The Challenge

Credits are over smash-edited pictures or footage of a fight in a back-alley. First we see only two muscular fighters going at it, while a crowd of men cheer them on, but then a third man steps in to help his buddy. The two-on-one action is brutal, and the solo fighter is obviously going to get creamed. Just then, another man steps forward, and pulls off his shirt before moving in to defend the lone fighter. The new duo prevails. End of credits.

SCENE 1

MIKE approaches DRAKE sitting on a bench in front of a coffee shop. We recognise Mike as the fighter who was helped by Drake in the opening sequence. Both men are dressed in tight t-shirts, their muscles practically splitting the seams. Mike wears a white shirt, while Drake is dressed in black.

Mike:    Sorry I’m late.

Drake:    You’re not. I’m early. You’re actually dead-on time. Mike right?

Mike:    Right. Mike Cole. I think it was my parents’ idea of a joke: Mike Cole / Michael…

Drake:    Got it. Clever, I guess.

Mike:    And you’re Drake.

Drake:    Yeah.

Mike:    Drake…

Drake:    Just Drake. You don’t look too beat up. You look good. Sit.

Mike:    Thanks. But, really, if you hadn’t stepped in and pulled that guy’s buddy off of me, I’d have been pretty messed up. Maybe even killed.

Drake:    You didn’t look worried about getting killed.

Mike:    I thought about it, that they could kill me. For just a flash, I thought about it, but I was so pumped, and too in the moment to give a fuck.

Drake:    Live fast; die young.

Mike:    Leave a beautiful corpse. Yeah, no problem, right! But you, you had some great moves when you stepped in.

Drake:    Experience.

Mike:    After we split, I called a guy I know from the club and he said you put your guy in the hospital, in Intensive Care. When you were wailing on him, I thought fuck, for sure, he’s a dead man.

Drake:    He wasn’t worth the hassle of killing in front of witnesses.

Mike:    (Laughs) I guess not. So, anyway, thanks for saving my skin last night. And I was glad you wanted to hook up today. You’re really hot.

(Mike boldly reaches out and clasps Drake’s shoulder, feeling the thickness of muscle.)

Drake:    This isn’t a date.

Mike:    It’s not. Well, no, I guess not. Not here. But hey, I live nearby if you want to come over. I live alone.

Drake:    It’s not about sex.

Mike:    Sorry. Okay, I’m outta line, I guess. I’m just grateful for what you did. And I think you’re hot. And, well, you wanted to see me, so… Look, I don’t know what to say here.

Drake:    You said thanks; that’s plenty. Listen, I think I’ve got the wrong guy here. I better go. (He stands to leave. Mike immediately puts his hand on Drake’s chest to stop him.)

Mike:    Wait. I’m the wrong guy? -For what? Fill me in. I’m outta the loop, man.

Drake:    You’re just a nice guy. -Too nice. ‘Later.

Mike:    Too nice? –For what?

Drake:    I thought you might be a monster last night. You fought like a fucking berserker; two on one. I just thought you were more like me.

Mike:    How? What the fuck is this? An interview? A test? Why did you want to meet me?

Drake:    To see what you were made of.

Mike:    You can see what I’m made of. I’m made of the same stuff as you! Pound per pound! -Maybe made better.

Drake:    It’s not the same stuff, man. I don’t think so. And that’s no better or worse. –Just not the same.

Mike:    You wanna see the animal again? –The berserker? Work out with me, Fucker.

Drake:    Fucker. I guess I touched a nerve. What do you think working out with you would prove?

Mike:    I don’t know what you want, or what you think you saw in me last night, but whatever it is, it’s still in me. You’ll see it again if you take the time to find it… and if you just tell me what you want.

Drake:    Why would that be important to you?

Mike:    I don’t know. I want to know what you saw in me last night. Yeah, what did you see, I want to know.

SCENE 2

-Interior of a gym. The men are lifting very heavy weights. –Quick montage of them spotting each other, yelling as they heft incredible poundages, and finally stripping off their shirts to flex in front of a mirror together.

Mike:    -Pound per pound, I’m as strong as you, as buff as you, as hot as you.

Drake:    Absolutely hot as Hell.

Mike:    But this isn’t about sex.

Drake:    Maybe it could be. Maybe it should be… (He gropes Mike’s chest). Maybe I was wrong.

