The Death of Roccia

This story was inspired by the still frame above from "Spartacus and the Ten Gladiators" starring Dan Vadis.

***

Roccia’s arm ached from the full weight of his body as he hung from the large tree in the center of the Roman camp. One end of the rope was lashed around a tree limb several times and the other tied tightly around Roccia’s wrist, suspending him six feet above the ground. The coarse cord had rubbed the skin on his wrist raw but Roccia hardly noticed the gnawing pain...his thoughts instead racing ahead to what he knew was to come. The groans of the other two gladiators dangling on either side of him drew Roccia’s attention back to the throbbing pain that radiated from his wrist, down his muscular arm, and settled in his shoulder.

Severely outnumbered and quickly overpowered by the Roman garrison, Roccia and the other gladiators were captured the night before while attempting to enter the camp. The Roman general ordered the gladiators’ public execution for the following day and had the condemned gladiators stripped of everything except the cloth tunics that wrapped around their waists. The half-naked gladiators were hung by their right arms from the large cypress in the center of the camp and their public and very brutal execution would serve as a warning to the scores of slaves held captive by the Romans. Roccia, knowing he and the others would soon feel the sting of the archers’ arrows, struggled unsuccessfully throughout the night to free himself.

The hours passed slowly and the dark of the night slowly yielded to the pale morning sun. Soon the punishing afternoon rays beat down mercilessly on the nearly naked gladiators as they awaited their fate. Their skin slowly baked to a golden brown. Roccia’s body was soaked with perspiration and his smooth muscular torso glistened in the late afternoon sun. Beads of moisture on his chest formed streams that rolled down Roccia’s large pectorals and weaved their way through the maze of muscles that covered his abdomen. An occasional breeze gently twisted his body and the others as they hung helplessly from the tree. Roccia felt the strength of his powerful body slowly fade.

The Roman archers that would be their executioners passed by the gladiators several times during the day, cruelly taunting their live targets each time they walked by. One of the archers was especially focused in Roccia and slowly scanned the full length of the gladiator’s impressively muscled body each time he passed. His gaze invariably fixed on Roccia's thickly muscled abdomen, and the archer seemed genuinely excited at the thought of sending one of his arrows tearing into Roccia’s rock hard bare belly.

When the slaves in the camp were gathered around the tree to witness the execution Roccia knew his death was near. The three archers that had passed several times during the day were now positioned ten feet in front of the gladiators with more Roman soldiers standing behind them. The archers readied their bows and searched their quivers for the sharpest arrows.

The Roman general briefly addressed the soldiers and slaves gathered around the tree and then called the archers to attention. The three archers raised their bows and took aim at the live targets that hung from the tree like ripe fruit ready to be picked.

“READYYYYY....” the general’s voice bellowed. “...SHOOT!”

Roccia squeezed his eyes shut and gritted his teeth. He flexed his abdominals hard and waited with panicked anticipation for the arrows to strike. Roccia heard the arrows wiz through the thick humid air but felt nothing.

“Ahhhhh...Uuuhhh.” The sharp thud of two arrows piercing flesh was quickly followed by the howls of the gladiator hanging to Roccia’s left.

Roccia looked to his left and saw that the gladiator had been hit in the belly with both arrows. The third archer then launched his arrow and it severed the rope that held the gladiator suspended in the air and the gladiator fell to the ground. Roccia looked down as the mortally wounded gladiator grabbed the two arrows that were stuck deep in his gut, thrashing around violently on the ground. He was soon motionless.

“READYYYYY...” the general’s emotionless voice droned again. “...SHOOT!”

Once again Roccia closed his eyes and squeezed his abs tightly, waiting for the arrows to rip into his body. Roccia instinctively flinched at the sharp thud of the two arrows solidly hitting their target.

“Uuuuhhh!!!......Aaaaahhhhhhh!!!” The gladiator to Roccia’s right wailed widely.

Roccia’s eyes snapped open and he turned his head. Two arrows were stuck in the muscular torso of the gladiator hanging next to Roccia. One arrow had lodged deep in the gladiator’s belly and the other had hit him in the chest, piercing his heart and killing him instantly.

The gladiator’s limp body fell to the ground when the rope that tethered him to the tree limb was severed by a third arrow. Roccia looked down at the two dead gladiators below him and then turned his attention to the archers as they afixed more arrows to their bows.

