Fresh of finishing first in a bodybuilding contest, shred show, Brad Barnes feels like competing some more, in another measure of muscle, good old fashioned wrestling. Brad’s abdominals count at a perfect chiseled eight; every single muscle is evident by its stunning definition. Unless Barnes is weak from hunger, a visual assessment convinces the eye that he might be unbeatable. Brad can’t help but commend his own physique, “This body is perfect, definitely needs to be worshipped.”
On cue, enters a smirking, downright broadly grinning, cockily strutting, Morgan Cruise, the winningest wrestler alive, with only a few losses on his resume. Around Cruise’s hands are blue, boxing wraps, which match the color of his poser thong, that he undoubtedly is wearing as a mockery of Barnes’s recent competition, from which Brad still dons his now lucky, red posers. “Just in time,” Brad invites, as Cruise takes the ring. Morgan, no stranger to trash talk, is wise to Brad’s insinuations that he, Cruise, ought to worship Brad’s bod. The arrogant heel, in good humor, agrees to worship Barnes, every last inch, if Brad’s muscles can back up the claims of being worthy of worship.
Coaxed into showing off some more, Barnes is felled from behind while occupied in his self-admiration. Cruise hammers straight-rights atop the bodybuilder’s dome, then uses a degrading pin to arrest Barnes while he strips off his collared shirt. But Brad is not a quitter, offering resistance to Cruise’s lackadaisical pin, by bursting with strength and hoisting Morgan all the way into a Powerbomb position. Before Brad can deliver the devastating maneuver however, Cruise quickly counters with a gusty Hurricanrana.
Brad attempts to catch his breath, but his contracting abs practically paint a target for Morgan, who has been known to smash a few muscled midsections. The devilish Morgan pins Brad’s left bicep beneath his knee while controlling the wrist of Brad’s right arm. Brandishing his wrapped fist, Morgan’s hand gleams before being brought down weightily into the contest winning midsection. And again! Morgan dishes out repeated punches, slamming Brad’s perfect abs with successively mounting power. As Barnes begins to feel the affliction of cumulative blows, Morgan adds more power to his gut shots, endeavoring to cave in Brad’s abdomen, which now and again Morgan traces, to emphasize his delight in dissecting his bodybuilder foe.
From Barnes’s backside, Cruise is wrenching an expertly applied chin-lock; the heel uses this traditional wrestling move to its maximally pain-inflicting capacity, inverting Brad’s torso towards the ceiling, against its natural inclination, whereby Brad’s breathtaking midsection is put on full display. Morgan transfers his hold to a grounded abdominal stretch, where the heel first suggests that Barnes submit, to which Brad discovers a wealth of curses in his arsenal, some of them proving apt appellations for Mr. Cruise.
Relaxing his grip, Cruise frees a hand for more midsection punishment, folding Brad with severe punches. The handsome bodybuilder’s arms are pinned behind Cruise’s legs, while Morgan’s crotch, presses the back of Brad’s skull forward, sealing the pressure that subdues the champion bodybuilder. Double Hammer fist punches rain down further fire upon Brad’s midsection, which is red and softened, in spite of its granite appearance. Ever nasty, Morgan dubs Bradley a new name, “It’s bitch boy now,” Cruise imperializes.
Brads ability to fight back dissipates as his power wanes from the oppression exerted upon his lean, hard torso. It’s all the bodybuilder can do to rub his hands across his battered midsection to survey the damage done by Cruise. Brad’s powerful arms are reduced to being capable of no more than gentle caresses, so out of breath he is from what is surely broken ribs. Brad is incapable of drawing breath without pain and pleads for the beat-down to stop. Music to Morgan’s ears, the heel dives further into his bag of tricks, reveling in his dominance, thoroughly focused on protracting the pain. Morgan mercilessly extends an onslaught on Brad and his beautiful eight-pack abs, until the champion bodybuilder is alienated from his recent victory, writhing in pain, grasping his muscled tatters, remnants of his once glorious abdominals.