Mike:    Great. I kill in bed.

Drake:    Good to know.

SCENE 3

-Interior of Mike’s apartment -The two bodybuilders in bed. We see a montage of their very physical sex, which includes gut punching and chest pounding.

Mike:    Slam that fist into me! I’m a fucking wall. Yeah!

Drake:    Yeah, Fuck. Take that, you bastard! Hell, yeah!

Mike:    Now you flex up big, Fucker. Pound for pound, man, I’m going to pound ya!

Drake:    Is that your best shot? -Fuck, yeah!

Finally, we see Mike on top of Drake. He pulls over his sweaty tank top from a bedside table, and rolls it into an improvised garrotte, which he quickly wraps around Drake’s thick neck. Drake does not resist.

Mike:    No resistance? I’m impressed.

Drake:    It’s mutual.

Mike:    Just go with it, ok? If you start to get scared, say stop or hold up your hand. I’ll stop.

Drake:    I won’t stop you.

Mike:    Good.

Drake:    This could kill me.

Mike:    Then you’ll leave a beautiful corpse.

The men kiss passionately as the garrotte is tightened. Drake’s complexion reddens, deeper and deeper. His arms flex as he claws at the side of the bed, but he does not reach for the strangling cloth at his throat. Drake blows his load, but then falls unconscious. Mike releases the garrotte and sits, straddling the massive body.

Mike:    Yeah, Big Boy. You never looked so good, Fucker.

With these words, Mike blows his wad on Drake’s thick chest.

Mike:    Yeah… Now wake up, Buddy.

He roughly slaps Drake in the face. There is no reaction.

Mike:    Fuck! Don’t be dead, man! Fuck!

Mike is suddenly panicked. He performs mouth-to-mouth. Drake comes to with a sudden intake of breath. Then, as Mike is about to pull away, Drake pulls him back, and they kiss passionately again.

Mike:    I thought you were a goner. I thought I went too far.

Drake:    Not quite far enough.

Mike:    (laughs) Right.

Drake:    I was wrong to have doubted my first intuition about you.

Mike:    Which was what?

Drake:    That you’re a killer.

Mike:    Edge-player, yeah, killer… no.

Drake:    Killer. You wanted to kill that guy last night.

Mike:    It was a bad fight, Drake. The brain goes pretty basic, you know? So yeah, maybe I wanted him dead in the moment, but...

Drake:    Like you wanted me dead just now.

Mike:    It was edge play, erotic asphyxiation.

Drake:    Felt great. What was in it for you? Just control? Domination?

Mike:    Right.

Drake:    And there’s also the overpowering fantasy of snuffing another bodybuilder.

Mike:    Like you’ve never thought what it would be like?

Drake:    I don’t think about it, Mike. I kill men all the time.

Mike:    What?

Drake:    You heard me.

Mike:    Ok. We’ve had our fun. I’ve proven myself, as much as I care to. Now you should go.

Drake:    Pound per pound, the same stuff as me? Right. I’m outta here.

(Drake gathers his stuff and is about to leave Mike’s apartment. Mike is conflicted. He does not Drake to leave just yet. He’s too interested.)

Mike:    How? Where?

Drake:    How, where, what?

Mike:    You kill men –all the time you say- how? Where? -You some kind of mercenary or hit man? -You doing shit overseas?

Drake:    That interests you?

Mike:    It’s just… it’s a crazy thing to say. No one’s ever told me he kills guys all the time, like it’s his hobby. Or, fuck, is it that? -You a serial killer?

Drake:    Labels. Mike, I’m not about labels. I just have to kill sometimes. Usually, I’m paid to kill, sometimes I kill for practice, sometimes I kill defending myself, other times I kill ‘cause it feels good. Well, it always feels good. But you know that already, don’t you, Mike.

Mike:    I’ve never killed anyone.

Drake:    Over and over and over again, you’ve snuffed a hundred of guys in your mind, Mike. Am I wrong? Every guy you ever fucked, you’ve killed in your head.

Mike:    Fantasy.

Drake:    I wasn’t wrong about you.

Mike:    I don’t know. This is what you think you saw in me last night?

Drake:    Yeah. Potential. -Want to take the next step?

Mike:    Next step? How? Or what, you kill me?