Roccia knew it was his turn to die and he prepared himself as best he could. When the general again called ready, Roccia closed his eyes and flexed every muscle in his upper body as hard as his waning strength allowed. Roccia trembled slightly while waiting for the general’s order to shoot.

But before the General could give the order there was a loud commotion at the front gate and the camp was suddenly flooded with rebel gladiators and slaves...Spartacus’ rag tag army of former gladiators and slaves. The archers that were about to launch their arrows at Roccia had turned their bows toward the attacking horde of rebels instead and were shooting arrows indiscriminately.

Roccia exhaled a sigh of relief and relaxed his body. Although he was no longer in immediate danger of being hit with arrows he was still dangling precariously from the tree with a bloody battle raging below him.

A rebel gladiator spotted Roccia hanging from the tree limb and raced towards him. The gladiator scaled the knotted trunk of the cypress and reached out to the limb that held Roccia. One sharp blow of the gladiator’s sword cut the rope that suspended Roccia in the air. Roccia fell to the ground and quickly untied the rope that was still bound to his wrist. Although half-naked and unarmed, Roccia was anxious to join the battle.

Roccia worked his right arm in a circular motion until blood slowly began to circulate again taking away the numbness in his huge bicep and shoulder. Roccia felt his strength slowly returning and he stretched and flexed his muscular torso a few times as he prepared to join the battle.

“ROCCIA...TAKE MY SWORD!” A gladiator ten feet to Roccia’s right shouted.

And when Roccia turned his head the gladiator tossed the sword high in the air towards Roccia.

Roccia reached out with his right arm, anxious to catch the sword when it reached him. His eyes followed the sword as it flew end over end through the air, the polished blade glinting rhythmically as it reflected the sun’s strong rays each time the sword somersaulted in the air. Roccia eagerly reached even further with his right arm when the sword was about to reach his hand. 

Roccia's naked muscular torso was fully extended when he snatched the sword out of the air with his fingertips, and a Roman soldier, who had been running toward Roccia, lunged forward with his sword arm cocked fully back and viciously thrust his sword into Roccia’s fully exposed belly, brutally stabbing the gladiator, and driving half the blade deep into Roccia’s gut.

“Aaaaaaaahhhhhhhhh!” The crisp sound of the soldier’s blade slicing into the flesh and muscle of Roccia’s torso was quickly followed by Roccia’s raucous roar.

The Roman's powerful sword thrust pushed Roccia back a few steps. Roccia’s fully flexed upper body snapped forward when he was stabbed and the sword he had just snatched out of the air fell out of his hand and to the ground.

Roccia’s attention was so fixed on the sword that was thrown to him that he didn’t see the Roman soldier running at him. The soldier's brutal sword thrust to Roccia's gut caught him totally off guard. 

Roccia’s head snapped forward and he looked into the face of the soldier who stabbed him and realized it was the very archer who was so intrigued with Roccia earlier in the day. The archer had shed his bow and was now wielding a sword. The archer, who was so intent on having one of his arrows pierce Roccia’s gut, was no less content with his blade run through the gladiator's muscular belly. 

The archer jabbed his left hand into Roccia’s chest then ripped his blade out of Roccia’s belly just as viciously as he had stabbed him.

“Uuuhhh,” Roccia took a step forward and groaned when the blade was pulled out of his gut and he covered the stab wound with both hands, blood spurted between his fingers.

The archer then lurched forward and violently pushed Roccia back against the trunk of the cypress behind him, the same tree that had held the gladiator suspended above the ground. Roccia’s heavily muscled body slammed back against the large tree with a dull thud...the coarse tree trunk dug into his bare back. Roccia was sprawled against the tree trunk with his shoulders pulled back and his arms thrown out to his sides. He was dazed, and his naked muscular torso was fully exposed and vulnerable to the soldier standing in front of him wielding a sword.

The archer pulled back his arm, stepped forward, and furiously rammed his sword into Roccia’s wide open rock-hard belly again with all his strength. The archer’s blade tore through Roccia’s muscular torso and pierced the tree bark behind him, running him through.

"Aaaaaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhhhhhh!!!" Roccia’s head snapped back against the tree trunk and he let out a long, agonizing yell as the blade cut crisply into his upper abs and was driven completely through his densely muscled torso.

