The Telemachus Story Archive

A Super Superhero is Crowned
Part 3 - Arm to Arm
By Rick Henry

Previous page

A “Super” Superhero is Crowned.

Part II. -- (Arm to Arm?)

Mid-Town Square Garden was packed. Although it could only hold 15,000, it was sold out in the first 12 hours. The seats were tiered in the round, first come first served, $10,000 per ticket, whether high or low, far or close. Mortals, superheroes, demi-gods, all manner of living entities had thronged to this venue to see an event they never dreamed would take place. And most likely never would again. It was now or never: the two most spectacular physical specimens in the universe were meeting face to face in a good old-fashioned wrestling ring for an “arm wrestling” contest to determine who was number one. High-powered binoculars were issued to each ticket holder, so no one would be unable to view details of the tryst.

(Nevertheless, there was a twinge of something else in the air—that hinted maybe this might become more than an arm-to-arm engagement. Neither kingdoms and kingships are toppled nor established... just from the strength of a man’s arms. And they were agreed: the first set was to be the right arm, then the left, then the right again. Whatever followed was anyone’s guess. Perhaps even a riot, if those supporting one or the other might ultimately disagree and clash with worse than fists or heads.)

The crowd could barely be contained as the pre-match announcements were made and the lights went down to bring the opponents into the ring. Captain Marvel’s name was announced. A roar went up as Marvel appeared sauntering down the main walkway, the roar quickly turning to pandemonium. He found his designated ring spot and stopped, turning arms upraised in welcome. Then, he quickly slipped off his silky, kimono styled maroon robe, letting it drop with an unceremonious flourish, and gave a shocking yowl: “You wanna see some real fucking muscle?!!” he presented himself wholly unabashed.

Cap was stark naked, but only for a few seconds, before proceeding to barely cup over his more than notable “package”—tennis ball-sized testicles, and a thick, beyond nine-inch flaccid schlong—with but one meaty paw of defense... also holding something like a dish towel and small belt in the same hand: no less placing himself in the spotlight. With his left hand at his minimally masked crotch, he raised the right in a single biceps, creating a storm of applause that tore the roof off Mid-Town Square Garden. Marvel, rotating for all to see. He kept tensing his arm and flexing his biceps, then bringing it down for a half most-muscular, the clenched fist pointing directly at his genitals. Then, switching hands and arms, went up again into a left biceps. Cap looked directly into those delineated twin peaks, almost at eye level, which gave the impression of them being even bigger than their truly monstrous size. Fans near ringside futilely leaned precariously out to try and touch Marvel’s magnificent physique, to no avail. Elsewhere Marvel had stopped traffic and started near donnybrooks many times with his posing routines. There were few who could beat him, and many doubted Superman was his match in the posing department, though it had never taken place. Tonight, however, it was raw muscle versus raw muscle. Strength and power displayed in arm wrestling: a victor to be crowned, and the vanquished to wallow in defeat.

(For ironically, as the Russians had proven, some men of smaller physiques, lighter weights, and lesser arms had often defeated powerful titans twice their size in arm wrestling. An astonishment still being mulled over by the Herculean losers. Only most of the winners had managed to throw their whole body’s weight into the contest, out-leveraging the more massive muscle of their foe. Some grumbled whether this was fair or not. But if the losers did not protest, then what—accepting their defeat like whipped children? An issue of honor, still debated.)

But the Captain had no less already pre-planned and pre-orchestrated. He had fully revealed himself for a truer purpose. He thus, with an unexpected flourish took the towel, flashed it once, tucked it between his thighs, and pulled the both ends upwards, covering his front equipment and rear cleft, and then fastened the belt securely around the taper of his hips to hold it all together. He was no longer nude, decorously covered, and both hands were free. Then he had the entire arena in thunderous chaos, when he turned and treated the fans to his famous double-armed pose they’d long craved for. Going round and round. The lights blacked out, and Marvel disappeared.

