Fighter Story 2
His parents had
lost their families, including their baby son, in the Holocaust. When they came
to America to start a new life they had a second son and named him Samson, after
the Biblical strongman. True to his name, Samson made it his mission to make
himself strong and tough. While other kids were smoking and doing drugs, he was
training and working out. Boxing, karate, jiu-jitsu, every fighting art that he
could master, he did. He wasn�t tall, only five foot eight, but he packed 180
pounds of solid muscle and sometimes it seemed that he had his namesake�s
supernatural strength. He didn�t go looking for trouble, but as the strongest
kid on any block, he was constantly fielding challenges. Then there was the
occasional bullyboy who thought that beating up on Jewish kids on their way to
school was fun. Samson made certain it was very expensive fun. Undefeated as a
high school wrestler, he wrestled at the edge of the rules, and when an opponent
got up from under his pin, he knew he had been in a fight.
Later on, he served in Army counterintelligence, where his specialty was the
swift, weaponless elimination of Soviet spies. He would engage his target at
night, disguised as a street tough. If he was really in a bad mood, as he was
when the Soviets sent a Jewish refusenik to Siberia on some trumped-up charge,
he picked his man up like a rag doll and slammed the back of his head into the
concrete sidewalk with terrifying force. More often, the spy met his death with
his neck stretched in Samson�s swinging full nelson or twisted all the way
around in his iron grip. Samson then would empty his man�s wallet and place it
on the body. It looked for all the world like a mugging where the victim
resisted and was killed for his trouble. The money went to a charity that helped
refugees from behind the Iron Curtain settle into their new life of freedom.
Samson�s colleagues called him Snap Crackle and Pop. The Russians called him The
Widowmaker.
With the Cold War won, Samson left the Army and settled into a career in
international trade. He found physical expression in marathon running, and had
some 25 marathons under his belt. He loved to run in the summer heat, dressed in
a tank top and shorts, muscles pumping, chest heaving, the summer sun glinting
off the sweat on his powerful shoulders, chicks calling out �Sexy� as he passed.
That was the real Samson � strong, tough, manly. The version in the corporate
uniform � button down shirt, suit and tie � was an impostor who looked and
sounded like him.
Business had taken him to Bitburg, Germany. He had closed an important deal for
his firm and was feeling self-satisfied, but something was gnawing at his
insides. Bitburg, Bitburg, hmmmm. . .
Where had he heard that name before? Right, 1985. Ronald Reagan was President.
Unmoved by a storm of protest at home and abroad, he had traveled to Bitburg to
pay a state visit to the grave of some SS men buried in the cemetery there.
�Reconciliation,� he called it. Gutless political toadying, Samson called it. He
couldn�t protest; he was in the Army and had to swallow his Commander-in-Chief�s
folly. Now he was a civilian and didn�t have to swallow any more. The cemetery
was ten kilometers away from where he was staying and he hadn�t taken his daily
run yet. He put on his running clothes � short shorts and a tank top with the
American and Israeli flags across the chest. It was a cool April evening and he
might have worn some more clothes, but he wanted as many Germans as possible �
especially the older ones � to see what he was made of. He didn�t even know what
he would do once he reached the cemetery, but nature would solve that problem.
When he reached the cemetery it was already dark, and the cold weather made him
have to go to the bathroom. The Nazis had disguised their gas chambers as
showers. Samson would have a shower of his own for them. He found the monument
President Reagan had visited, pulled out his dick � four inches, soft � and peed
on the gravestone and marble slab. It was a long pee. When he was finished, he
heard a roar of motorcycles and found himself surrounded by ten large neo-Nazi
skinheads in full regalia, metal swastikas around their necks, uniforms with
swastika armbands, the whole caboodle. Some of them were carrying jerry cans of
gasoline. Must be for one of their frigging torchlight ceremonies, Samson
figured. Samson had handled bigger guys before � Soviet spies weren�t exactly
twinkies � but ten on one was more than he bargained for. Still, he felt no
regrets. If he were fated to die that evening, he would go down fighting. Six
million were not so lucky.
�We saw what you did, Jew-boy� one of the skinheads said, �and we�re going to
make you pay.� �That�s right, Jew,� said another. �You know what today is? Today
is the F�hrer�s birthday," - that explained the uniforms and jerry cans � �and
we�re going to make him a little present of your little dik-dik.� The subtle
stress on the word �little� was not lost on Samson. The gang leader broke in,
�Uh-uh. We�re not perverts. This little Jew-fag will die under a hail of Aryan
fists and steel-tipped boots. Siegfried, you do the honors.�
Fag? Samson had a wife and five kids at home, four strong young stallions and a
hard-muscled filly. He had taught them all to fight, and any kid in the 'hood
who messed with Samson's kids paid dearly. What the heck. Nazis had it in for
gays too. Yellow stars, pink triangles. . . he could play their game.
