The Dominator by Bradley Sands

Bradley Sands
25 Spruce Lane
Syosset, NY 11791

January 11, 1976

Pinnacle Books
8672 Delancey Street
New York, NY 10002

Dear Sirs,

Congratulations on the continued success of your Men’s Adventure line. I have heard many good things about such series as The Destroyer and The Penetrator. Of course, I have not read them, because I am a proud heterosexual male, so I do not fit the demographic of your readership.

Let’s be honest, Pinnacle Books. The only people reading your titles are homosexual males. One would think the heroes of your books would share your readers sexual proclivities. But alas, this is not the case, and I think you are doing your readers a disservice.

Worry not, Pinnacle Books! Have I got the Men’s Adventure hero for you! His name is Colt Dixon (aka The Dominator) and he is as gay as a rooster in a miniskirt. I am thrilled to be the first author to bring truth and honesty to the Men’s Adventure genre. This is an exciting time in the history of great literature.

I have enclosed a short story featuring our soon-to-be famous hero. I look forward to making you a fortune. Our partnership will last through the decades and the Dominator series shall consist of hundreds of titles, if not thousands. Please note that I am too much of a masculine heterosexual to credit the books to my own name. Look below for my marketable pen name.

Sincerely,

Bradley Sands

.

Bathhouse of Deadly Deathly Death

by Rod Finland

Colt Dixon strutted through Manhattan’s Meatpacking District, his biceps swishing against the inside of his jogging suit. He tried not to cringe. Ordinarily, he never allowed his perfectly-toned body to touch anything that wasn’t leather or a lover, but today was anything but ordinary. Today, he would infiltrate the Russian mafia and show them what it was like to take a beating from a real man.

He made it to the bathhouse and stared up at its sign: Baryshnikov’s Baths. Manly tears dripped down his chiseled cheeks. He remembered when it was called Happy Harry’s Gay Bathhouse. He and Sparky the Leather Boy would come here a few times a week to enjoy each other and the company of others. It seemed like only yesterday they were trying to figure out how many bodybuilders could fit into a hot tub.

Oh right. It was yesterday. Colt often had trouble remembering the date. Sometimes he couldn’t even remember the century. He had more important things to do than think about incidental details, like fighting injustice and addressing social issues with his fists and leather boots. He looked down at his Adidas sneakers and cried with greater enthusiasm. He was proud of his ability to get in touch with his emotions. Most men would view it as a weakness, but they couldn’t kill an enemy with one stomp. A man can’t inflict that sort of damage unless he had an intimate relationship with his boots. He called them “the boys.” Unfortunately, he couldn’t pass for a vory while wearing them, so the sneakers would have to do.

Colt dried his eyes with a frilly handkerchief and walked through the bathhouse’s front door.

A shirtless man sat behind the front desk reading Vodka Enthusiast’s Monthly. “Welcome, comrade,” he said.

Colt admired the man’s beard. It was almost as impressive as his own. He admired the man’s chest, his firm stomach. The Russian would have made a suitable bath partner if it hadn’t been for the tattoos that covered every inch of his torso. It was as if Michelangelo’s David had been vandalized with spray paint (although the Russian had better abs). There was a skull and a cat and tombstone and a spider web and machete and an ice cream cone and a child laughing and a quadruple-action Winchester semi-automatic submachine laser cannon with a high-impact polymer grip and—

Interrupting Colt’s inspection, the Russian asked, “You want towel? Two dollar.”

Wow. The towel rental price was utterly fabulous. Happy Harry would charge fifty bucks for the afternoon. He considered leaving the Russians unharmed with their sexual reproductive organs intact. Perhaps the Russians and homosexual gay people could co-exist peacefully. Maybe they would all learn to love each other’s differences and become close friends.

Then he remembered yesterday when the Russians invaded the bathhouse, knifed Happy Harry, pulled Colt out of Sparky, stole his favorite leather motorcycle hat, called him “sassy pants,” and kicked everyone, even the bodybuilders, out of the hot tubs.

Colt could forgive someone for calling him sassy pants, but NO ONE (and he meant NO ONE) steals Colt Dixon’s favorite motorcycle hat.

But someone had stolen his motorcycle hat. Colt was confused. How could someone steal his favorite motorcycle hat if NO ONE steals his favorite motorcycle hat? He tried to remember the Russian who took it…handsome, great bod, a beard he’d like to eat hot fudge off, and an appalling fashion sense. If it wasn’t for the man’s fluorescent green jogging suit, and the whole “stealing his favorite motorcycle hat” thing, Colt would have used his manly charms to convince his future victim to become his special friend.

“Comrade?” the Russian asked.

Colt handed him two dollars. “Da. A towel,” he said, careful not to give himself away by using his effeminate lisp.

