose enormous tail Daemian was using as a recline) turned the page of his self-help book (The Miraculous Power of Optimism) and yawned with a mouth full of fangs.

Buck looked down at the base of the throne. Tied in chains to a stake in the ground, was a leather-thong clad Spike, his head lolled to one side. He too had been bewitched.

Sighing, Buck greeted his wayward employee. "Happy birthday, Lachlan," he said, addressing Daemian by his real name. "Looks like Paris treated you mighty kind." He crossed his arms. Though Buck could only dream of becoming a Spellbreaking, of the lot, he was the least scared of the macabrely sexy, demonic sorcerer sitting before him. Then again, danger was one of Buck Tamberly's favorite turn-ons.

"Fuckin' oath," Daemian said, picking something out of his teeth and flicking it. He belched, loudly, lazily resting his angular jaw on his hand. "Those Alchemist c***ts thought they had a leg up on me. We might have lost the Chalice--which did alter my wicked plans--but I got something much better. Hehehe. A spell that us dark magi have been doin' our heads in tryin' to hunt for ages."

Buck scanned Daemian's face. This had already been a trying week before Deadboy and Icewolf showed up and bewitched half the staff, turning them into mindless ghouls. Fortunately, Buck--who didn't know much about magick, being unable to wield it himself--had help from some friends in high places (said 'high places' being the Ivory Tower of academia). "Yeah, Lily said they got their hands on some spooky tomes. You really were able to do all of this just by hearing an incantation just one time?"

"Always was a quick study," Deadboy said, grinning ever-so-innocently. Behind him, Brax gave Buck--the interim president of the GSA--the briefest of acknowledgments.

"You're smart, Lachlan. You hate to hear it, because it challenges your badboy personality, I'm sure. But it's true."

"What a sweet compliment," Deadboy said, though genuine or not, it was hard to tell. The demonic prince stood and stretched, showing off his rippling, sinewy arms, lined with muscles. He looked like a vampire turned Olypmic swimmer turned MMA fighter. "You know...Bucky, I can sniff out a fellow baddie. You're as sadistic as they can come. I can see the darkness inside you--definitely ain't your daddy's boy. Why not join up with me."

Buck cocked an eye. "Sniff me out?" He raised his armpit and bit his lip. "Shit, I knew I forgot something."

Deadboy licked his lips. "In addition to raising the dead..." Daemian leered, "I can be a bit of a pit pig. Whaddya say, mate? Join me. We can torture jobbers together. Do some really freaky shit."

Admittedly, it was tempting, Buck thought. Plus, it would show up his dad. Still, loyalty was loyalty.

Well, almost. "What have you done with Spike?"

"Mmmm. Blondie? Oh, he's totally my little slaveboy zombie now. So innocent. I told him he was my boyfriend. But I can be a bit...unfaithful." He winked.

Buck was not amused. "Hell, stud, you got good taste. But here's where you're wrong about blondie. You don't go around playing with a heart like that. He's something special. You might be right, boy. I got the heel streak in me--definitely do. But I break bones, not hearts. You're messin' with my friend. And I don't like that very much."

Deadboy scowled, and behind him, Brax let out a soft, concerned groan. "Huh. Sounds like the Bereft heir to the GSA has a crush. On my property."

"Forget it, Deadboy. I'm still your boss. And HR needs to have a word with you about your...behavior."

Daemian stuck out his tongue. "Aww, why can't you let me have fun!?"

"Deadboy, you know I like a nasty heel as much as anybody else, but your antics are really starting to stress me out. I'm doing my best to keep this ship in shape and you're..." he gestured broadly to the huddled zombies around them.

"What? You don't like what I've done with the place?"

Buck's eyes fell upon enslaved Spike, his muscular form barely constrained by chain and the six inch piece of leather holding back his immodesty. "I like some things you've done. But it's gotta' stop."

Deadboy glowered. "And what is someone without a glyph gonna do? I like ya, Buck. You're a sadist like me. But if you interfere in my fun, we're gonna have some problems, mate."

Don't tempt with a good time, Buck thought, his dad's warnings of 'not shitting where you eat' coming back to haunt him just as much as the specters swirling around the bewitched woodland on the GSA that Deadboy had turned into his hellish throne. "Yeah, I figured you'd be difficult."

"The only idiot who could even stand a chance against me now is White Tiger," Daemian said. "And he's busy with the tournament. Nobody is gonna save you, Bucky boy. This is MY kingdom now!"

From the shadowy bushes, a familiar, accented voice spoke. "Psss. Presidente, Is this where I come in?" 

"I'm still doing the diplomacy thing," Buck whispered back. He re-addressed Damian. "So, I guess I'm gonna have HR speak to you after all...." 

Deadboy rolled his heavily-lined eyes. "Ugh, and what pencil-necked little sap is the head of human resources? Besides, human resources doesn't apply to Brax."

"Inhuman resources does, but Brax is a model employee, so that's not a concern." Buck cleared his throat. "You can come now."

The branches parted. A statuesque figure, bulging with muscles (and with only a purple speedo to cover them up) stood tall and heroic, with hands posed on hips. The mask mine's smile lit up the dark. "It is I, El Amante Intoxico! Warrior of Love! Defender of the Heart! New appointed human resources manager!" He struck a new pose. "If there is a hatred in this world, then I shall put it to the sword! If there is terror in the night, then it stands no match for my might! If there is an OSHA violation, then the correct paperwork shall be filed in a timely and ORDERLY FASHION!" El Amante flexed. Around him, the zombified members of the GSAW moaned and swooned.

Deadboy, on his throne of skulls, stood tall and grit his teeth, spitting down at the imposing luchador. "Nobody makes my zombies moan and swoon but me! YOU!? The great masked himbo? YOU'RE Bucky's little lapdog?"

El Amante stared at the pile of skulls and put his finger to his chin in deep contemplation. "This is a fire hazard. It must go. And also," he pointed at Deadboy, "YOU need to be taken down a peg, amigo."

Buck shrugged. "Iggy said that the only way to take down a Scorpio was with another Scorpio." Buck pointed to the scorpion tattoo on El Amante's bulging shoulder. "As a Virgo, I don't believe in astrology, but Iggy has never been wrong."

"UGH, I thought that light magi was on my side! What about my nemsis. White Tiger. Where's HE? Afraid to fight his old lov--I mean RIVAL, I bet!"

"He's taking care of actual threats," Buck said through his teeth. "You know, like Firebird. Sounds like you and Rage were getting chummy, so I had him go hit the pavement and do a little recon." Buck nodded to the smiling, muscular, masked man at his side. "Fortunately, my dad has a thing for babyfaces, so we got some heroes to spare."

El Amante held up a finger. "Ah, ah, ah. Tecnico."

"Yeah, what he said."

Deadboy kicked a skull off his throne. It tumbled and fell at the masked man's feet. The dark magi's eyes went pure black, shining with dark and dreamy wickedness. "Well, fine. You want to lock up, Romeo? You'll make a fun plaything." He growled. "We'll do it your lucha libre way too. I'll wear a mask and put it on the line! All the better for when I rip yours off and cut open your handsome face."

El Amante smirked. "You want to challenge ME to a masked fight? Silly, little Australian. Well, if that is the poison you wish to pick..." His eyes glowed pink. "Then prepare to taste my venom, chico. We settle this at midnight."

Next to him, Buck caught the brunt of El Amante's love magick. "Oh wow. This is hot."

"Do not make me file a harassment complaint," El Amante said, turning up his nose. "I have a Deadboy to wrangle."

"I can't believe this is the venue," Buck said to Icewolf (the only other GSA member not zombified), as he stared at the ring in the middle of the old cemetery.

Robbie was more sullen than usual. Ever since Paris, he and Deadboy had parted ways. "Scary Bro said I wasn't even worth zombifying," Robbie sniffed.

"Awww buddy. You're worth that and more." Buck winced. He wasn't very good at the whole 'cheering up' thing, but he was happy to have one less problem to worry about in Robbie, who was now on a self-proclaimed 'redemption arc' to try and win back Cian's heart (which he never had to begin with...)