Drake:    I don’t think I have to, although I’m ready to. But let’s get together tonight instead. I’m having a little muscle-sex party, very intimate, and I’m going to make it in your honour. You’ll be the guest of honour, Mike, so you have to come. Here’s the address.

(Drake hands Mike a card, and then he kisses him deeply.)

Drake:    I’m going to change your life, Mike.

SCENE 4

-Interior of a luxurious home. Already, three bodybuilders in various stages of undress have joined Drake for the party. There is much muscle-worship, flexing, and occasionally one of the men breaks away to snort a line of cocaine, or take a hit from of hookah pipe. When Mike walks in Drake pulls away from the group to welcome him with a long passionate kiss.

Drake:    Welcome to the first day of the rest of your life.

Mike:    Great place. Yours?

Drake:    No. It belongs to some very wealthy people I entertain.

Mike:    Entertain…

Drake:    Let’s go, on with the show.

Mike:    Wait. I’ve never got it on in a group before.

Drake:    There are no rules, do whatever you want with these guys. They’re vain, worthless muscle-heads who think their shit doesn’t stink. I call these guys disposables. Not a rocket scientist, brain surgeon, or even biology teacher in the three. No Mozart, or Da Vinci or even a Kenny G in the bunch.  He’s not going to cure cancer, he’s not going write a great novel, and he’s not going crusade for world peace. All that matters to these guys is that they have 20 inch arms, better than 50 inch chests, and they’ve just met a guy who can get them their ‘roids at a fraction of what they’ve been paying. Have fun.

We see a montage of the muscle-sex orgy showing the five men in various groupings, engaged in all kinds of activities. Of course, rough sex figures prominently along with plenty of muscle worship.

SCENE 5

Drake enters the room with drinks. The men are all basically stoned, drunk, and completely spent. They take their beverages without question, not even thanking their host.

Drake:    Guys, follow me. I didn’t show you the sauna.

Buff 1:    Fuck, yeah, sauna! I’m there man.

Buff 2:    Is the sauna wet or dry? Is there both?

Drake:    We have both, but I haven’t started the steam yet.

Buff 3:    I’m feeling wasted. I think I’ll just stay here.

Drake:    No one’s getting left out. I’m not finished with you guys.

Buff 3:    But I’m finished, Drake. I’m dead.

Drake:    No you’re not. C’mon, if you want your juice boxes, muscle-boys, you’ll keep up with the program. Mike, help him along will ya?

Drake leads the men to a large, comfortable wet sauna. The steam is just starting to hiss into the room. The lighting is dimmed, but we see everyone very clearly.

Buff 2:    I think I’d rather mellow out in the dry sauna. Excuse me. Oh, fuck, I can hardly move. (He sits back down on the broad tile step, then lies back, apparently unconscious.)

Drake:    -About time that kicks in.

Buff 1:    Someone suck my dick so I know it’s still there. I’m feeling numb all over.

Drake:    You’ll appreciate that later.

Buff 3:    I feel… This is like a fucking K-Hole. Drake, what did you… fuck… can’t…

Drake:    -Can’t move. –Can’t speak. I know.

Mike:    Drake, what’s going on? Am I…?

Drake:    Relax. Your drink was clean. You’re the guest of honour, Mike. I need you to have the best time tonight. This is all for you.

Mike:    What is?

Drake:    This is how you start your new life. You’re going to become a new man tonight, Mike. So tell me, which one, of these sorry-asses, do you like best? Well, not like, but which one do you think has the best bod, or face, or whatever floats your boat. Pick one.

Mike:    You. I pick you.

Drake:    See, there’s the Mr. Nice Guy again. I want the Berserker to choose the best piece of muscle-meat for himself… Choose!

Mike:    Okay! This guy. I like his hairy chest, and big nips. Good enough?

Drake:    Excellent choice. I didn’t like him for myself anyway. I choose Superman over here. -Smooth, electrolysis poster boy. That leaves the Hulk over here for our final lesson.

Mike:    What’s going on, Drake? This is freaking me out.

Drake:    You’re just a little stoned, Mike. Relax. Enjoy the buzz, and learn. Now look.

Drake reaches to the top step and picks up a Bowie knife. It glitters with condensation in the eerie light of the sauna.

Drake:    Beautiful weapon, so simple, so basic. Basic is good here. You like my knife, Mike?