The man passed Colt a towel without a second glance and went back to his magazine.

Colt stepped into the locker room. Naked Russians were sitting on benches, speaking in Russian and howling in laughter. Some of them had incredible bodies while the others were morbidly obese. Why was there no one in between? No skinny guys? No guys who could stand to lose twenty pounds? Colt sensed the Russian mafia engaged in discriminatory hiring practices.

The sparkles on the walls had been painted over in red with the occasional hammer and sickle. The absence of sparkles made Colt think of the absence of Sparky the leather boy. Until yesterday, his companion never left his side (mostly due to the leash that was attached his collar unless Colt was giving him a bath). But the Russians had done the unthinkable—they had broken the bond between a Leather Daddy and his boy. After interrupting Colt and Sparky’s bath time, a Russian with cabbage stuck in his teeth had cut all of Sparky’s hair off with a knife.

Oh, that luscious blonde hair. Permed to perfection every week, hairsprayed at the top of each hour. And now the only thing left was shame. Horrified by his utterly tacky appearance, Sparky had vowed to never leave his dungeon until his precious hair grew back to its former glory.

Colt snuck into the corner and wept. Sparky wasn’t used to being alone. What if he gave in to the darkness and hurt himself in a non-sexy way?

Mmmmm sexy hurting. Colt Dixon suppressed a purr and took off his jogging suit. He tweaked a nipple with relief. His icky jogging suit ordeal was over. He was comfortable naked, almost as much as when he wore leather. But he was feeling less comfortable today because he had shaved off his scrumptiously thick body hair in order to apply the hundreds of press-on tattoos he had bought from a vending machine at the supermarket. This was the sacrifice he was willing to make to take back his favorite bathhouse. The quarters had come from a stash he’d been saving for a romantic evening with Sparky and Peepshow Glenn—another sacrifice.

Suddenly, the Russians stopped talking and laughing. They examined the tattoos on Colt’s toned back, mouths agape.

“Is that…rainbow?”

“Unicorn?”

“Pretty…flower?”

“Butterfly?”

“Get him,” a morbidly obese man yelled.

Whoopsies! Colt Dixon’s cover was blown. He swiveled around, prepared to massacre everyone in the room.

Everyone in the room stared down at Colt’s twenty-inch python in astonishment.

“Heeey, guys,” Colt said. “I’m up here.” Then he punched the big yelly obese man in the belly.

The man grabbed his heart, said, “Heart attic,” and collapsed onto a wooden bench, turning it into splinters.

One of the muscleheads laid his palm over the top of the dead man’s face and closed the eyelids. “Why, papa, why?” he asked. “Revenge dish best cold, like vodka.” He opened a locker and pulled out a rocket launcher.

Colt was impressed by the Russian’s ability to cram a large object in such a confined space. “Wow, that sure is something,” he said.

Then he noticed the rocket heading for his face. Using advanced meditation techniques he learned from a sassy Buddhist ex, he simulated time flowing in slow motion. Next, he leaned his head back until his elegant features were safe from the projectile.

The lockers behind him exploded, melting the temporary tattoos off his back.

The Russian loaded another rocket into his weapon.

Colt lunged across the room like a linebacker in tight pants with a cute butt, wiggling around anyone blocking his path to the exit.

Upon escaping, he said, “Yay!” and kicked over his head like a Rockette.

Rocket launcher guy and his naked army paraded out the door, growling at Colt in a really scary way.

“Oh sugar!” Colt said, then rushed into the hot tub room and he accidently fell into a tub with three elderly men who shook their fists at him and made harsh noises with the back of their throats.

Colt looked up to see rocket launcher guy standing on the edge of the hot tub, prepared to make Colt’s head explode at point blank range.

“You don’t want to do that,” Colt said.

“Why not?” the man asked.

“Uh…like…you know. Electricity.” His eyes sparkled with confidence. “Right, electricity. If an rocket touches water, everyone in the meatpacking district gets totally electrocuted.”

The man twitched nervously. “You get out of tub, please?”

Colt grabbed the rocket launcher out of his hands. “Shooting rockets at beautiful faces sure is a filthy habit,” he said, dunking it underneath the water.

The man yelped and crawled into a ball. Seconds later, he peeked out through his fingers. “Electricity? Yes?”

Colt hopped up and tore off the man’s right ear with his teeth.

All the Russians gasped.

Then a man came into the room. He was handsome, well-endowed, built like a brick shit-house, had a glorious beard, and a tattoo of a polar bear in a fur coat on his chest.

He wore a leather motorcycle hat on his head.

“Look at funny hat,” he said.

The Russians did not look at Colt’s favorite motorcycle hat. Instead, they kept looking at the severed ear between Colt’s teeth.

“Look at funny hat! Or no sexytimes with steamy twelve-year-old babushkas this evening.”