The archer held Roccia pinned against the tree for a few moments with his sword run through the gladiator’s gut and dug into the tree bark. Then, with his hand planted firmly on the center of Roccia’s chest, the archer ripped his sword out of Roccia’s belly and stepped back.

“Uuuuuuhhhhh!” Roccia groaned again as the sword was violently pulled out of him.

Roccia staggered forward and struggled to stay on his feet. He arched his back and flexed every muscle in his upper body hard as he tried to endure the blistering pain of the two stab wounds in his gut.

The archer, who's bloodlust was not quite satisfied with the two brutal sword thrusts to Roccia’s belly, then drew back his sword and was about to stab Roccia again when an arrow suddenly whizzed by his ear from behind him and slammed into Roccia’s chest hitting him just below his left pectoral.

“UUUHHH!!!” Roccia grunted and his body recoiled as the arrow ripped into his chest...he instinctively grabbed his left pectoral with his right hand...the wooden shaft of the arrow sticking through his fingers.

The archer looked behind him and saw the Roman general that was barking orders before now holding a bow.

“Now the execution is done,” the general said coldly.

Roccia fell to his knees and then onto his side clutching the arrow in his chest with both hands. Roccia then rolled onto his back and his arms fell to his sides...his massive chest rose and fell one last time. Roccia was dead.

The general stood over Roccia’s body and grinned. He was pleased with the kill.

Mark

It was late when Mark squeezed out the last few reps on the pec deck. He pushed himself harder than usual and his chest was on fire. His veins surged, pumping fresh blood into his aching muscles, slowly quelling the burn. Mark stripped off his sweat soaked tank top, looked in the mirror across from him and flexed his beefy pectorals hard.

“Not bad for an old man,” Mark thought to himself. His muscular torso was fully pumped from the intense workout and he looked bigger than ever.

Mark was a few months shy of his thirtieth birthday but he still worked out hard and the results showed. He had been packing on muscle steadily since he started working out as a high school wrestler and his lean muscular body was the envy of every other guy at the gym.

Mark stood up and flexed in front of the mirrored wall for a few minutes, systematically working through each muscle group. He finished his flexing routine with an impressive double bicep pose that brought a wry smile to his face.

“Wow!” Mark thought to himself as he slowly scanned his magnificent reflection in the mirror.

Streams of sweat ran down Mark’s well developed chest and worked their way through the crevices of his chiseled muscular abdomen. He held the pose for a moment longer, savoring his muscular reflection in the mirror. Mark’s gaze turned hypnotic when it was drawn to a drop of water that dangled precariously from his rather large left nipple. Mark snickered to himself as thoughts of his high school gym class suddenly flooded his head. Mark closed his eyes and vividly remembered the incessant teasing he endured about the size of his nipples as if it happened yesterday rather than fifteen years ago.

“Mark, the skinny kid with big nipples” The words still brought a twinge of pain to Mark’s face.

Mark had been embarrassed to take off his shirt in the gym locker room and dreaded hearing the word “skins” when the gym teacher pointed in his direction before the start of some team sport or another. The careless teasing of his fellow students was the reason Mark started working out in the first place. The more the other kids teased him the harder Mark worked out and the bigger his body grew. By his senior year of high school, the rest of Mark’s body had caught up to his large nipples. The kids that had once teased him when he was a freshman just stared with envy at his incredibly muscular young body. And Mark’s perfectly muscled torso, large nipples and all, was always fully exposed for envious classmates to gawk at because Mark never wore a shirt during wrestling practice or in gym class in his senior year of high school.

Mark opened his eyes. The drop of perspiration had fallen from his left nipple and took with it the painful memories of his youth. Mark had certainly grown into his nipples and they were now two beautiful exclamation points drawing one’s full attention to Mark’s thickly muscled pecs.

Mark relaxed his body, moved closer to the mirrored wall and looked at his right eye. It was still swollen and red but looked a lot better than it did the night before. Mark didn’t remember much of the fight other than he was sucker punched in the face. He did remember, however, that when it was all over he was still standing and the guy who punched him and his buddy were both laid out cold in the parking lot of the bar. Even with his black eye, Mark was sure he looked considerable better than the two guys that he had brawled.

