Ronnie Python: The Mazzeretti Massacre

Photo by Gold's Gym Nepal on Unsplash

The Mazzerettis were on them faster than a bulging asshole to a toilet seat. Ronnie’s trapezius flinched as Duff’s IV-pole swept-in from his blindside and rocked his brain stem. Briefly sending Ronnie Python into lizard mode.

As such Python fell to the floor and licked his lips furiously. He scurried about on all fours, folding and unfolding his legs, moving in arcs and pissing wildly. A mocha brown hospital sock exploded into view and smashed into his right temple.

In between the stars Ronnie saw his father also sprawled on the floor, tangling with the elder Mazzeretti — each trying to gouge the other’s eyes out.

Ronnie’s head pounded and pulsed as tinnitus zapped his senses and Duff scampered around him like a jackrabbit. “Dad gave me a kidney, so I’m gonna kick your ass with it!” Ronnie lifted a forearm and miraculously blocked the initial blow, but missed Duff’s whizzing shin as it cleaved his scrotum. Ronnie curled into the fetal position with a staccato whine. Gasping and heaving as Duff peppered him with abrasive hospital-sock kicks.

Ronnie’s father, Donnie, fought for a stalemate with Tugg Mazzereti wondering why the fuck the Gold’s Gym staff wasn’t intervening. Just when Tugg delivered a downward strike with the flat side of his wrist, dislodging Donnie’s nasal septum. “Welcome to the Wild Fucking West dickbag!” Tugg shrilled as he peppered Donnie’s abdomen. A flurry of maniacal punches left Tugg’s tennis elbows enflamed. “Let’s drag them to the shower!” He yelled, huffing as he towered over his defeated opponent.

Yep. They were recreating the shower incident. But this time they’d come out on top. Like a pair of loser Civil War re-enactors minus the weird beards. Donnie pressed his gym shoes into the tile as Tugg reached under his armpits.

“Fuck you, Tugg!” Donnie yelled. “Duff started it!”

“And I’m gonna finish it!” Duff cried out, just before biting into Ronnie’s calf. “Ow, fuck!” Duff suddenly screamed as he spat out half an incisor. “Fucking calf broke my fucking tooth!”

“Goddamn right.” Ronnie boasted, flexing his diamond-hard calves before scissor kicking Duff in the face — turning more teeth into projectiles.

“We’ll be dragging You to the shower.” Ronnie bellowed as he hoisted Duff by his armpits. “Once again.”

But then a chill hit the gym, and their eyes honed on an imposing aura moving their way.

“Nobody will be dragging anyone to the shower.” Said the voice of a man they immediately respected.

“That’s right, I’m Joe Weider the third. And I want no more man fights!” The chiseled man belted. Speaking with the authority of the grandson of the great Joe Weider, the man who started everything.

“I am so sorry Mr. Weider.” Ronnie immediately dropped Duff to the ground and knelt prostrate before Weider III.

“All is forgiven. I too understand competitive tenacity.” Weider comforted.

“Yes, of course.” Ronnie dusted off his aching knees. “God, I can’t imagine what you look like with that shirt off.” He gushed, then immediately regretted everything he just said entirely.

“That’s an incredibly odd thing to say, but I accept it with flattery. Maybe one of these days you’ll catch me with my shirt off…” Weider threw a teasing glance, “but judging by these nipples, it won’t get warm enough in here.” Weider laughed, and soon everyone laughed with him to kill their discomfort.

“Again, sorry about the dust-up. Won’t happen again.” Said Tugg Mazzeretti. He too a Weider acolyte.

“Because we’re gonna finish it.” Sniped Duff, just as he elevated his fist at full velocity, smashing his knuckles into the prime meridian of Ronnie’s balls.

Ronnie howled in horror as Tugg did the same to Donnie. Before Weider could properly react, he had the heels of flashing Mazzereti feet crushing his gametes as well. Moments later Weider laid on the floor writhing next to Ronnie and Donnie, each clutching their balls, trying desperately not to soil Joe Weider’s painted canvas.

“Why always the balls?!” Donnie screamed.

“To decimate your testosterone!” Tugg snapped back.

“Yeah — Good luck on keeping your T-levels up for the competition.” Duff chastised.

“God damn!” Donnie yelled in painful realization.

“You two are gonna shrivel up and sag like a pair of old tits” Duff continued. Followed by a “Sorry Mr. Weider the Third, so sorry you got caught up in all that crossfire.”

But the Mazzeretti’s understood that Weider understood competition. That competition was war. And all was fair within it. And Weider understood that the Mazzeretti’s understood that he understood that, understanding that they both had an understanding over this particular understanding.

Meanwhile the Pythons writhed on the floor, their testicles shattered. With no hope to accrue enough testosterone to win the upcoming Flex-Off. The competition was just three days away and there was no way, without functioning testicles, they could ever climb the mountain to victory.

“Some people have no respect for the old school.” Weider III groaned, his nuts swollen as Python helped him to his feet.

“They tarnished your cathedral.” Ronnie sternly replied. “They knew this was a House of Weider yet they still had their way with it. They raped your walls, Mr. Weider.” Ronnie’s anger flushed red in his face. “They raped your walls.”

“This ends tonight!” Donnie shouted before collapsing back in pain and cupping his scrotum.

“We jump them at GNC. I’m a Gold Member there. The clerk will turn the other way.” Ronnie darkly mentioned. Then conceded: “After twenty minutes with an ice pack.” Donnie and Weider slowly regained their bearings, then put their hands in the center of the circle they had formed.

“The fuck is this?” Ronnie gawked.

“This — is a three man job.” Weider replied, his steel eyes and stiff nipples piercing Ronnie’s soul.

“Put your hand in.”