I'd love to see this guy in a loincloth, doing battle as a gladiator. What do you think—would he win, or lose?



In the end, I imagine he'd lose. Picture him with his back arched, chest puffed out, the blade's tip sinking deep and slow into his stuck-out navel.

In one pic, three warriors will compete til only one still stands, but will soon die anyhow. Which will it be?
Gut Up

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They had role played with knives before, but this time it was for real.  The argument was heated and settled by a real knife fight, loser dies!  Jim got in two decent stabs but Frank had a butcher knife that cut deeply into his abs, making a hole where his navel had been.

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          Young foolish American boy.  Did he really think he would have any success against the KGB.  The CIA did well in making him look the part.  Unfortunately, they got the dialect wrong.  

          Not that it really mattered, I was on to him since he showed up.  But, then again, it was my business (and dare I say, in my best interest) to know who the CIA had hired to assassinate me.  After all, I had taken out the two others sent before this one.

          It was rather unfortunate to see how sloppy he was at his job.  He must have been last in his class, but nonetheless, he was the one they sent, the poor bastard.

          My men captured him on one of his daily morning jogs. (way too predictable).  They bought him to the abandoned warehouse.  He put up quite a good fight.  Totally covered in dirt, sweat and bruises, he sat on the chair waiting for me.

          Totally arrogant and cocky, just like the rest of them.  Threatening me with drones, claiming others knew where he was,  all signs of true desperation.  Yet, even through his attempts at deception, he remained professionally proud of himself.  

          Little did he know, we already took out the drone.  We already set up additional tracing beacons sending out the same frequency at the one embedded in his thigh.  Poor arrogant boy, was ignorant that the cards he held in his hand were gone.

          But, I was kind enough to fill him in on his (and his agency's) shortcomings.  He still remained cocky, just like all of those other young American punks.  He even offered to switch sides and work for me.  (oh, how amusing this was.)

          Man, was he pissed when I turned him down.  Afterall, I couldn't possibly let someone who performed so poorly work for me.  His anger blew up when I told him this.  

          He went for one of my men's knife.  Little did he know I set it up that way, as a knife is my preferred method of death.  He swung it at the guards, who backed away.  He looked arrogantly at me, expecting me to flinch.  I gave him no such satisfaction, I stood my ground.

          I admired his young, strong, muscular body.... such a waste.  He made his move at me and I quickly disarmed him.  Holding the tip of the blade against his navel and my other hand on his shoulder, I sat him back down on the stool.

          He told me he would tell me everything he knew if I would spare his life.  (Still cocky, too. I might add.)  I told him there was nothing he knew that I didn't.  The man charged by the CIA to train him was one of my men.

          I held his shoulder firmly as I sank the blade deep into his gut.  He winced slightly at the pain, but wouldn't give me the pleasure of expressing his feelings.  He regained his composure and flipped me the bird.  (Oh how amusing it was to see a man fall at the height of arrogance.)  

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