Mark looked around the gym and saw no one else around. Saving himself a trip to the locker room he pulled off his shorts and briefs in the weight room and threw them into his gym bag, He felt a bit odd standing in the middle of the weight room completely naked and quickly slipped into his bathing suit and then headed for the pool. Mark hated doing cardio but forced himself to swim fifty laps in the pool every other day, convinced swimming was the least objectionable of the aerobic options.

Mark pushed open the door of the pool room and was startled to see someone else there. He thought all the gym rats had gone home by then. He didn’t recognize the other guy as a regular from the gym, but he did look vaguely familiar and he was wearing swim trunks so Mark didn’t give it another thought. Mark gave the other man an obligatory nod and an unenthusiastic “hey” and quickly turned he gaze, not wanting to engage in a conversation. Mark wanted to do his laps and go home.

Mark started his pre-swim stretching routine as usual. With his two hands clenched together, his arms reached for the ceiling and he slowly moved his torso from side to side. Mark slowly pulled back his elbows and stretched his broad chest. His pectorals still ached from his intense workout earlier but the stretch felt good.

With his elbows pulled all the way back, Mark suddenly felt two arms grab him from behind. The man he nodded to just minutes before had quickly weaved his arms under Mark’s and had both hands clenched tightly behind Mark’s neck.

“Hey! What are you doing?” Mark shouted as his struggled to free his arms from the vice-like full nelson hold.

Mark’s attacker said nothing as he secured his grip behind Mark’s neck and then spun him around violently. Mark knew instantly he was in trouble when he saw the second man walking quickly towards him. The man, dressed in jeans and a black tank top, had two black and swollen eyes and his left arm was in a cast.

“Damn! The guys front last night.” Mark suddenly remembered as he struggled to free his two arms from the iron grip of the man behind him.

“Remember me?” the man with the battered face asked in a monotone.

“Yea, I remember you. Take your best shot.” Mark answered defiantly and flexed his abs hard, anticipating a few solid punches to his gut.

Mark had been in a several fights before and knew he could take a few good shots to the belly without much problem. He suspected the guy grabbing him from behind was getting tired and thought it was only a matter of time before he would have both of these thugs unconscious on the pool room floor.

But a look of terror quickly filled Mark’s face as the man standing in front of him pulled a knife from his back pocket. Mark struggled wildly to free his arms but the man holding him from behind would not relent and instead pulled Mark’s upper body back even further, fully exposing Mark’s abdomen to the man standing a few feet in front of him.

The man that Mark had beaten severely the night before suddenly cocked back his arm, lurched forward, and viciously rammed the knife into Mark’s rock hard gut.

“Aaaaaaahhhhhhhh!” Mark yelled out widely and instinctively flexed his abdominals hard as the six inch blade ripped into his muscular belly and was driven completely into his gut.

The man wielding the knife pulled the blade out of Mark’s stomach and stepped back.

“How did you like my best shot?” the man asked sarcastically. “Here’s a few more for you.”

The attacker stepped forward and brutally stabbed Mark in the belly several more times. Each thrust of the knife completely buried the blade in Mark’s fully flexed abs.

“Aaaaaaahhhhhhhh!”

“Uuuuuhhhhhh!”

Uuunnnhhh!”

“Ahhh!”

“Uhhh!!!”

“Aaaahhh!” Mark’s booming yells of agony echoed in the tiled pool room.

Mark’s upper body snapped forward each time the knife was rammed into his gut but the man grabbing him from behind pulled Mark back each time, giving his attacker’s blade an easy target.

The man with the knife shoved the blade into Mark’s belly one last time and left the knife stuck in Mark’s gut. The man behind Mark finally released his hold and Mark’s arms fell down to his sides. Mark staggered forward and groaned; his right hand grabbed the knife that was still stuck in his belly and his left hand covered the stab wounds in his abdomen, which had begun to bleed profusely.

Mark struggled to stay on his feet but the man behind him pushed him forward and Mark fell into the pool and was fully submerged. The water quickly turned red and Mark was soon floating face down in the pool, blood still pouring from the stab wounds in his belly. Mark was dead.

The two men stood at the edge of the pool staring at Mark’s body for a few minutes and then quickly left the gym, the man in swim trunks pulling a shirt on as he went out the door.

Caladus

“That blind witch was wrong again,” Caladus muttered to himself as he peered down through the metal visor of his helmet at the gladiator writhing in the sand at his feet.

Aurelia had predicted Caladus would not leave the arena alive today.