Then Superman’s name was announced. If a group could reach maximum decibel level a second time so quickly, this was the crowd to do it. Superman strode through from the other sided walkway, a deep royal blue cloak covering him. With a similar but more demure flourish, he slipped from the robe and bared himself. The disappointment of his “no nudity” was noted, as a rather stark quiet descended. Or was it complete awe? Not what they’d expected after the first “show.” However, the MOS was indeed a sight to behold, which caused more than a few sharp intakes of breath.

Since his so famed reputation had been put to the task, he had finally decided he would give them a taste of what the “crown prince” of superheroes should look like (without being as flagrant as he knew his rival would be in his presentation). A figure of incomparable symmetry, considering his mass... he was again clad only in a startling body-clinging singlet of shimmery jet blue. Only this one was different, still hiding the major portion of his chest, it had a sharp V-slash down the front to just below his navel (thinly-strapped, cinched tight), revealing partially yes, his cobbled abs, a fine carpet of dark hair across the front of his voluminous torso (narrowed into an almost boyishly tapered waist)—but at his groin there was no bulge-packed mound. Instead, there was an astonishing, heavily pendulous projection that hung over two-thirds to his knees, very much filling the dark material of his custom-made suit (much like an add-on), so designed as to enhance his genital support and the display thereof. Yet well-contained, and not nearly as blatant as some might desire to see. (No doubt as to his touted supremacy among “heroes” there!!) Causing no few pangs of envy and jealousy throughout the arena.

The wide breadth of his smooth, thick shoulders, density of his hair-covered pectorals and ridged-defined abs... the further extensions of his hirsute mighty arms and beautifully muscled legs from his attire, all so deftly constructed... well, he was no less than astounding. Cap, of course, also a chiseledly handsome man of face and figure, Superman had a beyond similar mien, which exuded a persona of impeccable quality. Yet masculinely strong, and not angelic. His night-dark hair and beard accentuated the look. Superman put his left arm on his hip and raised his right arm, flexing his massive biceps into its enormous cannonball peak. The biceps that had won the recent tape-down looked more magnificent than ever. He headed for his corner of the ring rather graciously, amid more than oooh’s and shouts and cries of admiration.

The lights winked down again, and then Marvel appeared once more, towel-clad as before. Each man in his corner, awaiting the setup of the table and chairs... while the attendants hastily prepared their placements in the center.

The two men converged at the sound of a chimed gong, and the ref pulled them together to give them some brief rules. They were then guided to the table and seated across from each other. They were be stationed as upright as possible, but there was to be no whole body/torso heaving/leaning into the fray such as the Russians had allowed (where some had near completely bent out of their chairs towards the floor to overcome their opponent). This was not allowed. In fact, there were even steel-formed, oblong U’s built into the table top, hand grips as it were, to be used to anchor their non-participating hand and arm more steadily and prevent this from occurring, while the other was being stressed and tested. A unique innovation, indeed.

Sitting ringside, Power Rangers One and Two had been assigned the task of calling the shots for viewers at home. One suited in shiny silver, the other in vinyl red, without their helmets; almost looking like twins, both tawny, yellow-haired and in their late teens, trim and winsome.

The referee tried to get Superman and Marvel to come to a proper and equally satisfying grip. Each time they were about to begin, Marvel complained that Superman was jockeying for a better position, his forearms being longer. The ref gripped both their grasped hands and finally got them set, and leather-strapped them together. When he blew his whistle to start the action, the crowd was on their feet, absolutely roaring. Both Superman and Marvel went blood-red straining with every fiber of their bodies. Veins stood out in their necks, foreheads, and shoulders while their massive arms pumped to inhuman size. Marvel grimaced and grunted as he applied maximum pressure. He wasn’t finding Superman amusing anymore.

