MEN, MUSCLE, and MAYHEM (3 page)

With one hand on Mordecai’s cock, one finger working its way into Mordecai’s hole, and his tongue working back to the superhero’s plum-sized balls, Robert managed to bring Mordecai over the edge. With a scream that was surely heard in all the adjacent apartments, Mordecai shot a load that splashed his own chin as he continued sucking on the gentile’s cock. Spurt after spurt of his kosher spunk erupted between them before Robert also lost control and shot clear into Mordecai’s mouth. Mordecai hungrily lapped up the
treyf
(non-kosher) treat and swallowed all he could.

Robert was satiated, and said, “Damn, that was hot.”

But, Mordecai didn’t speak. Still hovering over Robert, he started to feel a burning sensation in his gut, then he rolled off the bed onto the floor. He held his stomach and felt a pain like no other he felt before. He started to cry out, then he began to convulse to the horror of Robert who didn’t know what to do.

“Oh no … what do I do … Oh shit,” Robert whined as he went to put on his jeans and located his cell phone. He was fumbling with it, when he heard a knock at the door. With a flourish, he opened the door, and who was standing there, but Mordecai’s mother.

Rose looked at Robert who was wearing only a pair of jeans that he had not had a chance to button up then saw Mordecai, naked and crying in pain and convulsing in the middle of the bedroom floor. By now, Mordecai had turned almost red as his blood was starting to boil, and he was sweating profusely. Eighty-four-year-old Rose shoved Robert out of the way and ran to her only son, the son she prayed for, the son who was a gift from God, the son who was dying right in front of her eyes.

“What did he eat?” she screamed at Robert as she knelt beside Mordecai.

Robert stood there frozen.

“What did he eat?” she screamed again. “Say something. He must have eaten something forbidden. What kind of
treyf
did you feed him? I have to know! My son is dying. What did you feed him?”

“I … I …” Robert stammered.

“Answer me!” she screamed as she opened her purse.

“He … he swallowed my …,”Robert began. “He swallowed my …”

“
Oy vay
! Just say it. He swallowed your load. Now what did you eat today? Did you have ham? Shell fish? Bird of prey? Answer me, I need to know!” Rose screamed.

“I … had a ham sandwich for lunch,” Robert answered confused.

Rose then reached into her purse and pulled out a syringe and a vial with purple liquid in it. While Mordecai continued to convulse on the floor, she drew some of the liquid into the syringe.

“Get over here and help me hold him down. I need to plunge this into his heart,” Rose bellowed.

Robert hesitated.

“Now!” she yelled as he looked right at her.

At that point, he figured she may be over eighty, but she could still probably kick his ass. Robert hurried over and helped her hold Mordecai, who although in pain and clearly dying, was still stronger than ever. He held the big man’s shoulders while she aimed for his heart with the syringe of purple liquid. She may have been elderly, but her aim was perfect. The syringe went straight into his heart, and she pressed the plunger, releasing the liquid.

Within seconds, Mordecai quit convulsing. He quieted down, and his skin went from bright red to olive again. His body temperature also started to return to normal.

“Get me a blanket to cover him up,” Rose said to Robert.

He pulled a blanket off the bed and handed it to Rose. She covered her son from the waist down and then pulled her cell phone out of her purse.

“I may have changed his diapers and potty trained him, and I have always known it was a large one, but I don’t think he needs to wake up and find his mother staring at his naked body,” Rose said as she started dialing the phone.

“What was in that syringe?” Robert asked.

“Manischewitz Concorde Grape,” she answered matter-of-factly.

Rose called her friend Gert, and with Robert’s help, they walked Mordecai to Rose’s car – a brown Eldorado. Before she got behind the wheel, Rose said to Robert who was still in a state of shock, “I am truly sorry, but you cannot see my son again. It is a matter of life and death.”

Robert did not argue; he understood. Well, he didn’t really understand, but he also didn’t want to witness anything like that again. He also never wanted to sleep with another Jew for fear he would accidentally kill him.

Rose spent the night at Mordecai’s to be sure he was all right. The next morning, she lectured him, ending with, “Superman has Kryptonite, and you have
treyf
. If you ever eat
treyf
again, I cannot guarantee I will be there to save your life. Perhaps you should carry a Manischewitz pen.”