“Your victory will be your death. Your victory will be your death,” the old women croaked over and over again the night before as her boney fingers picked through the entrails of the small lamb she had Caladus slaughter as a sacrifice to the war god Mars. 

Caladus cursed her and threw two coins at her feet.

“I am Caladus, the Emperor’s champion,” he bellowed confidently as he flung open the flimsy door and stormed out of the old woman’s modest shack.

The gladiator at Caladus’ feet covered the two deep stab wounds in his belly with both hands; blood seeped through his fingers and stained his hands red. The muscles in his upper body strained hard as he tried to endure the fiery pain in his gut. He struggled to keep his head and shoulders off the sand but both he and Caladus knew the wounds were fatal. Even a merciful wave of the emperor’s hand could not save the young gladiator from Pluto’s hammer.

The defeated gladiator took his last whiff of this world; his massive chest heaved up and down for the last time. His arms fell to his sides. Blood flowed from the two deep cuts in his belly and ran down both sides of his bare muscular torso, staining the sand beneath him.

The battle had been only mildly entertaining...Caladus’ sword had easily found an opening in the young gladiator’s feeble defenses and his blade cut deep into the gladiator’s muscular bare belly. The gladiator then attempted an overhead blow but Caladus caught the gladiator’s sword arm in the air as it descended...the clumsy attack left the gladiator’s abdomen exposed and vulnerable. Caladus pulled back his sword arm and brutally drove his blade into the gladiator’s gut, running him completely through.

Although trained as a Thracian, Caladus never wore any of the traditional armor of a Greek. To the delight of the women spectators, and many of the men too, Caladus chose vanity over armor and preferred to fight wearing only a short tunic around his waist and a visored helmet on his head. His impressively muscled body was fully exposed as he fought. Both women and men would swoon as Caladus’ smooth muscular torso glistened in the afternoon sun as he wielded his sword in battle.

Caladus stood over the dead gladiator’s body and gripped his sword tighter in his hand as he flexed every muscle in his upper body in celebration of his victory and in defiance of the old woman’s prophecy of his death.

The roaring crowd suddenly became subdued when a centurion leapt from the emperor’s box and charged Caladus from behind with a spear in his hands. When Caladus turned to face the royal spectator box with his beefy arms raised triumphantly above his head, the centurion viciously speared Caladus through the belly.

AAAAAaaaaahhhhh!!! Caladus bellowed.

The centurion rammed his spear into Caladus’ gut with such fury that the spearhead was driven completely through Caladus’ thickly muscled torso and broke through the skin on his back.

Caladus reeled back and grabbed the shaft of the spear with both hands. He fell back against the stone wall of the arena and was dead within moments.

The emperor had a sizable wager that Caladus would die in the arena this day and whether his death came from the blade of his opponent’s sword or whether impaled on a centurion’s spear was of no consequence to the emperor. And the governor of Varese with whom the emperor wagered was in no position to quibble about such minor details.

Aurelia knelt at the emperor’s feet and, although blind, she saw all.

“Your victory will be your death, Caladus,” she whispered as a wry smile came to her wrinkled lips.

Kelly and Brett

“GO LONG,” Kelly shouted as he waved his left arm over his head a few times and then launched the football high in the air...leading Brett by twenty yards.

Brett’s bare feet dug into the loose sand and his powerful legs carried his muscular frame over the beach with lightning speed. He looked back over his left shoulder, tracking the spiraling ball in the air as he ran. The throw was long and Brett dove for the football, snatching it out of the air with his fingertips. He pulled the ball into his bare chest and fell to the ground, rolling over several times in the wet sand.

“WOOHOO!!!” Brett hollered while kneeling with the football hoisted high above his head, he was covered with moist sand from head to toe.

“GREAT CATCH!” Kelly shouted, running over to Brett who was still breathing hard...the two young men touched their fists together as they had done hundreds of times before.

The two Marines had been friends for a long time and they were inseparable since high school. They did everything together, but most of all they worked out and played football together. Kelly was an all-league quarterback and Brett a record setting wide receiver. Although scholarships to different colleges temporarily separated them by a thousand miles, Kelly and Brett stayed in touch throughout four years of college and hung out together whenever they were home from school. It came as no surprise to anyone when they joined the Marines together soon after graduating college.