A low mist crept along the ground, turning the ring into an island in a sea of craggy headstones. Hundreds of votive candles dotted the ground, adding a touch of ethereal beauty to the gloom. Next to Buck, Robbie, dressed as a teenage werewolf (complete with tufts of fur stuck to his handsome face) removed his letterman jacket and handed Buck a pumpkin spice flavored beer. "Well...Happy Day of the Dead, broski," Icewolf said to his friend and boss. "You think Daemian could really unmask El Amante?"

The dreadful thought hadn't actually occurred to Buck. He was supposed to be acting as a manager for these boys; watching out for any bad career moves. Granted, the only two 'conscious' spectators (besides the zombified GSA boys at ringside) were Buck and Icy. But Buck knew luchadors had very strict codes of honor. An unmasking was humiliating.

"Deadboy has way less to lose since he always shows his face," Buck pointed out, grimly. "El Amante must be really confident."

"Or cocky," Icewolf winked. "If his face gets unmasked. I'm totally gonna smooch the hell out of it."

"You'll have Iggy Astro to deal with then, bud."

Icewolf huffed. "Well, I'll smooch them too. Hey," Robbie said, nudging Buck, "Check out Spike in that skimpy little leather number, eh? You gonna have fun with him?"

"Not while he's a zombie!" Buck nodded to the aisle of candles leading to the ring. "Check it. It's starting."

"Cool, cool. So, who's the ref?"

Buck and Icewolf looked at each other. Buck's mouth dropped. "SHIT! I forgot to hire a ref!"

"Awww as if that would ever stop ME," came a malevolent, echoing voice. A green light shone down on the earth in front of the candle-lit aisle. The ground shook, lines in the Earth like breaks in skin, giving way to upturned soil. A black coffin emerged from the ground, swinging open to reveal its evil inhabitant with his hands cross his chest, leaning against plushy red velvet. Deadboy's outfit was his standard black briefs and half torn tights, but now he wore a fiendish, skull-printed black luchador mask across his head. Sharp plastic fins, like a razor mohawk, lined the top. 

Even Buck and Icewolf shivered. "Damn, that's a creepy look," Buck said.

Flanked by his zombie followers, the malicious (and mischievous) Deadboy shuffled with a feral gait towards the ring. "What a beautiful night for a CURSE," he snarled, waving his hand over his hypnotised followers. Their eyes glowed bright red. He made them turn, about-face, towards the still 'unturned' spectators sitting in folding chairs. "You two c***ts are NEXT."

Icewolf pointed to himself, dumbly, and spat out his beer. "But...I was your bro! I HELPED you get this far!"

Buck whipped his head towards him. "I knew dad said you were trouble."

"I was BORED AND HORNY," Robbie grunted. "Deadboy, quit the shit! You're ruining my chances with Cian! Er...I mean, redeeming myself! Yeah!"

Climbing to the top rope, Deadboy leaned forward with a twist. His long tongue stuck out of his mask. "That's what you get for making a pact with a DEMON!" He pointed to Spike, chained to a rinside post, drooling onto his chest. "That himbo was your only hope. With all of you turned, and Iggy and El Amante to follow suit, I'll raise my zombie army against White Tiger! The Divine Chalices you collected will be mine. I'll be the one who takes down Firebird. And then, the WORLD will be mine! HAHAHAAHAHA!"

It was probably the most clumsy, least intimidating, and plainly stupid villain monologue that Buck had ever heard. He was now more annoyed than concerned. 

From the opposite 'aisle', the mists parted. El Amante's broad shouldered (and larged pectoral'd) shape was unmistakable, but even Buck did a double-take at his interesting choice of outfit. El Amante was prone to showing off his body in the tightest, skimpiest little briefs possible, to the point that even Colt bemoaned the masked fighter's 'lucky thong' always sticking out of his trunks. Tonight, on this strange and exciting occasion, the masked 'Warrior of Love' (and employee payroll) wore a tight fitting singlet. It didn't do anything to make the beefcake more modest--if anything, his pecs threatened to break the lycra straps at any minute, and his bulge was...obvious--but his overall look was truly something to behold. A colorful 'Day of the Dead' inspired outfit, complete with a sugar skull mask. 

"Papi, this is art," Buck said, jaw dropping. He caught El Amante's eye. He looked serious. Buck almost wish he hadn't said anything.

But the jovial luchador was glad to attend to his audience. Hands on hip, he looked around. "Crowd's a bit...dead tonight, huh?"

Somewhere in the shadows, Brax laughed hollowly Deadboy shot him a dark look. "How DARE you laugh at my opponent's puns?"

Buck ignored his unruly employee. "Thank you for coming," Buck sighed, experiencing a momentary pang of relief. "Really...I wanted to handle this by myself."

El Amante put a reassuring hand on his shoulder, inadvertently causing Buck's neck hairs to stand up with. 

"All you had to do was ask, pobrecito. Asking for help isn't tapping out. It's tagging in." He looked over his shoulder and glared at the sneering skeleton waiting for him in the red corner. "Don't worry. I know exactly what Deadboy needs..."

El Amante flipped over the top rope, landing with poise and shaking the ring. Deadboy responded with a loud belch.

"You know nothing of the honor of the mask," El Amante said with a sternly pointed finger (to which Deadboy yawned). "Guess I'll have to tear that ridiculous looking thing off of you, eh?"

This only pissed off the delicious demon even more! He wiped his nose and puffed out his chest, drawing closer to his foe. "Heh. You're like me, chook. I can smell the darkness in you."

"My name is Victor, NOT chook! And I know the darkness well enough. The difference is that I know how to tame it. Just like I'll tame you."

The two men, both in skeletal attire, demonic blood running in their veins, stared at each other with glowing eyes--pink and green. After a few seconds of stare down, chests pushed together, Daemian cocked his head to the side.

"Uh...bell?"

"Oh right!" Rex piped up. He ran over to the bell table and gave it a good strike with a conjured up icicle. 

Deadboy and El Amante went for the lockup, teeth gritting and arms bulging. Midway through, Deadboy pulled back with a cheeky 'arms in the air' pose, with Daemian glaring in confusion. Then, El Amante went in for his signature 'male stripper' dance, swivelling his hips to imaginary bachata music, even turning to give Deadboy a good look at this butt wiggling in his tight singlet. 

Daemian seethed. "I'll fuck you UP, mate!" He went for a deadly strike with his boot.

But El Amante had anticipated this. It was trap. He grabbed Deadboy by the ankle and spun him around, forcing him off his feet. Still, Deadboy was an expert gymnast, and was able to turn the stumble into a donkey kick, striking El Amante right where it hurt!

"UNGH!" El Amante said, clutching his nuts. From ringside, Buck and Icewolf winced and covered up their own tender areas out of sympathetic reflex. 

"You needed to be neutered," Deadboy sneered. He didn't waste his larger opponent's stunned state, running up, wrapping his hands around El Amante's neck, and brinding him down for a snapmare.

It hit, but El Amante was made of sturdy stuff, and was able to roll out. Still dazed, and with a sore neck, he pivoted onto his feet from his back--a breath taking feat of athleticism. "You like kicks, eh, zombie boy?" He delivered a roundhouse to Deadboy's chest, hitting him hard. Then, he pulled the evil spellbreaker's head in-between his thighs, clamping down tightly.

"Bet you wanted to be caught inside these," El Amante laughed, mockingly. "Let's dance!" 

He gyrated his hips, in the process grinding Deadboy's sensitive neck between his monster muscle quads. It was humiliating as it was painful, even more when El Amante jumped up and planted Deadboy's face into the mat.

He went for the roll up pin. "One...two..."

Deadboy kicked out and flipped over, flipping off El Amante in the process. El Amante rose, smirking, to face him. He gave him the "come on" wave with his hands.

Buck turned to Icewolf. "This is goooood. I wish Dad could see this!"

Robbie gave Buck a rare, thoughtful response. "He'd be real proud, eh, bro?" His watery eyes trembled. "But bro, I'm proud, bro."

The nightmarish Aussie surveyed El Amante's mask and its iconography. "A bleeding heart," Deadboy sneered, forming his hand into a claw. "I think it needs more blood!" Tendrils of shadow formed on Deadboy's black-polished fingernails, turning his hand into a claw of cold darkness. He took a swipe at the masked man.

