Soon to fill our lungs
the hot winds of death
The gods are laughing,
so take your last breath
-Metallica, "Fight Fire With Fire"
***
Fulton
The TV is tuned to a late night football game, with the volume low in my room. Portman sits on my bed as I gently clean the wounds on his naked torso with a wet towel and some peroxide. The blue glow of the TV reflects on Portman's bruised abs and cuts through the yellow light of the nearby table lamp. I could feel the burn of peroxide on my neck as he winces with every touch of it on his skin. Portman holds on to the sides of the bed as he both smirks with pain and smiles at my presence. I still feel bad, knowing that I could've done better and worse with those guys. Believe me, I don't like fighting, and I do my very best to help people out, keep myself quiet and out of trouble, and be nice to everyone, but if someone messes with Dean, my Dean, the animal side of me surfaces to my face and my anger unleashes at whoever hurts him. I swore to myself that anyone who even comes close to hurting my Dean like that again would face the deadly wrath of Fulton Reed.
Once I'm done cleaning his wounds, I help him recline on my bed and hide him under my sheets. Portman just smiles at me. Man, I love it when he smiles. It always reminds me of the humility, innocence, and purity that exist in Dean's heart. Seeing that smile makes my eyes watery, because it's something I'll never experience. How I want to be humble again! How I want to be innocent and pure! How could he keep it up? Smiles like that are never for me to make.
I turn off the table lamp, leaving the glow of the TV and the low voices coming from it to lightly fill the black room. I recline next to Portman to get ready for our much-needed sleep for tomorrow's game. Knowing that those painkillers could only do so much, I stroke his nipple with my fingers back and forth to shadow his pain with some pleasure. My arm wraps around his shoulders as I prop myself up to see his face straight on. Only I ever got to see those puppy eyes.
"Dean, promise me something? Let's never talk about threesomes again." I tell him softly into those eyes.
"I promise, bro." Dean replies, almost inaudibly.
"Scouts' honor?"
"Scouts' honor." Dean chuckles.
"Cross your heart?"
"Cross my heart."
"And hope to die?"
He hesitates, but smiles when he says,
"And hope to die."
Portman
It's so hard to break away from Fulton's look. I swear, any time now, and I'll come running across the rattling of the locker room and pull his long black hair towards my face and push his body inside his locker to kiss him, caress him, and fuck him right there! I just can't resist!
The weird thing is that he's also having a hard time holding back as the two of us and the rest of the team come in and undress for this morning's practice. He takes off his shirt and shows me his huge chest, which I never get bored of seeing. I try to do the same, but then I remembered about last night and the sight of a bruised Dean Portman could depress the rest of the team. Dammit, though, we know what we're thinking now as we give the looks and smiles that hunger for lust at each other from across the locker room. Finally, as he takes off his pants to reveal his last remaining line of defense, his old boxers that bulged with his package, I can't resist anymore! I get up and go to where he is, but realizing that we're still in a locker room full of guys, all I can do is to just pat him on his bare shoulder and rub it a little. He turns to me smiling. I crouch down and whisper in his ear.
"Damn, bro, you picked a fuckin' good time to turn me on!"
"Don't I always?"
Then I go to Bosco to apologize for last night, but all he does is go, "The damage is done," and continues gearing up. He's still pissed at me. Dang.
When we're done, we all go to this room for our briefing. Coach Manning looked really moody today. He probably woke up on the wrong side of the bed as usual.
"Guys, we have what is known as a Frank Spencer situation. 'Hmm, Betty, we've got a little bit of trouble.'"
I didn't get it. Was that a joke or something?
"Anyway, we've got a whole slew of stars in this game. Number 96, Charles Conway, is starting to make a run for the money this season, so Bosco, keep your egotistical ramblings to yourself for once."
Everyone smiled at that one.
"But, guys, he's the least of your worries tonight. The Anaheim Ducks have recently signed these two new goons from the minors. Reed and Portman, are you listening? This especially applies to you two. These guys are pure assholes, and they're as hard as they come. They're known as the Diamond Ducks, Number 60, Marco Pomona, and Number 57, Piccadilly 'The Puck' Orange."
Oh hell h'yeah! Piccadilly! That's fresh; an enforcer named Picadilly! Oh man!