Back in high school, neither Kelly nor Brett could have ever imagined they would one day be tossing a football around on an sandy African beach on the Indian Ocean. Neither one of them had ever even heard of Somalia and neither one of them could find it on a map when they learned their unit was shipping out to the East African nation soon after completing basic training at Parris Island.

The civil war in Somalia was long and bloody but most of the fighting was over and only a couple of thousand U.S. troops remained in the country as part of an international peacekeeping force. Still, Somalia was a dangerous place and every week for the last year at least one U.S. Marine was killed and several others wounded by IEDs or insurgent snipers that lurked just outside the Marine compound in Mogadishu.

Kelly reached down and offered his hand to Brett who gladly accepted it and got back to his feet. Both men wore standard issue green camouflage pants that were now caked with moist sand from tackling each other and diving for errant passes. Kelly and Brett were barefoot and the two young men had stripped off their shirts earlier after only a couple of passes of the football. Even though it was still morning, the temperature on the beach was already nearing one hundred degrees.

Brett was still panting hard from the sprint and his thickly muscled chest rose and fell rhythmically with his heavy breathing...his chiseled abs flexed tightly each time he inhaled and the muscles relaxed when Brett expelled the air from his lungs. Brett tried to clean himself off and rubbed his hands across his bare chest and abdomen a few times but the sticky granules clung stubbornly to his sweaty skin. Kelly and Brett were both drenched with perspiration and patches of colorless African sand dusted their tanned muscular torsos and arms.

Brett was six feet two inches of solid muscle and was built more like a running back than a wide receiver. His two muscular arms hung from burly shoulders that framed large but well defined pectorals. Brett’s sharply defined abs were perfectly stacked across his midsection and were always clearly visible pushing out from under the taut skin on his abdomen.

Kelly was shorter than Brett by only a couple of inches but his body was every bit as muscular and the two bare-chested Marines were quite an impressive sight as they threw the ball around and tackled one another on the beach. Football was a religion for the two friends but football meant something completely different to the local kids who peered through the compound fence and watched the hulking Americans play with the odd shaped ball.

“Hey, one more pass before my arm gives out,” Kelly said as he adjusted the cap on his head and pushed Brett by the shoulder in the direction he wanted him to run.

“Don’t make me dive for this one,” Brett laughed and took off down the beach.

Brett sprinted twenty yards before he faked a cut to his right, and then went long down the wooded side of the beach. Kelly threw the football and immediately felt a stinging pain in his shoulder.

“Ah! Damned rotator cuff...” Kelly murmured to himself and grabbed his right shoulder with his left hand.

The football went far to the right and took an awkward bounce off a Humvee that was parked on the beach. The ball then flew end over end deep into the thick foliage that bordered the far end of the beach. Brett turned towards Kelly and threw up his arms mockingly and laughed until he saw Kelly rubbing his right shoulder with a pained expression on his face.

“No problem, I’ll get it,” Brett yelled to Kelly and then trotted into the thick jungle of foliage.

Brett stepped carefully through the thick brush pushing overgrown plants and bushes out of his way as he searched for the football. The full canopied trees blocked the sizzling sun and the shade they provided quickly cooled Brett’s bare sunburned skin. Brett spotted a piece of the tan football poking out from behind a tree. He moved slowly towards the ball trying to avoid the thorns and sharp twigs of the unfamiliar plants and trees around him.

Brett bent down to pick up the ball but was startled when he saw a pair of military boots suddenly appear from behind the tree. Brett quickly stood up and saw a man standing in front of him pointing a vintage Russian assault rifle at him. The rifle had a menacing looking bayonet attached to the barrel and the man held the bayonet with the twelve inch blade aimed at Brett's stomach. Another rebel soldier soon appeared and stood behind the first. The second soldier had his rifle slung over his shoulder but he had detached the bayonet and was holding it in his hand. Other than the military style boots they wore both men were dressed in tattered civilian clothes. But there was no doubt in Brett’s mind that these were insurgents, the last vestiges of the once powerful warlords that had torn the country apart.

Brett towered over both Somalis. He knew his brawny body was intimidating to the two slightly built men in front of him, and probably even more so with his shirt off and his muscular torso fully exposed. He raised his arms slowly with the palms of his hands facing forward to show the two men that he was unarmed.

“Easy guys...I just want to get my ball and leave.” Brett said nervously with a slight tremble in his voice.