In less than a shocking thirty seconds, Marvel felt his arm going down. Superman had managed to get the jump and was muscling Marvel’s forearm to the table. Marvel grunted and struggled against the power of Superman’s “super-gun,” which was slowly but surely pressing the phenomenally massive split-peaked mountains of Marvel’s towards the table! The crowd could scarcely believe that someone was going down so soon, especially Marvel. His rock hard super-strong arms looked more than a match for the Man of Steel (near large as the thighs of many in attendance), yet Superman was winning! Marvel was able to stop Supe’s assault at around six inches and began puffing like a steam engine as he attempted to gain some ground back—Superman’s arms weren’t budging! The right Marvel gun was now preposterously engorged with blood, veins popping out everywhere around his ripped double-peaks. Spit flew from his mouth as he kept up the heavy breathing, “I'm gonna’ crush your puny excuse for biceps, SUPERMAN, these babies are the STRONGEST ARMS IN THE UNIVERSE!” he taunted, eyeing his amazing stressed flesh. At the same time, his mind frantic with unexpected desperation.

PR#1: “Seems like Cap is trying to psyche Superman out; he better try something quick... looks likes Supe’s single-arm apex is dominating those twin Marvel peaks!”

PR#2: “Supes got lucky. I mean he’s got the longer arm, greater leverage. But that Marvel gun is gonna make Superman’s look like last week’s squash. Cap is gonna’ come back and break Big Blue’s arm!!!!”

PR#1: “Yeah, right... Marvel and whose army?!”

By now the veins in Superman’s arm looked as if they were going to pop through his skin and his bowling ball bicep stretched to even more monstrous proportions, easily edging the same “24.7” he’d pumped with to beat Marvel in the measure-off.

“Captain Marvel is the FUCKING MUSCLE-GOD OF THE UNIVERSE!” Marvel shouted, trying to psyche himself up, powering hard into Superman, only to see Superman’s eyes fixed on his own over stressed dark-haired forearm. Superman now appeared to be straining less and less but a focused glaze had come over his face, almost as if he were looking through Captain Marvel. Superman’s bicep seemed to grow even larger as Marvel tried to overpower it.

“Marvel,” Superman spoke in a clear, definitive tone. “You were right last week in the gym. Any day of the week you or I could win a tape-off of our massive guns. But, as you may have forgotten, “pumped-size” doesn’t always mean true strength.” Supes continued applying steady pressure to Marvel’s enormous mountains of muscle and forced him down another unbelievable two plus inches.

PR#1: “WOW! Superman has just pushed Marvel down another two or three inches. Marvel is only centimeters from defeat! No one could have ever predicted this.... Superman has definitely taken control of this match, and Marvel seems powerless to stop him!”

PR#2: “Can’t be, can’t be! Cappy is the arm-king!”

“Thing is,” Superman continued, “I’ve always kinda let most people think we were pretty much equals in strength. Didn’t want to take anything away from you, all the good you’ve done for the world. Not really wise to have rivalries going on.”

“What the Hell are you babbling about—SHUT UP and get ready to have your arm broken in TWO!!!!!” Marvel huffed, grimacing and puffing, trying to keep his arm from being slammed to the table.

“Well, just wanted to let you know, I didn’t ask for this challenge. But you seemed bent on humiliating yourself in front of millions of people... who am I to stand in your way, Cap? You see, 300c curls, they’re not as tough for me as I made everyone believe.... I usually start my arm workout with 250’s, and go up from there. So let’s just say... I’m finished acting. Hope this doesn’t hurt too much....”

Then Marvel felt it. The thud sounded throughout the speaker system, as Superman slammed the gigantic Marvel gun tight to the board with astonishing ease, winning the round. Mixed boos and cheers resounded throughout the awe-struck crowd! Marvel’s eyes wide with disbelief. His lips wet with drool.

“WINNER, in just under three minutes!!” the ref announced. “SUPERMAN takes ONE!!”

PR#1: “Holy Cats!”

PR#2: “Who would’a thunk?! Still two to go....”

PR#1: “—Or maybe only one?”

PR#2: “Plenty of time, to rest and recoup. And see.”

The contestants had to stand, while the table was reversed. A ten-minute rest for each, preparing for the left arm challenge. This might be the bigger surprise and level the playing field. For each, their rights were their dominant power structures. But most considered Cappy the man for this one. His peaks were just too phenomenal.

Again, it took less than three minutes. Not even one, actually. They were seated, hand-strapped, grimaced at each other in preliminary flexes. The signal was given, gong sounded—. There was that initial titanic quaver—Cap’s arm hit the flat of the table before he got in his first real breath.