"Yeah, Portman, laugh it up, because you'll need all the cheer in the world to knock these guys out!"
Then Manning puts on this videotape of the Diamond Ducks for us to watch. Those big laughs and utter hilarity now turn to big gasps of shock and utter fear, because what I'm seeing on that TV screen is scaring the crap out of me. These guys could lift players off their shoulders and over the glass like nothing! Add speed to that, and they could plow through an entire lineup just seconds after they hit the ice! And the fights, well, unlike those other hockey fights, there were winners! Those two could beat the shit out of anyone who even so much looks at them the wrong way!
And that's not all! Manning talks over the tape, saying that, considering the Diamond Ducks have only played nine season games as professionals, the two alone have badly injured a whopping twenty players! Most of them won't be playing again for at least for the rest of the season, if they're lucky enough to recuperate, while some others are so banged up, you could safely bet that their careers in professional hockey were over.
As I see and hear this, fear and panic runs over me. Sitting next to me, Fulton sweats and gawks at what he sees. He's just as scared as I am. To calm ourselves, we bring down our hands close together, not letting anyone see them, and hold our pinkies tightly together. At least I know my brother-on-ice will be there with me.
Fulton
After a long practice and a quick nap in the locker room, we ready ourselves for what could be one hell of a show tonight, Ducks versus Wild. Once the team's ready, we exit the locker rooms and enter the Arrowhead Pond, welcomed by cheers, jeers, and lots of camera flashes. We begin doing our pre-game drills as usual, taking note of the tough competition also drilling on the other side of the rink. Number 96, Conway, sees us and gives us a heads-up, and Portman and I respond by doing the same. Just a few guys ahead of him are Numbers 57 and 60 doing their thing, trying to look back at us. I keep it to myself and do my drills with Portman and the rest of the gang. Then, after the national anthem, the two teams form a line for the pre-game shake of hands. I could swear that I see Conway moving his lips saying 'Please don't hurt me' as he passes by and shakes my hand.
But then we move farther down the line, and we meet Numbers 57 and 60. Upon seeing them, our hearts sank as the joy of seeing Conway after a long time suddenly turned to rabid hate for our newly found enemies.
It's those same two fucks at the club last night!
Now we know why the fans brought their cameras. They know something big is going down tonight. It's like those stories about the Civil War, when early on, when two armies were preparing for battle, the locals would come to the battlefield thinking the battle was just going to be a little show and that the spectators would have a good time. Man, were they in for a surprise! Instead, they saw blood, pain, and anguish as they witnessed history unfolding before their very eyes.
We go to our side of the rink and wait there. Portman, Manning, and I made the decision to wait until either Pomona or Orange came on the ice, letting them make the first move. Portman can't wait, because anger was running through his body like electricity as he pumps up the rest of the team with his colorful mouth. He pats my neck and sends me that electricity into my body. His thirst for vengeance becomes ours. He then sends these stabbing stares to the Diamond Ducks, who are also sitting down at their benches. Pomona and Orange relish their bloodlust by shooting these mean-ass grins, waiting to eat us alive, towards us. I shoot back my trademark steely stare, ready to unleash my wrath.
The game begins with Conway with his wings against Bosco, Soto, Abbot, and two other wings.
Almost immediately, Bosco and our wings have complete control of the puck as Conway and his team chases him. In three minutes of play, Abbot sets himself up for an assist, but as Bosco sends him the puck, Abbot is overwhelmed by two smaller wings. One of them takes the puck and sends it to Conway. At six minutes, Soto is penalized for cross-checking. This gave the Ducks a power play, but Bosco and the three remaining wings hang on. At ten minutes, Abbot is penalized for high-sticking. The puck is handled so gracefully by the two centers; I'm starting to wonder who I am rooting for! The game is clean and organized on both sides, and each of the two teams press on as though they were doing a hockey version of the Blue Danube, which means that nothing really special is going on. By the time the first period ends, no one scores.
Second period starts, and some new wings come to Bosco's aid. Conway also gets a change of personnel, which, unfortunately, still didn't include Pomona and Orange, who are just as anxious to pulverize us as we were. Portman and I shake our restless bodies and grind our sticks with our hands. The sweat from my head turns my bandana into a black mess of water and salt, and I haven't even played yet! The suspense is killing the both of us, and we're due to die of heart attacks because of it. Our only interest right now is to fuck these guys up. But we have to wait. We just have to wait until they go in first.