The soldier holding the rifle looked back at the other soldier standing behind him and then back towards Brett. Neither soldier knew what to make of the bare-chested muscle-bound Marine covered in beach sand standing in front of them. 

The soldier in back whispered something in a language that Brett didn’t understand and the soldier holding the rifle pointed at Brett’s stomach nodded. Without saying a word the soldier suddenly drew back his rifle and then forcefully thrust it forward, viciously spearing Brett in the gut with the bayonet.

“Aaaaahhhhh!!!” Brett yelled out wildly and his body shuddered as more than half of the bayonet's twelve inch blade was driven into his thickly muscled belly.

Brett reached for the barrel of the rifle but before he could grab it the soldier brutally thrust the rifle forward again and drove the rest of the bayonet's blade into Brett’s belly, pushing him back a few steps.

“Uuuuhhhh!” Brett’s eyes opened wide and he threw his head back as the full length of the bayonet's blade was driven into his gut...the muzzle of the rifle was flush against his stomach.

Brett dropped his arms and his upper body snapped forward when the bayonet's full blade was violently shoved into his taut belly. The explosive pain in his abdomen was almost unbearable and Brett flexed his abdominals hard around the blade that was stuck in his gut...twisting his muscular torso from side to side, trying to endure the fiery pain radiating throughout his body.

The soldier jerked his rifle back and pulled the bayonet out of Brett’s gut.

"Uuuuhhh!!!," Brett moaned and arched his back as the blade was ripped out of him. 

The soldier quickly drew the rifle all the way back and then rammed the bayonet into Brett’s bare belly again, driving the blade through Brett’s thick abdominal muscles and deep into his gut. The solid thrust pushed Brett back a few more steps.

“Uuuuuuhhhhhhh!” Brett wailed as the full length of the bayonet's blade was driven into his rock hard gut again with a brutally forceful thrust of the soldiers’ rifle.

The soldier yanked his rifle back sharply and viciously pulled the bayonet out of Brett’s belly...the soldier stepped back a few steps.

“Uuuhhh!” Brett grunted and covered the stab wounds in his gut with both hands and staggered forward.

Brett looked down and pulled his hands away from his stomach; the cuts in his belly were spurting blood which was pooling in his cupped hands. Brett covered the wounds tightly with his hands to try and stop the bleeding and he turned and staggered away from the two soldiers. But the other soldier stepped forward and grabbed Brett’s right shoulder and pulled him back. The Somali spun Brett around and, with his left hand on Brett’s shoulder, the soldier cocked back his right arm with his bayonet in his hand and furiously stabbed Brett hard in the gut, burying the bayonet's full blade in Brett’s belly.

“Aaaaaaahhhhhhhh!” Brett yelled out widely and flexed his whole upper body as the bayonet's blade cut into his taut belly.

The soldier pulled the blade out of Brett’s gut and Brett fell forward a few steps. Brett’s belly was on fire and he squeezed his abs as hard as he could trying endure the searing pain in his gut. The soldier wrapped his left arm around Brett’s bare back,which was wet with perspiration and moist beach sand, and held Brett steady as he pulled back his arm and rammed the bayonet into Brett’s gut again as hard as he could. The finely sharpened blade sliced through Brett’s fully flexed upper abs with a crisp snap and the blade was driven into his belly to the hilt of the bayonet.

“Uuuuuuuhhhhhh!!!” Brett let out a muffled gasp and the violent thrust lifted Brett to the balls of his feet.

The soldier pushed his left hand into Brett’s massive chest and ripped the blade out of Brett’s belly with a violent jerk of his arm. Brett stepped forward with the momentum of the bayonet blade as it was pulled out of him.

The two soldiers backed away from Brett and were quite pleased that they had taken out another U.S Marine, but a volley of automatic gunfire killed the two Somalis instantly. Brett’s loud yells brought the guards running and they cut down the rebels in seconds.

Brett had staggered back out of the jungle. He was clutching his belly tightly, covering the stab wounds in his gut.

“BRETT, BRETT!!!,” Kelly shouted as he ran towards Brett.

Brett fell back into Kelly’s arms and they both fell back onto the sand. Kelly wrapped his arms around Brett’s chest and yelled for a medic. But there was nothing a medic could do. Brett closed his eyes for the last time and died in Kelly’s arms.

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Model Kill 2

From "Model Kill 2", available from www.deadguyscinema.com

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