A stunned silence reverberated through the crowd.

Superman shrug-smiled like a mischievous kid. Cap’s face went from red to white to red.

The ref raised Superman's victorious arm straight up by the wrist. Then Superman arched his back, with an arced eyebrow, lifted both forearms high, sending forth his altered-angled biceps and triceps into the stratosphere... the crowd in whooping frenzy at the sight of his unsurpassed power-boys! Superman had beaten Captain Marvel in a muscle battle to prove beyond a shadow of a doubt that he was by far the stronger man! Marvel fans were in shock, stunned by how their massively muscular super-strong hero had been so decisively crushed!

PW#1: “Well, ladies and gentlemen... UNBELIEVABLE! Superman has just absolutely demolished Captain Marvel in an arm wrestling match—” but he didn’t get to finish.

With an explosive blast, the contest table was smashed to smithereens, the pieces and chairs flying. Marvel jumped up and forwards, an erupting volcano. “FUCK THAT!” Heading right for his target, the preening Superman with his double-raised biceps still aloft—Marvel instantly clasped both of his hands together as if holding a baseball bat, swung his arms, and sent them crashing them across the unprepared Superman’s face.

“There! Now my forearms DID hit first!”

Superman went flying off his feet and sprawled out sideways on the mat, beyond stunned. Two granite-like cannonballs had just smacked him in the head. The ref hastily stood back as Marvel stalked toward Superman. “Let's go Supes! Right here! Right now! If you got the balls and the muscle!” Marvel kicked fragments of the table and chairs off toward the ropes and called Superman to tangle with him.

PR#1: “Wow! This is more than anyone could have asked for!”

PR#2: “You said it. Superman and Marvel in a street fight? Damn!

The public address system picked up the challenge, and those in attendance began to anticipate an actual segue into a “Superman vs. Captain Marvel Bash-Fest.” The ref, worse than nonplussed, trying not get involved, was soon met by four superhero administrators and three arena officials posthaste—all convergent, wondering how to handle such unorthodox, indecorous behavior. Superman eyed Marvel, as he pulled himself up, somewhat embarrassed at finding himself unexpectedly on the canvas. Marvel was breathing in big gulps of air, his huge upper body ebbing and swelling as an evil glare fixed itself on Superman. Superman shook out his limbs and stared back at him, rising. Then they strode toward each other. Eyes ablaze.

Whistles were blown, and the officials enmasse moved in to separate the two titans.

“Very well, gentlemen! Cease and desist this instant! You are creating an unbecoming disturbance and disgrace not befitting your standings or reputations. If you wish to proceed, and carry this further, it must be with decorum and diplomacy. Will you agree?”

The two hulks stopped, and considered. The official’s words had weight. They had no right to issue or settle personal grievances in public, if it were NOT for the public good. They gave each other several scathing looks... then acceded. If they were to have a battle royal, it should be conducted judiciously, and be honorably acceptable to each, and their public. And each would be required to accept the outcome, regarding status... to be forthwith elevated or demoted.

They nodded in agreement.

“Therefore, you will proceed as follows,” said the ref. “As with the arm wrestling, the best two out of three rounds will be the determining factor. Unless it is a draw. And then, it is simply “a draw.” And settled.”

“And the parameters?” Superman asked.

“There will be a fifteen-minute rest between rounds. Rounds will go as long as necessary, whether two minutes or two hours—until one opponent is incapacitated, unable to continue, or raises a hand in surrender. Then a rest; then a resuming of the contest. It will also be “no-holds barred”—except for the prohibition of “elbows, foot-kicking or fisting into the testicles,” or any gouging of the eyes. These will disqualify you immediately. You may also, if you wish, wrestle with your body covered or completely nude. Your choice. So if your body does become bared, that is not an issue for anyone’s concern except your own. Got it?”

“Sounds like the old, original Greek style. Fine with me,” Cap breathed.

“I accept,” Superman conceded.

“Then go to your lockers, prepare yourselves, and return in thirty minutes. While we have the ring cleared.”

Next page