Finally, eight minutes into the period, Bosco single-handedly takes advantage of the temporarily incapacitated goalie and shoots the puck into his net. Being this an away game for us, the goal is welcomed with boos and hisses. This also meant that there would be another change of personnel. Among that change was the replacement of a wing with Mr. Marco Pomona.
"Yes!" Portman shouts out, no longer able to control the bubbling brew of hatred in him.
"Reed! You're up!" Manning goes. I put back my bandana and gear up, only to be interrupted by Portman.
"Wait, coach! Lemme fuck that guy!"
It was how he said it that gets me, how do you say, aroused. Soon, my passions, pleasures, and eroticisms join forces with my anger to form my own version of bloodlust. Violence has now been equated with sex. The grin of hunger for pain returns to me.
Manning gives him the go, and he hits the ice against Pomona. Portman and Pomona come together for the face-off. The two grin at each other and hold it.
Portman
"I guess last night wasn't good enough for you! Now you're back for seconds!"
"Just doing my nine-to-five, sunshine." I go.
"I'll see that you really do."
The linesman drops the puck, and I snap it back to MickeyD. I turn around to join him, and Pomona trails me as MickeyD does his thing with the other wings. MickeyD passes it to Bosco for an open goal, but the goalie saves it. As I swing around the net, hoping to get that puck, Pomona heads to the other side and smashes me on the side against the boards behind the goal. The pain didn't register until I fell onto the ice. It was nothing like I've ever felt before! Nerves communicate the near crush of bones and watering of muscles within the frame of my body. Then I see Pomona racing towards my wings. He swings towards Bosco, who now has the puck, and smashes him, too, handing the puck to the whims of Conway. Shit! I'm an enforcer and I'm not enforcing! I get up only to see another teammate now crashing head on with Pomona as he tries to take the puck from Conway. Conway and Pomona make their way towards our goalie, Harry Lanzetti, and set up the shot, but Lanzetti saves it. He hands it to MickeyD, who now heads towards the other net. Pomona and Conway trail him. This was my chance to annihilate him.
Conway fishes for the puck from MickeyD, who's holding his own weight, but is tripped by Pomona's stick and falls hard. The referees ignore this and the puck is taken by Pomona. I skate towards Pomona, daring him into a game of chicken. "Come close, my precious!" I whispered to him. Just when we're about to crash head-on, Pomona ducks. I'm too close to stop. My body trips over his and I fall behind him, sliding down the ice to collide with MickeyD, who was barely getting up and now falls again. I see Conway and Pomona swing around the net, set up the shot, and score. Damn!
Now the pain couldn't be ignored. I was down.
But then, the badly injured wing goes to the bench, and out comes Fulton. Immediately, the pain turns into pleasure. He goes to where I am and helps me up.
"Dean, are you okay?"
Hell yeah! Fulton calling me by my first name is the fresh cup of coffee that wakes me up in the morning! "With you here, bro, I'm always okay."
Fulton smiles at that, and we take a quick dreamy glance at each other's eyes. We were connecting. That's just what we needed to beat these guys.
But then, more personnel changes occur on the Ducks' side, and now Orange comes out to play, quietly skating towards Fulton with a cloud of gloom hanging over him. We reunite for the face-off. This time, it's Fulton who will fight Orange for the puck.
Fulton
Portman stands opposite Pomona. Portman already looks beat, but I nod to him to keep him fresh, and it works....
Picadilly Orange is not as puny as the name suggests. The guy is big and hulky, with muscles bulging out of his jersey. His round and unshaven face and large gray eyes could scare kids easily, leaving me to wonder what would happen if he got a spot on Sesame Street! Man, that pole really left a big gash on his head, too. The sight of it, and the fact that the guy survived that smacking, makes me wince. He skates around my body, surveying it. We crouch down, ready to fight for the puck. As we exchange icy glances, Orange says to me in a heavy British accent, "Lovely bum, luv. Pity 'bout the boat race."
"What?"
"You don't know your good and proper English, mate? 'Love the ass, but your face is shit!'"
I said nothing to that. I'll save my fury for the play.