Mike:    It’s great. Nice knife.

Drake:    Think Superman likes my knife?

Mike:    I don’t know. I doubt it.

Drake:    Don’t worry about this scum, Mike. They don’t matter. You’ve already fucked these guys, and that’s about all they’re good for. Right? Now Mike, if I’m going to make a killer out of you, I have to change your perception of the men you kill.

Mike:    What?

Drake:    See, these fuckers are just meat. Big, grade-A, muscle-meat, and well, you and me, we’re the butchers. Feel this guy’s meat, Mike. Feel him!

(Mike steps forward and gropes the bodybuilder’s shoulder and chest)

Drake:    Fuck, that’s quality muscle, right? Right? Meat! Right?

Mike:    Right!

Drake:    Kiss me.

(They kiss, long and hard.)

Drake:    Now look.

(The bodybuilder, “Superman”, is in spasms, the bowie knife driven deeply into his chest. Blood pours from his wound onto the white tiles.)

Mike:    Fuck!

Drake:    It’s okay. He’s dead. Beyond feeling now, probably didn’t feel it in the first place. Just like killing a hog. Pull out the knife.

Mike:    No.

Drake:    Pull out the knife, damn it! Do it now!

Mike:    Okay!

(Suddenly he pulls the knife from the dead man’s chest, and swings the blade towards Drake, spraying him with blood.)

Drake:    Right, Killer, like you’re going to use that on me. What I want you to do, Mike, is drive it back into the dead guy’s chest. Make a fresh wound. I want you to feel what it’s like to use the knife. Feel the steel slice through skin, and muscle, graze the bones, and really sink it into the meat.

(Mike stares hypnotized at the dead man. He’s incredibly aroused, but also scared.)

Drake:    He’s dead already, Mike. I killed him. You can’t hurt him any more. Do it.

(Mike raises the blade over the dead body… then drives it violently into the fresh corpse. Drake steps forward and kisses Mike again. In the embrace, we see Mike pull the knife out of the body, only to plunge it back into the dead man repeatedly.)

Mike:    I’m going to Hell.

Drake:    So is he. Foregone conclusion, I expect. Let me clean you up a bit.

(Drake towels off some of the gore from both their bodies. Drake also easily takes the bowie knife from Mike’s hand and puts it back on the tile shelf.)

Drake:    Now your turn. I’ll make it easy for you, though. You already have practice at this, and you’re good at it.

(Drake rips the towel lengthways and twists it into a rough semblance of a rope before handing it to Mike.)

Drake:    Erotic Asphyxiation, taken the extra mile, is basic strangulation. Enjoy it, though. Take your time. Your hairy-chested young Viking, there, looks like he’s got a neck as thick as the trunk of an old oak tree, so it’ll probably take awhile anyway.

Mike:    No. I won’t do it.

Drake:    Okay, Mike, this is where it gets serious for me. Either you kill this fucker, or I’ll have to kill him myself, and the third guy, and then I’ll have to kill you too Mike. And, see, I’d be only too happy to do it, Buddy, but I still think you have it in you to be my protégé.

Mike:    Your protégé? -Your fucking protégé?

Drake:    What? Killers can’t get lonely? Yeah. I want a partner, Mike. I want a man who’s made of the same stuff as me, pound per pound.

Mike:    -Pound per pound, the same stuff.

Drake:    Don’t look at me. Look at him. Oh yeah, I see what you like in him. Why didn’t I work over this fucker’s big nips myself earlier? Go down on ‘em, Mike. Suck those tits. Do it, Mike. You want to. I’m just here behind you.

(Drake massages Mike’s neck and shoulders as he chews on the young Viking bodybuilder’s pecs. Drake then guides Mike to bring the twisted towel to the doomed man’s throat. The Viking’s eyes widen as the improvised garrotte is tightened. Mike seems to ride his motionless victim, and Drake seems to ride Mike as the hairy bodybuilders is strangled to death.)

Drake:    Congratulations. This one’s the real deal, your first kill. How does it feel?

Mike:    Good… Awful… Shut up! I just killed a man!

Drake:    Get a grip. You wanna act out some rage, Bro? Use this on him.

(Drake casually hands Mike the Bowie knife. Mike is stunned that Drake would trust him again with the weapon, but he acts out exactly as if he were programmed. He assails the body of the dead Viking, driving the blade into the thick muscle three times.)