A broad-shouldered, barrel-chested six-foot-four tower of power stepped inside
the circle to challenge Samson. He wasted no time, unleashing a mighty haymaker
right aimed at Samson�s jaw. Samson moved away just in time; the Sunday punch
glanced off his cheekbone, leaving a bruise but not hurting him. Samson�s
jiu-jitsu training now stood him in good stead. He grabbed the outstretched
right arm and, before the Nazi realized what was happening, slapped on an
armlock and broke the bone in two. �Ow,� yelped the Nazi, �you broke my freaking
arm.� �No fooling,� replied Samson, as he wrapped his left arm around the taller
man�s neck in a tight headlock and began pummeling his face with his right fist
over and over. Samson�s rock hard bicep squeezed his foe�s windpipe shut,
cutting off his air and all hope of escape. With each blow he could feel the
years melting away; he was plugged into the Infinite, drawing all the strength
he needed and then some. �This is for my grandparents.� BOOM. �This is for my
uncles.� BOOM. �This is for my aunts.� BOOM. �This is for my baby cousins.�
BOOM. �This is for the brother that I never saw.� BOOM BOOM BOOM!!! All the
while Samson wondered when the Nazi�s buddies were going to stomp him, but they
just stood there transfixed. He could hear one of them remarking to another,
�Shit, that short little Jew can fight.� Surprise sur-prise. When Samson had
smashed his foe�s face to a bloody pulp, he let go of the headlock. The Nazi
slid onto the marble slab. His head was swimming and his eyes couldn�t focus.
Almost at leisure, Samson snapped his left arm like a twig and shredded up the
ligaments in his knees. He wouldn�t be doing anything or going anywhere. Samson
stood over him, smiling and mocking. �What happened, Superman? Can�t you handle
a little Jew-fag?� He shot a double biceps at him. �See these, Superman? These
are 16-inch American guns and they KICKED YOUR PUNK NAZI ASS.� He turned to the
other bikers. �This isn�t playing by your script, eh? Looks like your hero�s on,
ummm, Queer Street.� One of the bikers had had enough. He took a step forward to
salvage some honor for his gang. Before he could take a second step, Samson's
right backfist slammed into his mouth and his powerful elbow thudded into his
beer gut. He clutched his middle with both hands, his mouth flew open and an
unholy mix of puke, blood and teeth spewed forth. As if at the command of an
unseen F�hrer all nine of them left their motorcycles and jerry cans behind and
ran for their lives. Bad move.
Samson was now alone with his foe flat on his back. The feeling of power gave
him a raging hard-on and his wife was back in the States. �My little dik-dik
wants to tell you something,� he said, as he whipped out a nine-inch-long steel
shaft and shot a full load of thick white man juice all over the Nazi and the
gravestone. �Enough with the fun and games,� he announced. He picked up one of
the jerry cans and poured some of the contents onto his fallen foe. �This is
gasoline. This is a match. And Siegfried is going to Valhalla in a chariot of
fire.� The Nazi�s eyes, or what was left of them, bugged out in mortal terror.
�No,� he pleaded through what was left of his mouth. �Please, kill me first and
then do what you will.� �Please kill me,� answered Samson. �I never thought I�d
hear that from a big Nazi Superman. You don�t deserve an easy death but � fair
enough.� He roughly sat the Nazi up, placed his left hand on top of his head and
his right hand under his chin and jerked the head up, back and around in one
swift practiced movement � snap, crackle and pop. He let go, and the Nazi�s head
fell back down at a grotesque angle. Samson poured out the rest of the jerry can
and lit the match. The body instantly turned into a blazing pyre. Samson left it
there, a burnt offering to the evil spirits that lurk in that evil place. He had
unfinished business with the other bikers.
Samson set out at a pace he could hold as long as he had to. He had time; the
bikers didn�t. They had broken the first commandment of the distance runner:
Thou shalt not go out too fast. If they couldn�t keep up the pace for twenty
miles in their heavy biker boots, they might as well stand and fight. Samson
wondered why the hell they didn�t. Then it hit him; they were punks, cowards.