El Amante pivoted back and stepped away with the grace of a dancer. Deadboy went again, and again, earning him a bored 'tsk tsk' from the colorful fighter. He scooped him up by the crotch and threw Deadboy into the canvas without breaking a sweat.

And he wouldn't give him the luxury of getting back onto his feet so quickly either. El Amante yanked Deadboy up by his skull-mask (though his tecnico code prevented him from ripping it off until the match was won). Into position, El Amante pressed his knee into the sensitive part between Deadboy's shoulders, wrapped his hands around his chin, and yanked the zombie stud back into a a cavernaria.

"Oooh," Buck, impressed, said. "Classic lucha libre move right there." He didn't realize he had become an impromptu commentator. It came natural to him, a lover of a the sport. "I think I see what El Amante is going for. Defeating Deadboy with traditional moves."

Deadboy grunted but did not submit.

"You bring people pain because it gives you pleasure," El Amante said, with his mix of brash heroism and gentle cordiality--even whilst trying to seperate a man's shoulder blades from his body. "I bring them pain because it gives them pleasure. Here. Looks like you need a taste."

El Amante's eyes glowed a soft pink, and the sinister lighting over the arena became a gentle, rosy haze.

For a moment, Deadboy's eyes rolled into the back of his head, and he began drooling like a hound getting his belly rubbed. "Fuckin'...oath."

"Hehe. You like it?" El Amante dug in further with his knee, pulling Deadboy's neck back slower. "The goal is not to crank on the move, but go slow. Pain and pleasure light up similar parts of the brain. Eventually, the sensory overload will make you pass out...in a way that may be embarrassing to you, calaverito. You should save yourself the trouble and give, and then I can kiss you all over when that mask is off."

"Blegh!" Deadbopy spat, snapping out of it. His eyes grew dark, solid black, and the gentle aura around the ring faded. "You're gonna' give me diabetes, sugar skull. You want some traditional moves? I'll show you how we do it down under!"

El Amante didn't notice the conjured up, dark fist behind his back, until the last second. He tried to dodge, but it whapped him on the cheek, knocking him sideways and forcing him to break the hold.

Deadboy snapped up and struck El Amante in the chin. While he was dazed, he jumped up to the top rope with a vampiric, fluid motion, perching on top of the chord like a dark carrion bird. With no time for snark (what a pity) Deadboy jumped into the air and aimed his steel-toed boots right for El Amante's face.

The luchador dodged by a fraction of an inch, his skull nearly knocked off by what would have been a match-ending manoeuvre. Deadboy landed on his feet, shaking the ring and no worse for wear, but he had left himself open.

Forget defeating him with classic techniques, El Amante thought, leaping onto his opponent, I gotta' put this sick dog down quick!"

El Amante went for a simple, but effective, sitting arm bar. Deadboy's pale, skeletal arm, knotted with muscles, bent behind his back. El Amante's long, luscious hair stuck to his pectorals, now slick with sweat. He put the hold on tighter. There would be no nice, 'romance' for Deadboy now. Only pain.

"If you do not tap, then I am afraid I may have to break your arm," El Amante said, annoyed. "But don't worry. I'll fix it after." Though he may have to fill out an incident report. Dios mio, is that ethical if I'm the one who caused the injury!? I'll have to check the manual when I get back. 

Instead of crying out in pain from his arm second from being snapped off, Deadboy cackled maniaclly, filling the air with sharp laughter, and making his entranced zombie co-workers at ringside bristle. "Do it, you masked clown!"

"Tch." El Amante looked down and bit his lip. He could. He'd done it before. But...

"Heh, I fuckin' knew it. Because you're weak, possum! Fine. I'll do it myself."

CRACK

Smiling all the while, Deadboy jerked back and didn't just fracture his own arm, but broke it off cleanly, wrenching it from from a shocked and horrified El Amante in the process.

Buck and Robbie looked at each other once, before turning in seperate directions and spilling their guts all over the graveyard lawn.

"Hahahah! Oh, that tickles," Deadboy said, grinning all the while and watching El Amante draw back in horror. He snapped his own arm back onto his shoulder, healing in rapid time with his dark powers. "See? That's not so bad. Not as bad as what I'm about to do to you."

Deadboy snapped his fingers.

El Amante looked side to side, detecting the sharp spike in magickal energy. From the shadows of the ring corners, four chains of violet-black darkness shot out, wrapping themselves around El Amante's limbs, and binding him to the spot.

"Agh!" He cried out. The chains weren't just impossibly strong, but they burned pain into his chest. El Amante bent forward, his hair dangling pendulously in front of his face. He tugged on the chains, his muscles bulging, sweat pouring off his body in drops of dew. Nothing worked. He was bound.

"This is what I like to see," Deadboy said, biting his lip. He drew closer to El Amante, stabbing his finger into his opponent's chin and lifting up his head to look at him. "All that meat-head muscle, and still....so helpless. I think I'll take my time as I remove your mask, cutie. And then, I'm gonna cut a nice long gash into your pretty face. Give you a NEW, better mask! A crimson one! HAHAHAHAAHAHA!" 

El Amante glared at him. "Poor Deadboy."

"Huh? WHAT!? Don't try that hero shit, mate. I know you're scared. Just like you can detect all those sickly sweet vibes, I can smell fear. You're quaking in that little thong of yours."

"Scared? Oh, yes. For you. You hurt yourself just to hurt others." El Amante looked to his glassy-eyed coworkers, some of who he had trained, all of whom he loved, slumped at the side of the ring. "You do all of this. Why?"

Deadboy shivered. "B-because it's fun!"

"I see it, chico. A lonely childhood. Just like mine. Scared. You've been scared all your life. So, you fight back by trying to be more terrifying. You fear people will hurt you, or leave you, so you enslave them with your dark magick. Your loss to White Tiger must have really been the last straw, eh? Imagine, going from champion to disgraced. Completely loved for all your wickedness, to being bound and having your gear taken as trophy by a hero."

The temperature in the arena suddenly dropped. The clouds in the sky draped themselves over the moon, casting the already dark arena into deeper darkness. Deadboy's head drooped, his face hidden further beneath his mask. Without noise, more chains and tendrils of darkness sprouted from the ring, the Earth. The zombies of the GSA moaned and shuddered, drawing back. 

Behind them, peering from around a mausoleum, the demon Brax, Deadboy's tag partner, growled low. "Not...again," he said. "I will...have to....intervene." The hulking beast stepped forward, ready to enter the fray and disrupt the match (for all their sakes), but a chain of darkness shot out from beneath his clawed foot, grabbing him by the ankle.

"GRRRR!" Eyes red, Brax looked towards the ring and shouted. "LACHLAN! STOP THIS MADNESS."

"...Stop..." Daemian said, softly. A green glow appeared in his eyes. Then, the smile, manic and raw. "STOP!? YOU WANT ME TO STOP? WE'RE NOT GONNA STOP! WE'RE JUST GETTING STARTED! HAHAHAHAHAHA! SCARED!? I'LL SHOW YOU ALL WHAT SCARED LOOKS LIKE!!" Heaving like a beast from the underworld, and head bent backwards, Daemian made a motion with his hands. "I...bring...HELL."

With hollowing, echoing words, Deadboy incanted the spell muttered by the Alchemist in the dank catacombs. 

"P̶͖͉͠à̵̳̮ř̶͖̮g̴̋͗ͅo̴̢̡̚͝n̴̰͚͑͒ ̷̙͐t̸̨̧̾͊í̶̡͖̃e̶̡͘ř̸͇̗͘ ̵̯̠̀̾ă̴̜r̶̨̳̾e̵̠͑̑t̷̨͇͝e̶̫̿͠k̶̟̈!̴͈̠̋̓"

The ground beneath the ring trembled. Deadboy's zombies moaned in anguish. El Amante, whose binds had not tightened, but remained fastened, tried to break free again. Nothing. He locked eyes with Deadboy. He would show no fear.

The soil in front of the faded and eroded tombstones fell away. Dirty, skeletal hands, burst out from the ground.

Buck jumped out of his eat, looking to Robbie. "Shit, what's going on?"

The hunky Canadian tried to make sense of the surroundings. "T-this is evil. Pure, dark magic." He gulped. "Necromancy, bro!"