The puck falls, and Orange takes it. Portman and Pomona crash onto each other. I catch up to Orange and violently check him against the boards, crunching his bones and cracking his helmet. He gets out easily, though. Our right wing, Manny Mednik, takes the puck, but Orange comes to him and presses his shoulder against Mednik's and sends him flying onto the other side of the rink. Meanwhile, Portman gets out of his stalemate with Pomona and barrels down the ice to catch up with Orange. Orange passes it to Conway for the net, but they're not clear for the shot, so the puck is passed back to Orange, who swerves behind the net. Seeing that Mednik got up and is now behind me, I ready myself to hit Orange head on, but as we nearly meet, Orange sees the threat, so he stops short of the crash point, and I careen towards the glass, hitting it with a crunch, and fall to the ice.
"Bad, bad work, Mr. Starbuck!" Orange mockingly pities me with that damn British accent of his that's getting on my nerves.
Pomona has Portman pinned along the side of the rink as Portman skates to my aid. Finally, using the glass as leverage, he quickly pushes Pomona off. Orange sends the puck to his wing, gives me a quick kick with his skates, which the referees didn't see, and follows his wing. I quickly get up and follow him. The wing passes the puck to Conway, who shoots for the goal, only to be stopped by Lanzetti's quick glove.
Meanwhile, Pomona passes the bunch and heads to the center of the rink, where Bosco waits for our puck. Lanzetti gives the puck to Mednik. Remembering that an enforcer's job is to protect his center and wings, Portman and I join him and cover his sides. The three of us head towards Bosco, but seeing that Bosco is also having a tough time shrugging Pomona off, we skip the notion and head for the goal. Just then, Orange, Conway, and their wings speed up towards us. Pomona flings Bosco away with a push and heads straight for Portman. Portman heads towards Pomona, which leaves Mednik's right side open for Orange's near attack. I quickly make it to the other side and block Orange's push for Mednik, which in turn pushes me to the side, though I'm still up and skating. Orange continues chasing Mednik, who now passes the puck to Abbot. Abbot barrels like the Formula One racer that he is to our goal, and Orange tries to keep up with him. Seeing that Abbot could handle himself, I wait for Portman.
So, Portman heads towards Pomona with speed and rage. The two crash and send themselves sliding in perpendicular directions across the ice, but the two quickly get up. Pomona joins Orange, and I join Portman. Abbot swings around our goal and out to the other side, but Pomona and Orange join forces and ram head onto Abbot. Orange takes the puck, and the two speed towards Lanzetti. There, Portman and I speed towards them ready to plow them head-on, playing our game of chicken. Our eyes lock with theirs. This is it. Now or never. Go for the kill.
Then, as we nearly crash, Pomona and Orange duck down. Shit! We try to stop, but it's too late. We fall on their backs; they pick us up and send us flying across the ice, but not before I couple my skates together to grab Orange's neck with them and send him crashing down with us. We fall down heads first on the ice. Bosco takes the puck and passes it to Abbot. Pomona now eyes at Abbot. Wincing at the now-fallen Orange, the two quickly get up and speed towards the fat but fast wing. We gotta protect Abbot! We get up, but we can't catch up any faster. Pomona and Orange push Abbot towards the glass, and check him simultaneously, sending poor Abbot to the ice. Pomona takes the puck. Abbot stays down. Portman and I catch up to him and see that he's not getting up. The linesmen stops the play with the whistle and checks Abbot.
"The hip! They hurt my hip!" Abbot speaks in one of those rare instances.
We lower his pants a little to see the bruise just over his right thigh. It's bad, really bad. Pomona and Orange must have deliberately aimed for it, since their combined force would've been enough to injure him where it mattered. We didn't protect him. We're defensemen and we didn't protect him! We failed.
Bosco and Mednik come to our aid, knowing there is little they can do now. Conway also breaks away from his team and meets up with me.
"You think he'll make it?"
But I wasn't listening to the Spazzway. I steadily eye Pomona and Orange. I wanted to tear them apart now, so I skate towards them and face Orange. Orange steps up, looking as though he was ready.
"I guess the daft little bugger came a cropper, eh?" Orange smiles acidly towards me. "What about you? Feeling a little buggered yourself, are you not? You are into that sort of thing, right?"