Just like their SS mentors, who were brave enough to herd naked Jews into gas
chambers but when the Americans and Russians came with arms they cut and ran,
leaving the real soldiers holding the bag. Before too long he sighted the
scattered, bedraggled, faltering gang. Samson began to sing American marching
songs as he ran. �Send the word, send the word, over there, that the Yanks are
coming, the Yanks are coming. . .� The bikers became even more panicked and
demoralized. The first one Samson caught up with was the puker; he could hardly
walk, let alone run. Samson drove an elbow into the back of his head, where the
brain joins the spinal cord. The biker fell as if he'd been pole-axed. Samson
kicked him in the ribs and continued in hot pursuit of the others. One by one
they fell, puking up what guts they had and panting like the dogs they were,
utterly exhausted. One by one, Samson gave them something to remember him by � a
kick in the balls here, a few missing teeth there. . . . He chased the last of
them up a dead end street. Two policemen were on patrol; the Nazi frantically
called out �Polizei, Polizei,� and motioned behind him. The cops laughed in his
face. �Surely a big Nazi tough guy can take care of himself,� said one. The
other punched him on his swastika armband. �We�d like to see you do credit to
Aryan manhood.� The sarcasm in their voices was undisguised. There would be no
help from that quarter. Now there was no place left to run. �End of the road,
asshole,� Samson called out. �Turn around and fight.� The Nazi turned around but
he was spent. He was hardly able to put up his fists when Samson�s looping right
caught him flush. His head struck the pavement with a resounding thud and he was
out cold with his jaw shifted to one side of his face. Samson was about to kick
his fallen foe in the mouth when the policemen moved in. �Enough is enough;
we�ll take it from here.�
Samson ran back to his hotel with joy in his heart and, unknown to him, a squad
car on his tail. Every so often he�d pump a fist in the air and give out with an
Army-style �hoo-ah!� When he got to his room and undressed, he massaged the
muscles in his chest, arms and shoulders. They had served him well. He hadn�t
expected to be alive, and instead he disposed of ten goons half his age and
twice his size. As he always did when showering in strange places, he left the
bathroom door open and turned the faucet slowly. When he was satisfied that the
stuff coming out of the showerhead was water, he closed the door and soaped
himself up. It was a long exultant shower. He sang, whooped and hollered like
never before. When he came out and put his shorts on, he heard loud and
insistent knocking at the door. �Police. Open up!� He opened the door to the
same two cops that watched him take out the last of the Nazi punks with one
punch.
�You Samson?�
�I am.�
�The name fits. That�s some set of muscles on you. Wanna fight?� The cop put up
his fists. Samson squared off and flicked a stiff left jab off the cop�s nose,
not hard enough to hurt him but enough to let him know he could. The cop raised
his arms in mock surrender, �Just kidding man, just kidding.�
�Actually, we owe you some thanks. That gang you took care of � they were
terrorizing the town for months. Everybody was scared to press charges; we
couldn�t make anything stick. We called them the Teflon Boys."
"Muslims from Turkey, Jews from Russia, gays,� -
The other cop added, �Heck, they were beating on ordinary Germans too. Old
folks, little kids, anybody who can�t defend himself � or herself � is good
enough for the Teflon Boys.�
�The most despicable bunch of cowards Germany ever produced � except of course
for the SS men they take their cue from.� Both of their voices were dripping
with contempt. The cop looked down at Samson�s shorts. �You sure made things
stick� � all three shared a laugh � �and their motorcycles will make a handsome
addition to our fleet.�
Now the tone turned serious. �Look,� said one cop, �we know what went down at
the cemetery� �
�You mean who went down;� Samson interjected, �It wasn�t me.�
�I guess you could put it that way,� the cop continued, �but the law is the law.
Today�s Germany doesn�t tolerate murder, not even of Nazi scum who deserve to
die. We heard about your Cold War heroics. We don�t like Commies either; we had
'em next door for 45 years. So we�re giving you a warning, and if our superiors
knew we were doing this we�d be fired. Leave this country within 24 hours and
never come back. Keep quiet and we will too. If you show your face in Germany
after tomorrow you can expect to spend the rest of your life in jail.�
�Will do,� Samson answered, and he wished the cops well and saw them out the
door. When they were out of Samson�s hearing one said to the other, �Actually it
wouldn�t be a bad idea to have him in jail. We have punkass Nazi wannabes there
who wouldn�t last two minutes locked in a cell with him.� His partner said
simply, �Snap Crackle and Pop.�
Samson was as good as his word. The next morning he boarded a plane for home,
back to a beautiful land that produces real tough men � and more than a few
women � who kick butt whenever and wherever there's butt that needs kicking. His
wife was glad to see him, and when she asked about the bruise on his face, he
just mumbled something about having had to handle a mugger. That night he made
strong love to her, as he always did after a fight; power is the best
aphrodisiac. The next morning he spiffed himself up in the corporate uniform,
went to the office and accepted his colleagues' congratulations for clinching
the deal. Little did they know that that was not his major achievement on the
trip. Since he couldn't travel to Germany any more he wouldn't be much use to
the firm. He went to the boss and tendered his resignation. Never was a father
of five so happy to lose his job.