He came to in a spin of sickening twists. His head in a whirl. His guts aflame with a maddening burn. An acidic groan in his gorge that rushed to flee that inferno in his guts. The blaze eating him up from the inside.
He retched. His guts heaved. But he had nothing left inside. A sickening burning up from his battered insides. Bruised. Shattered. Aching like fuck!
Hurting. Burning. Parched. Tongue like leather. Fuck, how he’d bawled. Bawled himself dry. His senses span in a nauseating torrent of confusion. His guts churned in a sickening whirlpool of pain. Hurting like fuck.
And suddenly hungry as hell. That smell! That fucking smell again! Roasting goat. Another torture .. torturing his senses. Sweet. Tempting. He had never smelled anything that smelled so temptingly good. Slowly .. following the trail in his nose .. his eyes opened. A blur. The sounds of the ocean. The heat of the beach. His senses following the fragrant smell of roasted goat.
Then there they were, the fuckers. The pair of them, cross-legged on the sand, staring out of the ocean .. tucking into his goat .. the great orb of the sun slowly setting around their backs as they ate. Him tortured in body and soul in the shadows .. them bathed in the orange glow of the dying sun. An irrational anger came over him. Eating his fucking goat! And they had their backs to him .. they dared turn their backs on him! Like they were confident he wasn’t going anywhere .. these fuckers thought they had him .. confident they had him tight in their greasy fists. They could come back any time they pleased. Come back and beat the fuck out of him again .. at will. That arsehole Conan was going nowhere.
Well. He’d fucking show them. That really got his blood going, under-estimating him. He always resented it when some fucker thought they had him suckered. Something maddening flooded his gut. An irrational burning need to show these fuckers .. Little and fucking LARGE .. how fucking wrong they were. NO ONE .. no one should take Conan for granted.
Suddenly the torture in his guts demanded he move. He’d been hanging senseless off his raised arms. The battered muscle in his belly was not taking that tortured strain anymore. Instinct made him want to put strength into his legs.. Make himself stand on his own two feet.
He wobbled. He pulled on his arms .. agony slashed its claws across his face. He paused where he was. Letting the stabbing pains subside. Then .. when he thought he had himself in his grip, he tried again. Again he forced strength into his knees .. steadying himself with the power of his arms .. he made himself stand. His head whirled ..a sickening spin. His guts needed relief, they retched.. Stinging acid in his throat.
BUT .. fuck it. He was not done-in. He’d show them, these fuckers. His spirit burned .. fired with that urge to prove them wrong. Conan did not give up, plenty of fight left in his raging guts. He forced his thighs to work. He was upright .. using the ropes on his hands to stay standing. Swaying. Wobbling on his own two feet. Pulling on his wrists bonds .. steadying his stance. Head swimming. Guts burning. His body rocking wildly as he hauled in air. But he WAS on his own two feet.
How many times had that sledgehammer of a fist pounded at his guts? More worrying .. how few times had it taken before it had felt like there was no strength left there? A fist that big .. pounding at his belly. Hitting like raw iron. A battering ram. The first hit .. it had knocked him backwards .. off his feet. His wind splattering into the air.
Then the evil fucker just stood there .. unmoving .. unmoved. Waiting for Conan to stop gasping. Stood patiently .. close enough to batter the shit out of him if he wanted. But no need. His being there was threat enough. Fist already warningly clenched.
Inviting Conan to put himself up again. Get-the-fuck over all that noisy heaving in air .. put an end to the grimacing creasing his face. Patiently waiting .. menacingly ready. Tempting Conan to set up the target again. Stand there .. arms trapped above his head .. muscular torso invitingly open. The etched muscled strength in his belly goading the evil fucker .. provocative. A temptation to come back and knock him off his feet. With the force of just one fist. Smack on target.
Not coy .. not disguising the fact that this giant arsehole was going to smack the life out of Conan’s muscular guts again. Not over-keen to prove that the muscular power in his tight-packed belly was just a feeble a piece-of-shit. He could wait, he had all the time. Besides, the feebleness in his guts that was FACT! It was no-fucking-defence. Not a fucking hope-in-hell.
A stare .. a tightening of the forearm .. an invisible layer of steel swiftly coated those huge knuckles. Then .. Thwack. Wallop. Thud. Each hit careening Conan off his feet. Each devastating thwack knocking the sense out of his belly. A firestorm exploding in his guts. One blow, one devastation in his insides. Each time. Knocked back .. Conan’s powerful body, hard-packed with muscle, hefty with brawny bulk .. sent careening back off the ropes. Light as a fucking feather. And afterwards .. after each devastation .. each and every time the ugly fucker stood there .. waiting patiently. Waiting for the dumb sucker to set himself up the target again.
Only a dozen hits? And that brute had smashed all the strength out of him? That reliable might in his muscle-hard belly. How often before .. when Conan had got himself into situations .. how much had he relied on that strength? He’d always been able to put his faith in the power of his muscular guts. When had it last let him down? When had it ever let him down? Before.
Smacked across his chest too .. alternating with the battering ram into his belly .. a huge forearm walloped Conan on his front. At times before, Conan had used an iron-headed club .. to batter down doors. Thwacked to break through resistance. Smashing up timber. Sending a door reeling off its hinges. His chest knew how a heavy-timbered door felt. Hit by a hairy-fisted battering ram. Bludgeoned across his chest. Sending him flying. Legs flailing. Loud bellows of tortured agony.
What was it? A dozen times? As many as that? As few? Just a dozen times .. that giant fist iron-clad with evil determination had smashed up his guts. Expelling every bit of wind with his yell. No longer any strength left to flex. Only a dozen times? Followed up with that bludgeoning by an arm across his chest .. the force of a battering ram. Conan had had little-or-nothing left. Smashed out of him. And still he got pounded in the belly by another iron-fist .. pulverised in the chest by a sledgehammer made from solid rock.
And once that strength was gone .. once the might of his muscle could no longer put up a fight .. once physical devastation had crushed his will .. no fight left .. What then? Disaster. Devastation. Conan had blacked out.