The dead, in droves, crawled from their graves. Some of them still wore their funeral attire. The older of their lot were nothing but bones, their clothing long since rotted away. From their hollow orbitals, a sinister green glow sprouted, and cast the arena in an evil light.

Deadboy beckoned to his army of darkness. Bones rattled, coming closer to the arena. Buck and Robbie cowered, hugging each other for security.

"Bucky," Robbie panicked, "It's bones."

"Behold, youse cunts," Deadboy proclaimed, hands stretching out towards his 'children'. "My army of darkness. I was just going to bloody you up, El Amante. But look what you made me do? I'm going to have my army of the dead RIP you to shreds and feast on that hunky body of yours! Right in front of the eyes of your helpless coworkers. And then? I'm gonna do the same to White Tiger, and THEN Firebird! I'll be the champion of the damn world, and I will turn into my own hellscape!" 

"Hehehe."

"Huh?" Deadboy's eyes shifted back to normal. He blinked. "WHAT? You're...laughing? You're not honestly laughing, are you? Didn't you just hear what I was about to bloody do?"

El Amante smiled. "Oh, little Lachie. You make the dead your playthings. But they are not puppets. They are people. And they are loved."

Around the ring, the skeletons suddenly froze in their tracks.

Deadboy looked around, wildly, tearing at his own mask. "What?!"

"Your birthday is over, Daemian. It's now Día De Los Muertos. The day when the dead come back...not to harm, but to celebrate!"

The green glow from the skeletons faded. Instead of drawing closer, the masses of the dead stopped at ringside. The air filled with a rattling, percussive sound.

Buck looked around. "What's...They're...clapping? Robbie, they're applauding."

"Silly Deadboy. You didn't raise an army. You gave us a crowd!" 

Now, it was time for Deadboy to be afraid. Mouth agape, he put his back against the ropes. But there was nowhere for him to run. He was surrounded. Without fear to wield against others, he lost control on his magick.

El Amante grunted, and flexed, his muscles tearing through the chains as if they were made of smoke. He brushed his shoulders and tossed back his hair, giving Buck and Robbie a flirty wink.

"Ohhh," the two spectators sighed in unisons, falling back into their chairs. "He's sooooo dreamy."

"These treats and tricks of yours might scare other people, Lachlan. But I am not 'people'." The big stud smiled. "For I am the god of love!" He flashed another grin at the crowd. "Tricks and treats. Because it was just Halloween. Get it?"

Deadboy was beside himself. But he wasn't done yet. "Grrr! There IS no Aztec god of love!" With his dark powers dampered from the ego blow, he would have to rely on his skill now. He charged forward. 

"There is NOW!" El Amante shouted, running the ropes and bouncing off for momentum. "And for your information, I'm Mayan." He jumped, catching Deadboy by the neck. "And YOU are history." With his thighs around Deadboy's beck, he flipped the main over in the air, and slammed him down, headfirst, into the mat, with a flawless and elegant hurricanrana.

Deadboy's skull was rocked. "Unnnnnggg..." he moaned, just like one of his zombies.

"This is it!" Buck said. "He's gonna do his finisher. I used to play this one back on tape all the time." He blushed. "It was totally my awakening."

El Amante didn't have to worry about Deadboy getting up after that. Still, he needed to be put down. El Amante, smiling warmly, leaned down and positioned himself against Deadboy, hosting him up to face him. He looked lovingly into his eyes, still darting around post-concussive strike.

"Time to end this nightmare. Only sweet dreams for you..."

Smooch.

The masked hunk grabbed Deadboy around the neck in a reverse nelson, practically driving the defeated heel's chin into his sternum. As Deadboy grunted and moaned, El Amante slide his hand down and compressed his hands around Deadboy's carotid artery, depriving his head oxygenhelped, of course, by the suffocating and relentless kiss the masked fighter piled onto him.

"Mmmnggg!" Deadboy struggled and wined, his eyes watering. His seizing eventually ceased, and he fell forward, limp, and drooling.

El Amante wiped his mouth and let Deadboy's hands drop slowly. "Uno...dos...tres! That is it! LOVE WINS!"

The skeletons and zombies at ringside applauded El Amante, who did a little dance for the crowd. Meanwhile, the GSA team snapped out of their zombie state. The enchantment was shattered.

Spike, chained to the post still, blinked. "Huh?" He looked down at himself. The chain. The leather thong. He smiled. "Looks like I had a fun night. What's going on?" He glanced over at the strange, skinny audience. "Wow, those are some awesome Halloween outfits! I didn't know we were set to have a home Halloween match. The last thing I remember was..." He noticed El Amante flexing over Deadboy. "Victor? And...who's the dummy in the skeleton mask. No. WAIT!? DEADBOY!?"

"It WAS Deadboy," El Amante laughed, hands on hips, tapping the drooling, white-eyed and unconscious fiend with the front of his shoe. "I don't think he'll be doing any spellbreaking matches for awhile. Though, perhaps he will change his ways."

The skeletons slunk back into their earthly abodes, happy to have seen such an exciting match. Unseen, but perhaps present, the spirits of the dead enjoyed their return to the world of the living, leaving the once-ensorcelled spellbreakers standing around the ring more than a little bit confused. 

"Now..." El Amante leaned forward and grabbed at Deadboy's mask, peeling it off of him in strips of cheap fabric. "Wow, that craftsmanship on this is shoddy. I will have to take you to my guy in Juarez if you ever want to do this againe. You have much to learn before you can become a real, masked spellbreaker, little boy."

Deadboy's head lolled out of the torn mask and onto the canvas, revealing the handsome, pale, slumbering face of a hardly intimidating punk with messy, black hair.

"I like you better this way," El Amante said, ruffling his defeated opponent's head. "You look sweeter and you don't cause trouble. Now, let me give you a wakeup kiss." And let's see what we can do to make you a bit more happier...for all our sakes.

El Amante straddled Daemian and leaned in for a long kiss, pumping him full of good energy. The two beefcakes took on a pink aura.

Deadboy's eyes fluttered open. Stripped of his dark designs, he looked remarkably innocent. "Fuck, mate, I just had the best nap of my...huh?" He spat. "Ew! Himbo drool."

El Amante reeled back, shocked, but not because of his opponent's reaction. He cocked his head to the side, and, making sure nobody could read his lips, whispered to Daemian. "So, White Tiger. All for him?"

The cockiness and mania in Deadboy's eyes faded. He looked away, pouting. "Please...don't say anything."

"Cariño, your secret is safe with me."El Amante smiled, and kissed Deadboy's bare cheek. "We can talk about it later, stud."

"Blegh! No we won't." Deadboy tried to push the big man off him, but it was like trying to get out from beneath a ton of bricks. "Get your sweaty hands....Ooohhh. Fuck."

El Amante had placed his palms to Deadboy's bare chest, injecting him with a heavy dose of love venom. Deadboy's brain burst with endorphins and positive energy.

"There we go!" El Amante. "Just relax, Deadboy. I know what you need." He winked. "A bit of love." El Amante held his prey tight, in an embrace just beneath the force of a reverse bear hug (of course, it didn't take much; El Amante's muscles were unrivalled). The masked man soft kissed the nape of Deadboy's neck.

The defeated, dark magi punk wriggled like a worm. "EW! No..NO I hate lo---ooohhhh fucccck." How quickly his tune changed as El Amante's potent love magick took effect, turning Deadboy's brain into melting chocolate, and filling his vulnerable, wily torso with sensation.

"So high strung!" El Amante laughed lightly. He caressed Daemian's cheek, assaulting him with more kisses on the most sensitive parts of Deadboy's beck and back. "Just let Papi do all the work." His hands moved down, grabbing fistfuls of the pale mage's pectorals, working on his nips.

Spike giggled, summoning the other boys over to watch. Kengo blushed, and Gio laughed, but Spike wasn't shy about taking a few tugs on his own junk as he watched El Amante do what he did best. 

"No..." Daemian fought back weakly, going hard. "Oooh yessss."

"Let's see what we have here," Deadboy said, reaching into Daemian's trunks. "Do you want to see it, boys?"

"Hell yeah," Spike said.

Daemian was in no position to fight back. He watched helplessly as his long, uncut cock spilled out for all of his peers to see. However, he had nothing to be ashamed of.