With that, I throw down my gloves and stick as he does the same. I was furious. He was overjoyed.
"Oh, so you do remember snogging your queer mate Portman at the Viper Room, don't you? I bet he sucked your knackers on the way home! Was it fun? Was it good?"
I grab him by the neck and give the first knee kick in his stomach, but he pushes me away, sending me down, and pins me to the ice. With my face pressed against it, his fist hammers away, and the blood starts running. After three hits that felt like being hit with a dumbbell, my head gets out of the way, sending his fist to crack the ice below.
Portman tries to get Orange, only to be pulled back by Pomona, who sends his fist into Portman's face, instantly sending him down. Shit, my bro needs help! He can't take the guy on his own. He needs me, but I have to get rid of Orange first.
Taking advantage of my freed self, I pop up behind Orange's back, hold his head, and smash it against the ice repeatedly until I saw a trickle or two of blood coming out of his face. I lift him up, and he punches me in the face, and we give each other tons of lightning-fast jabs at each other to the enjoyment of the fans, which are reveling in the sight of crimson on the ice and on our faces. With these blows, he should go into heavyweight boxing; what the hell was he doing as an enforcer? He then pushes my face against the glass, in front of the spectators who see what $125 for front-seat tickets gets you, and hammers my head again. Gushes of crimson and red run down from my face and onto the glass. The spectators just gawk in complete surprise at the sight, but cheer on, indifferent to the ringing pain that this guy's fist were giving me.
"C'mon, bro, fuck his ass!"
With Portman's words rejuvenating me, I land an uppercut on Orange's jaw, which pushes him back a bit, getting me out of that bind. We look at each other steadily again, and I see that his face is now totally blue and red. I'm probably looking like a plum now.
All of our teammates, as well as the Ducks are out of the benches and onto the ice, waiting to see what will happen, ignoring Abbot, who is now placed on a stretcher and carried out of the rink with help from Bosco and Mednik.
Portman gets up to meet Pomona. He lets Pomona take a few swings, but Portman instead does the smart thing and dodges them. Portman then punches Pomona into the stomach again with all his might. It almost works, because Portman is now intimidating Pomona, pushing him away. Orange, however, was intimidating me and his airings were pushing me away from him. This continues until I touch Pomona by my back. Suddenly it's like the Viper Room all over again.
Duck down!
Orange takes a swing towards me, but I duck down, with my butt facing the glass. Portman pushes Pomona over me as Orange topples over Pomona.
NOW, FULTON!
I raise my hands to pry up Pomona and Orange's legs, yell an orgasm of pain and anguish as I raise my back, and propel the two in the air. Their bodies fly over me and shatter the glass, and the two enforcers crash violently onto the front-row seats and over their number one fans. The hard and patterned seats shatter every bone of their body. They stayed there. It was over.
The Diamond Ducks are done for.
We go to the broken glass and see the spectators scared shitless as the Orange and Pomona turn their heads towards our bloody faces.
"Is that your best?" Pomona says as though they could still do better.
Then Portman goes, "Well, to kinda quote St. Paul, 'If you think you're on the ball, then beware that you don't fall!'"
"Don't bring St. Paul into this!" Orange retorts weakly.
"Well, our state capital is named after him, so it does give him a little say." Finally! A good comeback, and even Dean liked it as we give a high five.
But then one of the linesmen blows a whistle and orders us out of the game. Oh well. The two of us start heading back to our locker rooms, but not before Dean screams in excitement over the booing fans, raises his hands in victory. I'm so pumped right now, I can't help but hold his hand and do the same. We do our victory lap around the rink, knocking the glass hard and guffawing our way, giving chest butts and tight hugs to each other as we scream and scream to the top of our lungs! This was our night. The Bash Brothers have been vindicated!
We enter the locker room with blood still fresh on our grinning faces. Our trainers help clean ourselves up as we undress and take count of our pulping wounds on our bodies. As the trainers help us, I relax my head over Portman's shoulder, laughing and giggling. They leave us two alone for a while, and Portman's hand finds its way under my bandana (which was still on me, by the way). It stayed there, tickling my scalp and brushing my long jet-black hair underneath.
Then I see Bosco, who looks at us from across the locker room in this unusually keen way. He then shakes his head in disgust and goes,
"Bad, bad work, Mr. Starbuck."