“Yes, Mother,” Mordecai said, then he kissed her on the cheek. He then looked up and cocked one ear toward the window.

With a flash and a whoosh that almost blew off her wig, all Rose saw was a dark blue and white streak go out the window followed by a crash of glass as he had forgotten to open it.

“What do you call a Jewish superhero?” she said out loud, while shaking her head and smiling, “A klutz.”

A REAL GYM

Michael spent more time than he wanted on the road. When he accepted the job as a consultant for the Department of Homeland Security, he thought he would be spending his time in Washington, New York, Los Angeles and Chicago, but that was not the case. Michael found himself waking up in sleepy little towns that cartographers did not take the time to notice. Towns with names like Pungo, Kincaid, Swelterville and Destination, a town so small it was named for being a stop on a long abandoned railroad.

In an effort to ensure that the government would function in the event of a national emergency, Michael’s job was to negotiate contracts for bunkers and other sites to house the country’s leaders. Uncharted towns made the perfect locations for these future government facilities. The secret was negotiating a deal that did not bring attention to the sleepy hamlets. Many of the civic leaders wanted the attention and hoped to boost their economies with the government contracts. Michael, however, managed to quiet their aspirations with promises of infrastructure improvements, new schools and other necessary projects.

One Monday, Michael arrived in Erlach, Virginia, a town, located southwest of Richmond, but so small, that even the citizens of Virginia’s capital had never heard of it. He was pleasantly surprised to find a motel off the main highway through town. At sixty miles per hour, one blink and the motel would have been missed; two blinks and the town would have disappeared.

Michael grabbed his bag from the trunk of his car and knocked on the office door to the Erlach Motel, which was attached to the Erlach Diner, a converted railroad dining car that held the promise of good Southern cooking that Michael always craved. No one answered the door, so Michael walked over to the diner and entered.

It was three-thirty in the afternoon, and only a couple of patrons, mostly elderly gentlemen who looked as if they had retired from a lifetime of dairy farming, were sitting at the counter. Michael sat on a stool and removed his jacket.

At forty-one, Michael looked to be in his prime. He was wearing a dark blue T-shirt and jeans. Michael loved working out, and it showed. He was six-foot-two and weighed 240 pounds. Although on the road, Michael managed to find a gym most every place he went, and when none was available, he would work out with the sixty-pound dumbbells and the push-up bars he picked up in a fitness store he stumbled upon in Swelterville. Michael’s favorite exercise was push-ups. He would do a set between every exercise even when working out in a gym. If he had a couple of hours free, he would spend them doing set after set of push-ups. Michael lived for the feeling of his chest getting pumped with every rep.

He would often be in a motel room in some hick town, stripped to his briefs, sweaty and pumped from hours of push-ups. Michael would then flex in the mirror and finish his routine by rubbing out a big load from his thick cock.

One of the retired farmers took notice of Michael and stared at him. He was used to being ogled for he was a fine looking man with his olive skin, dark curly hair, thick eyebrows and lashes and dark bedroom eyes. His body was big, hairy and muscular, and Michael was often asked if he took steroids. One look at Michael’s large, full balls confirmed that his physique was all natural. Michael liked to eat, and fortunately for him, everything that went into his mouth turned to muscle – everything.

The cook stepped out from the back and walked over to Michael. Michael liked what he saw. The cook was not quite as tall as Michael, but his white T-shirt and stained apron barely contained his powerful form. There was no hint of hair under his hat, and he had the face of a professional wrestler. Michael noticed the scarred forehead, which was a sure sign of self-inflicted, razor wounds to give a paying crowd the blood they craved. He judged the chef to about fifty or fifty-five, and Michael considered inviting him to his room later that night to see who could do the most push-ups for the longest time. The thought made his cock leak.

“Can I get you anything?” the cook asked.

“Actually, I wanted to get a room for few nights at the motel next door, but no one answered when I knocked,” Michael said.

“That’s because I’m standing right here,” the cook said with a smile. He was missing at least three teeth, probably knocked out by a metal chair in some noisy arena, Michael thought.