Gio whistled. Spike gulped. "Yep. He's definitely Australian."

Though enchanted, cocky Daemian grinned at his audience. "Like what you--"

"Shhhh," El Amante said, sticking a prying finger into his moth. "Relax,: he whispered, tonguing Daemian's ear. "Be a good boy for papi. Do what he says. Wow, you're leaking a lot. I think you needed this."

"Nnooo," Daemian trembled, eyes rolling back into his head. His precume was like a river, going down on his thigh. Somehow, all those prying eyes watching him get stroke and handled by a bigger man, turned him on even more. It was rare he felt helpless. It was, he silently admitted, a refreshing change of pace.

El Amante cradled Deadboy tighter, not letting up for a second on his twisting strokes. "More like a cow than a fighter," he said. "Getting milked by a big muscle man. You love it, chico. You want to give me your load right in front of everyone. I know you want it. The freedom of feeling vulnerable in a safe space. Well, chcio, I'm the safest space there is. And now you know what it's like to be dominated." El Amante whispered this next part. "Even more than White Tiger dominated you. You're mine now."

With all of his being, Deadboy shuddered. "Oh fuck."

The moment was now. "Say it." El Amante nibbled his ears, and sloweed his strokes, picking up on Deadboy's senses to maximize the perfect motion, from base to shaft. "Here's a classic luchador technique they won't show you on televison. How's it feel?Come on, chico, say it. Shoot a load right there all over your mask and ruin that silly thing."

"Not my mask," Deadboy stammered, but it was no use. "FUCK! Yes, Papi, I give! I GIVE."

Daemian shot a creamy blast, wet at first, and then thick and ropey, all over his mask. He didn't stop either. He squeeled, arching his back into El Amante, who wouldn't let up.

"Every drop, boy. On that mask. Ruin it."

"FFFFFUCK!!!!"

Jaw hanging loose, Spike stepped away from the ring. "Wow."

Finally, El Amante relented with a final kiss. It was too much for Deadboy, who felt down right next to his ruined, soaked mask.

Spike was happy to yank off his collar and toss it right next to him. "Hmph. Serves you right, dick. You must be humiliated."

"I am..." Deadboy moaned. Then, his evil smiled returned. "And I bloody love it!"

"Huh?" Spike backed up.

Confusing even his aggressor, Deadboy sprouted up, glowing with post-orgasmic energy.  "I'm a dirty, twisted freak. Shoot ropes in front of my mates? You think THAT'S where I draw the line." He pulled El Amante to him and gave him a long kiss, finishing it licking the masked stud's lips in a snake like fashion. El Amante was half disgusted and half amused.

"D-Daemian! Oh, you are a naughty boy."

Clad only in moonlight, and cock still dripping, the proud punk stood in front of his peers, who oggled his lanky, sexy form. He jabbed a thumb into his chest. "Damn right! I'm the naughtiest. And don't you forget it, losers! Hey, masked man. Why don't we combine our powers. Turn this into a den of dark, deviant delights." He gave El Amante a sly look.

El Amante stood, bowing to his opponent with a gentlemanly floirsh. "Er...I think that's too many D's."

"Not yet!" Deadboy said, looking at his audience. "Hehehe."

Spike sighed. "Like a slasher movie villain, he just keeps getting back up again..."

The End!

Quick Match: Piledriver Punishment

“Waitwaitwait–watch this!”

Colt jabbed his finger towards the dinky television set–perched on a ringside stool in the corner of the practice room, and surrounded by a growing number of empty beer bottles. Spike and Buck, sitting eager-eyed and attentive, flanked the rambunctious cowboy. It was a quieter, rainy night at the ranch, and the boys felt like letting off some steam with some beers. Knowing Colt’s penchant for memory lane, and finding his larger-than-life commentary all the more interesting, Spike convinced Buck to join him in watching a few of Colt’s old matches. 

Buck, who had grown up watching his dad kick ass–and was content to never again having to sit through his old man reliving his glory days–agreed to the impromptu viewing…for two reasons: as much as he would never admit it, any time spent with his old man was well spent, and two, Spike was one of his two main crushes. He’d considered inviting Rosa as well, but she’d taken to a ladies night with the other spellbreaking gals, and no doubt they were all getting into much more mischief than the three men nerding out over old spellbreaking matches.

Spike and Buck leaned in to get a better view of the jumpy cassette tape, one of Colt’s past performances. Colt had been in his prime for this match, though Spike would be the first to argue that the lightning-slinger was still very much at the peak of his performances. He was always a sight to behold on screen! His opponent, a strapping, British bloke in a butcher’s singlet–with a real, throwback style strongman gimmick–took a mighty swing at the Texan, ready to knock his block off. Colt ducked under his arm and, with expertise, wrenched it behind his back. Before the strongman could react to the super fast reversal, the muscle magi delivered a mighty electric shock to the British brute, bringing him to his knees.

“These old school dudes were so lame looking,” Buck laughed, adjusting his glasses and tipping his beer bottle to the TV set for emphasis. He nodded to his father, who clearly enjoyed reliving his glory days.

Colt cocked an eyebrow at his mischievous–magickless–but artistically talented son. “You callin’ your old man lame, boy?”

Buck, around Spike’s age, laughed, and gave his dad a get-out-of-jail grin. If there was one person in the spellbreaking school who didn’t fear Colt’s wrath, it was his own blood. “I didn’t say that. But still…all those rhinestones, dad? And I turned out to be the queer one?”

Spike shushed his companions, nearly spilling beer on his navy-striped t-shirt. “Guys, shush! This is the best part!”

Colt beamed at his young pupil–who was also his biggest fan. “You see this one before, have ya?”

“Only like a million times!” Spike said, basking in the glow of his hero. Behind Colt, dark-haired Buck just laughed and rolled his eyes. It was rare seeing the two together, mostly because of their busy schedules. Though it was a pleasant sight, Spike still couldn’t believe how father and son were completely different contrasts to each other. Colt, tall and mighty, looked like Thor’s handsome, redneck cousin.

Buck was like the cross between a country hipster and the quintessential boy next store…with a dungeon in his basement. While his dad ran the family business, Buck– unable to spellbreak even if he wanted to–helped his dad out as the media guy, applying his own ‘magickal powers’ of illustration to almost every poster and flier in the Global Spellbreaking Alliance. Spike was turned on by his talent. Buck was a gentle soul…with a dash of mischievous sadism for good measure. By now, however, Spike had given up on winning Buck’s affections, mostly because he talked non-stop about Spike’s best friend, confidant, and deadly spellbreaker in her own right, Reina Rosa.

On screen, Colt clamped a vice grip down on his opponent, dragging him up the top rope to perform his finisher: the Thunderbolt Piledriver. The cowboy king tucked his opponent beneath his legs, inverted him into the air as if he weighed nothing, and struck a pose for the cheering crowd.

“T-thhis is it!” Spike said.

Colt jumped into the air and, in a flash and bolt of lightning, slammed the muscleman headfirst into the canvas. The angle on which the British brusier landed never failed to make Spike wince, despite this being a repeat viewing, but he couldn’t deny a bit of erotic enjoyment at the power move’s complete and total destruction. The bell rang. Colt–that is, the Colt on TV–stood over his defeated opponent, smoking and twitching on the mat, as the ref lifted the cowboy’s hand in triumph. On screen, a younger, pony-tail sporting Colt whooped and uttered a loud ‘yee haw’.

In real life, Colt did the same, splashing beer all over the training room floor. He did his signature “number one”. “WOOO! That’s right, cowboy! TAN HIS ASS! WOOOOOO!!!!”

Spike was living for it, but Buck looked like he would vomit from embarrassment. He put his hand in his face, and tried to hide behind his beer bottle as his dad strutted around the TV set as if he were preening for a live audience. “Dad, you’re such a ham!”

“A big meaty ham, and don’t you forget it!” Colt laughed, switching the TV set off and chugging down the rest of his beer. “It’s called showmanship, son! One day you’ll learn.”

Cool-headed Buck, flipped the dark lock of hair in front of his face. “Nah, I’m going to be cool and cunning and sinister if I get to the pro leagues!”