Drake:    Very good.  I’m proud of you.

(Drake kisses Mike. They appear to be kissing passionately, but the kiss stops cold. Without pulling from Mike’s mouth, Drake gasps. He tilts his head back away from Mike’s face, but without pulling away from their bodies’ embrace. He looks down towards his chest. We expect that he has been stabbed by Mike… but the camera reveals that, no, Mike is merely holding the blade to Drake’s thick left pec.)

Drake:    You gonna snuff me now? You could, now that you’ve had practice, right. I showed you how. Plus, I’ve lived fast, should die young.

Mike:    And leave a beautiful corpse.

Drake:    Oh yeah. That’s the look. That’s what I saw last night. The Killer. The Berserker. You really want to kill me. Not because it might be justified, or self-defence or anything, but because you just fucking want to kill me. Right? Drive that steel into this big arrogant bodybuilder who’s been jerking your chain? Right? -All this muscle-meat at the tip of your knife, my knife… -kill me with my own knife. Yeah, that’s poetic. Want to kill me?

Mike:    Shut the fuck up.

Drake:    Make me. Kill me.

Mike:    I want to kill you more than any fantasy.

Drake:    You’re already a murderer. This is no fantasy. Do it.

Mike:    I want to.

Drake:    Go ahead.

Just then, we notice the third drugged bodybuilder, the “Hulk”, revive from his drugged immobility, he sits up slowly and observes the two men clutched with a knife between them. He sees his chance for escape and tries to run. Seeing the movement out of the corner of his eye, Mike throws Drake to the floor and tackles the fleeing bodybuilder. He assails the third man with the bowie knife, over and over, and blood splatters the white tiles everywhere. Drake watches on, impressed.

SCENE 6

Drake and Mike have piled the three massive corpses in a corner of the steam-room and are seen hosing down the walls and wiping down the tiles with the torn towel. They are working together, in silence. Both are obviously exhausted.

Mike:    What are we going to do with the bodies? We’re going to be caught and we’re going to be executed for murder. And we deserve that.

Drake:    Clean enough. My friends have people who clean much better than we can anyway. Don’t worry.

Mike:    Your friends? You’d leave this blood and gore to be cleaned up by your rich friends? And that still doesn’t solve what to do with the bodies. Fuck my life is over.

Drake:    My friends will take care of the bodies too. And your life has only just begun.

Mike:    They’ll take care of the bodies?

Drake:     It’s the least they could do. They got the best show ever tonight.

Mike:     What are you telling me?

Drake:    Its like reality TV, live on closed circuit. See? Everywhere you turn, if you look hard enough, you’ll see a camera. If you don’t know they’re there, they might as well be invisible. So we had an audience here tonight, and I’m sure they got more than their money’s worth.

(The phone rings in the living room. Drake and Mike go to answer it.)

Drake:    Hello? …Thank you. …Yes, I found him last night. …Thank you. …You know how to reach me. …I look forward to next time. …A tournament sounds great. …I’ll see what I can do about rounding up new meat. …Yes. I’ll ask him. …I see them. Thank you. …Goodbye.

(Drake hangs up, walks over to the table in the middle of the room, and finds two manila envelopes, each marked with their names.)

Drake:    They really enjoyed you. This is how they show appreciation. It’s 20 thousand dollars.

Mike:    Twenty Grand?

Drake:    And they hope you’ll join us again soon for another entertainment. They want a human cockfighting tournament. Gladiator Games they like to call it.

Mike:    So we can kill another bunch of drugged-up whacked-out muscle-heads who don’t stand a chance?

Drake:    Just a few. -Hardly anything to worry about. But musclemen practically grow on trees, and these people know that now. See, I’ve spoiled them. So now they want the main event to be something more special.

Mike:    Oh?

Drake:    You against me, to the death, with knives.

Mike:    Count me in.

Drake:    Pound for pound, we’re made of the same stuff.

Mike:    I’ll enjoy killing you next time.

Drake:    It’ll be mutual, I’m sure.

(He opens the envelope of money and finds a simple, elegant card.)

“Thanks for taking up the challenge. -Your Friends.”

THE END

"Like seeing the raw side of men. The basic instinct is so... basic. "  -  Max Marshal
 MaxMarshal@hotmail.com