“OK, how much is a room?” Michael asked.

“Fifty dollars a night,” the cook answered, “paid in advance.”

Michael leaned forward and removed his wallet, noticing the cook staring at his flexed triceps. Michael looked at the retired farmer and noticed the man had also never taken his eyes off him. He pulled $150 from his wallet and handed it to the cook while rolling his eyes in the farmer’s direction.

The cook looked over at the retired farmer and back at Michael and said, “Don’t mind Smitty. Every time a big, good looking guy comes into town, he wonders if he is another of my old buddies.”

“From wrestling?” Michael asked.

“Yeah, how did you know?” the cook asked.

Michael motioned to his forehead and said, “You have the battle scars. I follow professional wrestling, but I cannot place you.”

The cook put Michael’s money in the cash register and reached under the counter, plucking out one of the keys, hooked below. He handed Michael the key and smiled.

“Remember the asshole that always wore an orange mask, wrestled dirty, and was hated by the crowd?” the cook asked.

“You’re the Southern Terror?” Michael asked, and he almost shot a load in his briefs.

“The one and only,” the cook said. “So, you want anything to eat before you check in?”

Michael was usually hungry, but he only ordered coffee, explaining, “I really want to work out before dinner. There wouldn’t happen to be a gym in this town, would there be?”

The cook poured him a cup of coffee and said, “Believe it or not there is. It is located in the building behind the motel.”

Michael put cream and sugar in his coffee, stirred it and said, “Let me guess. You own that, too.”

The cook smiled again and told Michael, “As a guest in my motel, you can work out there for free. I warn you, it’s just a gym, no fancy machines or prancing personal trainers, or spandexed pretty boys.”

The thought of the cook’s gym made Michael’s cock leak again, and he said, “That’s perfect. I haven’t seen a real gym in years. Tell me you don’t play loud bar music, and I may buy a house in this town.”

“Well, you know that house across the street with a for sale sign in front?” the cook asked.

Michael laughed, wondering just how much of Erlach, Virginia, this hot, retired wrestler owned.

Michael checked into Room 24 and put his bag on the bed. He checked his messages, of which there were three from the DHS, one of which confirmed his meeting with the Mayor of Erlach the following morning at ten.

He opened his bag and pulled out his black sweat pants and an old, gray tank top. Michael was never a slave to health club fashion, so he was sure he would blend in at the cook’s gym just fine.

He decided to change his underwear, since the pair he was wearing was stained with precum, not an uncommon occurrence for Michael. He never wore a jock strap, preferring the security of tight, form-fitting briefs. He slipped on his sweat pants and tank top and laced up his black Converse hi-tops. He was looking forward to walking to the building behind the motel and having a real workout. It had warmed up a bit, so Michael figured he would not need a jacket for the short walk to the gym. He also didn’t bother to take a lock or gym bag, reasoning he would shower in the motel room before going to the diner for supper.

Michael stepped out of his room and made his way around back. The gym was just fifty or so feet from the motel and looked to be an old converted warehouse. Painted on the door was “S-T’s Gym.” Michael opened the door, and to his surprise, there were quite a few men working out. There was no foyer, only a small office to the left of the door, and two paces in, Michael found himself in the middle of a large weight room. The place was mainly lit by fluorescent light bulbs, the walls were all mirrored, and any surface that was not covered by mirrors was painted a charcoal gray.

Michael first noticed the lack of music; the only sound that could be heard was the clanking of weights and the grunting of men as they struggled against the iron. He also took in a deep breath, savoring the smell of chalk, sweat and testosterone.

As he looked around, he also noticed that most of the men were working out shirtless. No rules about decorum here. This was a real gym. His cock leaked again.

The door to the office opened, and the cook stepped out and put a hand on Michael’s shoulder.

“Just like I told you, nothing fancy, but it’s mine,” the cook said.

Michael turned to look at him and saw that he had also changed his clothes, wearing a pair of gray sweat pants and no shirt. Even past fifty, the man was powerfully built. His shoulders were like cannonballs, and his pecs were two giant plates of muscle. Michael was jealous of the old guy’s enormous traps.