Don’t pop a boner now, Spike thought dreamily, picturing his crush as an absolute monster heel–though it was kind of hard to envision sweet-nature Buck breaking guy’s necks. Spike took a swing of beer, made a face, and offered it to the Tamberly men. “Blech. Texas beer is…um…heavy stuff. You guys want this?”

“Not a beer guy, Spikey?” Colt laughed, patting Spike on the shoulder.

Oh no, he’s gonna think I’m a pansy! “I-I’m fine with beer. But I prefer hard liquor. And harder men.”

 

Colt laughed. Spike always amused him, and the pretty boy New Yorker made sure to milk it for all it was worth…possibly in the hopes that Colt might someday decide to milk him instead. “How about some hard knocks, you little punk?”

“Depends who’s doing the knocking, Mr. President.”

Buck stood and popped his beer on the ringside apron–something that always pissed Colt off. “That beefy British guy was…okay, right?”

“Aw, o’course,” Colt said, dismissing any notion of bad sportsmanship. He leaned in, excited to explain his moveset while Buck braced himself for a tangent. “See, boys, the move is a real nasty, double whammy. Breaks your collar bone and spine and completely sets your system on fire with the electrocution factor. That’s why nobody–and I mean nobody–has ever kicked out of my Thunderbolt Piledriver.”

Buck smiled nervously. “Yeah, you really aren’t making a case for how that guy isn’t actually dead.”

“Us spellbreakers drink soma before the match,” Spike cheerfully explained. “It’s like…a magic potion thing that heals you. Otherwise, your dad would have probably killed that dude.”

“And I ain’t no outlaw,” Colt said, crossing his arms and looking tough. “I’m a damn hero! Who…does occasionally enjoy roughing up the occasional prettyboy here or there.”

Spike blinked, thinking Colt had–for the fraction of a second–just glanced in his direction at that statement. Would I die happy if Colt killed me with his big, shiny cowboy muscles? …Yes. Yes, I would.

Colt continued waxing nostalgic, pulling his son into a tight–but gentle–headlock. Then again, none of Colt’s headlocks were ever really gentle, and Buck’s reddening face underscored this fact. “Anyways, once I got my vict–I mean, opponent–down for the ten-”

“You mean ‘three’?” Buck gurgled, trying to muscle his way out of his dad’s tight embrace.

“Nah, I mean ten. So I get on the canvas, and after I’m done flexing over the guy and showing him how superior I am, I just apply a little bit of electric current down his spine, reversing any nerve damage. And then I give the ol’ bastard a stiff kick to the back of the neck. Right as rain! Though…the pain kinda hits you then seeing as the electruction sorta numbs you to the initial blow. I guess I can be a bit of a bastard, huh Buck. Buck? Oh, sorry, son!”

Colt unleashed his suffering son, gasping for breath. He scrambled for another drink of beer.

Goddess, I wish that were me, Spike thought.

After catching his breath, Buck leaned against the ring apron, shaking his head. “I dunno, Dad. You’ve told a few tall tales in your time. That…sound made up.”

Spike leapt to his hero’s defense–he knew that Buck was the only person on the damn planet who could make Colt sulk, and he hated seeing his hero’s beautiful, green eyes go all sad-like. “It’s not made up!” Spike said, puffing out his chest–and for a second, even Buck looked afraid. He turned to the towering, veteran spellbreaker and motioned to the thing behind them. “Come on, Colt! Let’s show him.”

“You mean…you want me to do one to you?” Colt scratched his head, unsure. “Er…I dunno. I don’t wanna break ya, boy.”

“Spike…” Buck began with a sigh. “Is this a kink thing?”

“What?” Spike said, innocently, as if he’d just been accused of the most horrible crime. “No!”

It absolutely was a kink thing.

Colt scratched his beard, giving the idea some consideration. “Hmm. Well, I have been teaching Bucky here some pro moves. Now he can’t shoot lightning like I can, but I’m sure you could give a killer piledriver in your own time, Buck.” With a glint in his eyes, Colt winked at his young protege. “You want to help demonstrate, Mr. Hard Knocks?”

“Hell yeah I do!” Spike said with an enthusiastic and charming hop.

Colt laughed. “Wow, I’ve never seen someone so eager to get their spine turned into gray before, but I guess you taking hits is what makes you special, Spikey.”

It wasn’t easy being the smartest person in the room, but Buck found himself saddled with the unenviable position. “Oh my Goddess, you two.” He removed his glasses, placing them on top of the TV set. “Okay, fine. Just don’t kill him, dad.”

“I make no promises,” Colt said, already hot-footing for the locker room. “Let me get changed real quick! What kinda gear you want me in, Spikey?”

Buck knew that Spike had the hots for his dad–and he also knew that Colt wouldn’t know if a guy was hitting on him even if he was actively being stroked off.

“Something studly!” Spike said, his eyes practically turning heart-shaped. Colt vanished behind the ringside partition, and Spike promptly stripped down to his near gear, a solid navy brief cut with a white anchor.

“Don’t tell me you were already wearing those!” Buck said, incredulously.

“Of course! I’m always ready to tussle.” Since it had been exactly three seconds since one hot guy had left the room, Spike automatically turned on to the next available dude, running a hand through his feathery blonde hair, giving Buck the look. “And you know…if you ever wanted to practice some moves with me, handsome Buck, you know where to find me.” He yawned and stretched, making sure he flexed both of his biceps as he did. “I’ll even turn my magick off, giving you a fighting chance.”

“I’d still totally destroy you,” Buck said, cheekily flipping Spike the bird and making for his gym bag. “Okay, I think I have my wrestling trunks here. You better turn around while I’m changing, or no piledrivers for you!”

“Kay!” Spike said. He was honorbound of course. A slut he may be, but he was always ethical.

Within a few minutes, Spike was stretching his arms in the ring, leaning against the ropes with a winner’s confidence. Imagine if I beat Colt in front of his own son! Oh, no Spike, that’ll make you hard. I can’t disrespect Colt like that! Still…it would be hot…

Thoughts of victory were put aside at once, however, as Colt emerged from the lockers with his typical cowboy swagger, clad in the tightest cow-print briefs Spike had ever seen–not his usual gear of choice. He had even donned a cowboy hat for, presumably, a bit of ‘drama’. Spike caught the storm in his eyes. Colt–locking his gaze with his opponent, gave Spike an evil smile and drew a thumb across his neck, a real ‘lambs to the slaughter’ gesture. Even Buck had to blink and draw back from his dad in fear.

Scared and aroused at once, Spike slowly moved both of his hands in front of his crotch. “Eh…maybe I am having second thoughts.”

Colt chuckled under his breath, and pulled himself into the ring–passing through the ropes like a god going between earth and Olympus. The force of his boots on the canvas shook the ground beneath Spike’s feet. Spike gulped.

“Nice knowing you, Spike,” Buck laughed from ringside. “I’ll be sure to make a real pretty program for your funeral.” The idea suddenly intrigued him. “Oooh…yeah…nautical motif. Some navy blue, some white contrast, that’d look real sweet…”

Colt and Spike stared each other down–and Spike was just glad that his hero and teacher’s eyes didn’t wander down to his crotch, as the stretchy fabric was doing its best to contain Spike’s real pride and glory.

Colt removed his cowboy hat, flinging it to the corner of the ring with a marksman’s aim. “Okay, Spikey boy, so you wanna fight back or…?”

“No, I’m good. If you just wanna….OOFF!”

Even though he suspected Colt had held back, the knee to the gut–even with kickpads!--was like getting hammered in the abs. Spike keeled over, the wind knocked out of him, but he didn’t have time to react before he found his head wedged between Colt’s giant, muscular thighs.

“See, first you gotta take ‘em by surprise,” Colt said, instructing his son in the art of pain. “Then, get them all bent over, just like this!”

Buck shook his head…but couldn’t help turn red at the sight of Spike’s best feature. His trunks always seemed to ride up his cheeks. “I-I’m seeing, dad.”

“And then, you gotta tuck their pretty little head between your legs–and you got the Tamberly men legs too, boy, so you better use ‘em–and give him a little squeeze to really drain the life outta him.”

Spike didn’t have the opportunity to brace himself for the anaconda grip around his neck and head. It was like being crushed between two steel beams. “Ugghgghggh.” This wasn’t as fun as he’d thought it would be. He tried to pulled his head free, but it was no use. He was locked in tight…though he didn’t hate having his face full of cow print. Colt smelled like beer, sweat, and musk. Maybe this was worth it after all…

Or not, Spike decided, as he found his whole body turned upside down in a flash, and his head dangling over the canvas. “Oh no oh no oh no…”

“Then, you scoop them up like this and…” Colt reared up, getting Spike into a better position, his long grip around his stomach. ““Hang ‘em high! Now, I like to leave them up there for a bit, really drives the fear into them and makes em’ squirm.”

“Oooh.” Buck grinned, happy to watch the pinup boy’s legs flail in the air for leverage. He knew he wasn’t going anywhere. “You okay up there, Spike?”

“I’m–”

“Ooops!” Colt said, as he jumped up and brought all of his weight down, driving Spike’s head into the canvas with a sickening crack. “Boom!”

Spike’s back went stiff, and his legs fell over his head without any control. He landed with his ass up in the air, on display, and his face at an odd angle, as he drooled onto the canvas in a state of semi-consciousness. Colt, kneeling in front of his prey, patted Spike gently on the head and smiled. “Real fun, isn’t it?”

From ringside, Buck covered his mouth in shock. Dad just killed my crush. Then, he heard the low moan from Spike on the mat. Colt gave his son a thumbs up and a sheepish grin to let him know he was alive.

Which was a relief, of course, but now Buck’s sadistic streak had activated. He gave his dad an innocent smile. “Hey, but you didn’t use your lightning on him!”

Colt nodded, and helped Spike back into a sitting position, giving him a few pats to the side of the face to wake him up. He held a finger in front of Spike’s eyes. “Hey now, son. How many of these do you see?”

“Pretty cowboy…” Spike, loopy, said, as his eyes tried to focus themselves.

“He’ll be fine,” Colt said, tucking Spike under his bulging arms in a reverse headlock. “Now, Spikey, you ain’t going anywhere. Because I want Buck to give it a go.” He slapped Spike on the butt, like they were in the locker room. Even Colt had to admit Spike was firmer than he expected. “Damn! You could bounce a quarter off that thing, boy!”

Spike, still out of it, tried to squirm his way free. “Maybe just give me a minute, sir?”

But Buck was eager. He took a long chug of beer and slid into the ring on his knees, hopping to his feet and ‘two-stepping’ his way to the new practice dummy his dad had so graciously set up for him.

 Colt shook his head, amused–and a little proud–of his son’s ring entrance. “Better watch out, boy. You got a big Buck who’s about to kick your ass.”

“Aw, dad, don’t be lame.”

“Ugghhhh….” Spike groaned. “Wait. Buck!?” This was quite possibly the most confusing situation in his life. For one, he wanted to pass out, throw up, or both, from the knock to the head. His neck also felt like it might have been cracked. But the prospect of seeing Buck finally in his wrestling gear…well, maybe it was worth being temporarily disabled! 

Buck cracked his knuckles, looming over the fresh meat his father had just laid out for him. The veneer of the gentle artist melted away, giving way to a cold-eyed killer. “I may not have magick, Spike,” Buck said, pulling off his shirt. He wasn’t as jacked as Spike, let alone his Greek-god of a father, but he was still athletic built, with a tuft of black hair on his chest to give a bit of masculine contrast to his boyish face.

 “But I don’t need it.” He stripped off his jeans, letting them drop. His gear of choice was plain, black briefs, but man did he wear them well.

“B-b-bulge,” Spike said. “I mean, Buck!” Spike couldn’t tell if he was drooling from the blow to the head, or the sight of Buck in all his might! He definitely had his father’s legs…and other attributes.

“‘Eh? Like what you see, do you?” Buck realized his dad’s back was facing him, and Spike’s head was vulnerable, so he knelt down and thrusted his bulge right in Spike’s pretty face. “Enjoy your senses while you still have them, kid.” 

With that, he yanked Spike’s head out of his dad’s grip, transferring the sailor stud to his own legs. He clamped them down, but unlike his more gentle father, he didn’t hold back. 

Even though Spike struggled to breathe, Buck just looked up and smiled innocently at his father. “Like this dad?”

“Yeah, just like that!”

Buck let himself squeeze down just a bit harder, enjoying that Spike was totally helpless and Colt none the wiser. Then, he lifted Spike up–finding him to be especially heavy. Oh no, I’m gonna fall!

To his surprise, Spike actually helped him out, by hugging his lower back, setting him up just as if they were doing pro wrestling choreography.

The move was deliberate on Spike’s part. Even if he kills me, I want to make sure Buck looks good! Besides, his face was now being smothered by Buck’s enormous bulge–really, what was he to lose here besides a few brain cells?

Colt eyed his son, who seemed to be enjoying the set-up a little too much, Buck’s eyes staring down at Spike’s own, generously full briefs. “Ummm…son, you don’t need to drive his face into the crotch though. That’s what we call a tombstone variant.”

Buck snapped out of his reverie. “Oh, got it! Heh. I’ve wanted to do this for awhile!” He jumped up in a ‘fake out’ move, enjoying as Spike tensed up for the pain. “Hmm…I dunno. I’d hate to break such a pretty man. Then again…night, night, Spike!”

Buck hopped into the air, just as his father had shown him, only he was sure to really drive Spike’s head between his legs as he went for the hit–adding some momentum to the blow. The ring shook, and Spike bolted up, his eyes rolling back into the head, before he flopped back down–starfish style–and shivered on the mat, unconscious. 

Even Colt was stunned. And proud. “Hot damn, boy, you’re brutal! You plumb knocked him right out!”

Ecstatic at nailing the move–and his crush–Buck looked down at Spike and couldn’t help feel his cock twitch at the angelic-looking stud–washboard abs and all–twitched, his head knocking against Buck’s black wrestling boots. This was what apex predators must feel like when they sink their teeth into a fresh kill, Buck thought sadistically. This was fun!

“Awww look at him,” Buck said mockingly. The fact that he was breaking guys in front of his more heroic dad was a weirdly erotic thought…one he didn’t want to dwell on for too long. Inspired by mischief, Buck ran to the side of the ring, reached through the ropes, and pulled up Spike’s unfinished bottle of beer. 

“Looks like beer is too strong for this little boy,” Buck said mockingly, holding the bottle above his unconscious victim. “Let’s wake him up with it!”

Before he did, however, Colt shot out and ripped the bottle out of his son’s hands before Buck could so much as pour a drop. He blinked, shocked at his dad’s lightning reflexes. 

Colt gave him a dark look.  “Hey now, son! I didn’t raise no heel! You wanna clean that shit up, boy? This ring’s seen plenty of strange fluids as it is. Oh, don’t look at me like that–you don’t think I don’t know what you boys get up to in the practice ring when I’m not around. Like dogs in the heat, the whole mess of ya! And besides all that…” He put the bottle to his lips and chugged. “It would be a waste of good beer.” 

Colt knelt down over Spike, gave his son a clever look, and then poured the amber liquid down the valley of his own pecs, letting it flow through the rivelets of his abs and pour, like a waterfall, down between Spike’s parted lips. “That’ll wake you up, boy!”

“W-where did you learn that!” Buck asked, feeling his face change colors.

“Your dad had to pay for spellbreaking school somehow! You never thought to ask why I was so good at pole dancing when I got drunk at cousin Evie’s wedding?”

Beneath them, Spike coughed up beer, his eyes fluttering awake.

Buck ignored him. “Aw come on dad, isn’t it more fun being bad?”

“Geez,” Colt sighed, pectorals wet with sweat and beer. He shook his long hair out of his eyes and reached out to ‘awaken’ Spike with another few pats to the cheek. “We gotta watch out for him, Spikey! Hey boy, you ok down there?”

Fortunately, Spike had in fact activated his magick–the power to channel impacts and blows into energy. It was the only thing that had kept his neck intact up until now. “Unngngg….never better…” From his spot on the ground, he leaned up and glared at the nasty heel who’d just drove him into the mat. “You’re lucky I’m not using my glyph, Buck. Or you’d be in for a world of hurtin’!”

Impressed with his tenacity–and his hard head–-Buck shrugged off the threat, laughing to himself. “Heh. Bring it on, Spike.” He hoped someday he would. There was quite a bit he’d love to do Spike…in private, that is.

Colt pulled Spike’s arm off the mat, trying to set him straight again. “Well, if you two are done flirtin’, I can show you the Thunderbolt Piledriver.”

Spike, dizzy as shit, tried to stand on two legs. The room spun. Might as well have been standing on a merry-go-round. “W-what! I thought we were done!”

“You really thought I’d let you off easy, boy? You asked for the hurt, now you’re gonna get the hurt!” With that, Colt wrapped his left arm around Spike’s neck, kicked back like the horse he was named for, and slammed Spike’s head into the mat again with a stunning DDT. Not enough to knock him out, but enough to get him exactly where the cowboy wanted him. He pulled Spike up by his pretty, blonde hair–like picking a kitten up by the scurr of its neck–and shoved him, once again, between his thick thighs.

Colt turned to his wide-eyed son, watching with admiration as his dad demolished this jobber. “Watch your old man and see how it’s done, Bucky-boy. I can be a heel sometimes too!”

Buck bit his lip, watching as his muscle-mountain of a father dragged poor, limp Spike up the ropes. “Oh Goddess Dad, please don’t kill him. He’s like…cute and stuff?”

“Ha! The cute ones are always the fun ones to destroy!” Colt grinned and gave Spike’s trunks a tug, giving him a good wedgie.

Buck swallowed. Ah, so that’s where I get it from.

Spike, unable to break free–and his ass on display for his crush–tried pleading for mercy. “H-hey, Colt, I’m having second thoughts!”

“Who said you could call me, Colt, boy? That’s ‘sir’ to you!” He was, of course, just joshing the kid–but he could practically smell his fear. This was always the fun part. “Bet you regret this now, don’t ya, little ponyboy! But don’t worry, Spikey, you won’t feel much for too long!”

Colt positioned himself on the ropes, looking like a thunder god about to bring down judgment. Colt intoned ominously to Spike, the poor boy’s legs dangling freely in the air, “You know what I say at this part? Hey, kid, you hear me down there or has all the blood rushed to your head already? What do I say?”

Shit! Now, Spike was truly afraid. He thought Colt would let him off easy. Now, his life was flashing before his eyes. ““N-n-no!”

“Come on, you’re a fan right? Finish my line!”

“Please?”

“Please?” Colt hopped up and down on the ropes, getting leverage for the killing blow. “You mean, ‘piledrive my brains out, Colt?’ Nah, that’s not what I say! I say, ‘you’re about to be hoooome on the range, son! Here comes the storm!’”

“NOOO!!!!”

Spike’s frightened cry punctuated Colt’s jump up from the ropes, Spike’s little blonde head still tucked between his legs. It felt like ages in air before Colt unleashed a thousand watts of pure pain into Spike’s system, frying him like an egg as Colt transformed himself into a living bolt of lightning, striking Spike into the mat with a concussive force.

CRACK!

The ring shook. As did Spike. His system completely destroyed by the combo of pumped voltage and a deadly inverted blow, the destroyed fighter convulsed on the canvas in front of his superior. Involuntarily, Spike’s arms lifted into the air, flailing around, before trembling on the mat–poor Spike seizing all the while.

“Catching butterflies there, son?” Colt joked as he knelt down and cradled his pupil’s head with one hand, and flexed his boulder bicep with the other. “Looks like you’re all bang and no bullet, son.”

Buck went to his knees by Spike’s side. “Dad! You…just destroyed him!”

“Nah,” Colt said, looking down and admiring his work. “You okay there, Spikey?”

A trial of foaming spittle ran from Spike’s lips, and his eyes swirled around wildly in his skull. “Kkkkhhhh….””

“See,” Colt gestured to the demolished jobber. “He’s fine.” Colt leaned in. “You just hold tight now and let me pin you. Now, Buck, if you want to be a dick–and somethin’ tells me you do, Buck–you can pin him like this, make him look like he’s goin’ to his grave.” 

Colt picked up Spike’s trembling hands and crossed them over his chest, even as his pupil’s legs jerked and twitched on the canvas. He pressed down, leaning in and pinning his boy. “You want to do the honors and count him out, Buck?”

Buck was all too glad to do so, hitting the mat with his palm. “One…two…” On the last count, however, Buck picked up Spike’s neck, taking his shoulders off the mat. “Oh! Dad, he looks like he wants more.”

“No he doesn’t!” Colt, said, rolling his eyes and repositioning himself. Beneath him, Spike made small, moaning sounds. “Geez, Buck, you’re gonna be a terror when you get in the ring, aren’t ya?”

“Fiiiine. So like, what happens if you, you know…don’t reverse it?”

“Phew…” Colt thought about it. “Permanent brain damage, probably.” He laughed, looking down at his twitching student. “Not like that would do you any worse, would it, blondie?”

“Nnngnggg…” was Spike’s strained, mindless response.

“Is he like, even aware of his surroundings?” Buck asked.

“Hmmm? Nah, he’s my little plaything now.” Colt brushed Spike’s hair out of his eyes, in an almost fatherly way. “Of course, if I was a heel, I could do all sorts a things to you Spikey, and you wouldn’t be able to do shit now, would ya? I could hog-tie ya. I could even brand my name into that cute little butt of yours. You’re lucky I’m a good guy, right?” Colt nodded to Buck. “You wanna finish that count, son, so I can bring your friend back to life?”

Buck nodded, but he lowered his head next to Spike’s ear. He coldly whispered, “You’re lucky my pa is merciful, Spike. I’d have more fun with you.” He didn’t care if his father saw or not, but Buck subtly gave his twitching pal the gentlest nibble on the earlobe. “So adorable. One. Two. Three! The winner, and still undisputed champion--and also the best dad in the world–Colt ‘The Bolt’ Tamberly!” He pointed to his dad, proud to see him show a jobber how it’s done.

“Damn straight!” Colt said, the cowboy showing off his ‘guns’. He pulled Spike’s neck off the ground, his head still lolling around. “Okay, Spike, let’s get you all fixed up now.” The muscled fighter massaged Spike’s shoulders, slowly pumping him full of electricity, ‘rewiring’ his shattered nervous system–and even heartbeat–to the right setting. He would be fine. The idea was that it just looked deadly.

With the twunk all fixed up, Colt kept a heavy hand on the back of Spike’s neck, propping the unconscious fighter up. He pointed to the back of his head. “You wanna do the honors, heel? Just a quick strike will do it!”

“Fuck yeah!” Buck said, hungrily. 

“HEY! Language.”

“Oh, sorry. Heh. Wake up, jobber!” 

Buck picked up his leg and delivered a brutal curb stomp to the back of Spike’s neck and spine, properly ‘resetting’ him and lifting him out of unconsciousness. 

Spike’s eyes bugged out of their head as he rudely came to. “OOOWWW!” he moaned, trying to get his senses. Without Colt’s numbing electricity, however, the pain done to his back, neck, and spine came on in a merciless, sharp wave. He winced, his eyes welling up with tears. He rubbed the back of his neck in anguish. “Oh…Goddess….” He sniffed. 

Colt was awash with guilt, while Buck just looked plain satisfied–enjoying Spike’s whimpering. “Oh!” Colt started. “Oh no. Hey now, son, it’s okay.” He pulled Spike into his chest, holding him tight.

“Aghhh,” Spike winced. “You really got me good, cowboy.” He sniffed pathetically.

Colt bit his lip, and lifted Spike up and over his shoulder. “Hey, I better take this little guy back and give him a nice, electric massage. That’ll set him straight.” Like carrying a newborn lamb, Colt stepped through the ropes and gently lowered himself–and his patient–onto the ring floor. “There we go now. Good boy. Your teach‘ll get you all fixed up.”

Buck crossed his arms, watching his dad leave with his crush swinging over his back. As they got to the door, Spike quietly–unbeknownst to Colt–lifted his head and gave Buck a wink and a thumbs up.

Hehehe. Your dad is all mine, Buck.

“You little twerp…” Buck said through gritted teeth as he watched smug, satisfied Spike’s body vanished behind the training ring door. Looks like he’d won this match after all…