The men turned their attention to the hat, but did not find it funny.

“Laugh! Laugh or I punch in faces!”

They forced themselves to laugh at Colt’s favorite motorcycle hat. “Da, Yuri,” said a man who would soon be dead. “Funny hat very funny.”

Colt spat the ear into Yuri’s face. “Give me back my hat, you big meanie.”

The ear hit the Russian in the nose and fell to the floor. He picked it up, popped it into his mouth, and swallowed. “Yum yum yum,” he said. “Thank for this thing.”

Colt got out of the hot tub and tried to snatch his hat.

Yuri elbowed him in the face. “You no steal from Yuri.”

“Buuuut it’s miiiiine,” Colt Dixon said, slapping the Russian in the face.

Yuri rubbed his cheek. “You have dishonored Yuri and must travel to heaven.”

All the Russians formed a circle around Colt and Yuri. They distributed torches and lit them with matches made in Mother Russia.

“But first we drink vodka,” Yuri said.

A few men left the circle to bring out a table, a bottle of vodka, and two glasses.

Yuri poured the drinks. He raised a glass. “To spicy women and funny hats,” he said.

As Colt went to clink glasses with Yuri, he grabbed the vodka bottle. When the glasses connected, he smashed the bottle over the vory’s head.

Seemingly unaffected by Colt’s attack, Yuri held his head back and drank. “Vodka good, no?”

He grabbed his tacky spiked mullet hairstyle and moaned. “Oooooh, vodka no so good. Hangover arrival quick as cheetah cat.”

Colt Dixon grabbed Yuri’s left arm and said, “You guys need to leave this place or else you’re not getting this arm back.”

Yuri’s laughter echoed through the hot tub room. “Not getting arm back?” he said. “Very funny. Very funny.”

Colt gave the arm a good tug and tore it off Yuri’s body. He held it in front of Yuri so he could see the special kind of guy he was messing with.

“Oops poops,” Yuri said. “It okay. Another I have.” He took his remaining fist and walloped Colt in the left bicep.

The force of the blow sent the leather daddy flying over a hot tub and then over the Russians’ circle. As he sailed through the air, his heartbeat slowed. The blood pumping through his circulatory system decreased with each second of flight.

Then his body hit the wall and his heart stopped.

Yuri picked up his severed arm and raised it to the ceiling. “Yuri victor! Yuri have funny hat!”

Colt Dixon lay dead, his once glorious python having shriveled to the consistency of a baby worm, and the Russians went back to taking relaxing dips in the hot tubs.

In the afterlife, Colt approached the doorman of the Blue Oyster Bar.

The doorman looked Colt up and down, studying the leather vest and chaps that had grown over Colt since the death of his material form. “Sorry,” he said, “you’re not getting in tonight. Wait at the end of the line if you want.”

Colt glanced at the people lined up for entry. There were no people lined up. There was no line. “Listen, sweetie. I don’t know why you’re giving me the runaround, but I really need to get inside. I’ve always wanted to go inside.”

The doorman checked his clipboard. “Says here you’re not getting in for another eighteen years.”

Colt palmed a dollar bill, passed it off to the doorman with a handshake. “How about now?”

“Nineteen years.”

“Oh phooey. Where am I supposed to go then? I don’t see anything but lava.”

“Turn left and exit through the gift shop.”

.

Colt Dickson stirred on the hot tub room’s floor. He struggled to stand, noticing he was no longer wearing leather.

The Russians had their backs to him and were playing roulette. As they took turns passing a revolver, pressing it against their heads, and pulling the trigger, Yuri was off to the side, lying on his stomach as a burly masseuse gave him a rub-down.

He still wore Colt’s hat.

“My turn,” Colt said, grabbing the revolver from a scrumdiddlyumptious player.

The Russians gawked at Colt, bewildered by his resurrection from the dead.

The leather daddy strutted over to the massage table—unimpeded by the Russians—and strangled the masseuse.

Kneading the tense knots in Yuri’s back with the barrel of the revolver, Colt said, “Reeeelax.”

“Num num num,” Yuri moaned.

When Colt felt Yuri had achieved a deep state of relaxation, he took advantage of Yuri’s restfulness by retrieving his favorite leather motorcycle hat. He put it on and shot Yuri in the head, Colt Dixon-style.

Yuri patted down his loose brains and giggled. “Inside brain is tinier brain. Like babushka doll, but…brainier.”

Colt put his index finger to Yuri’s lips. “Shhhhh, shhhhh. Everything will be okay.”

Yuri turned to Colt. “We fight now, yes?”

“No, sweetheart,” Colt said, “you don’t have to worry about that anymore.”

“I win, yes?”

Colt rubbed Yuri’s impressive physique. “There, there. Just relax and Daddy will make everything better.”

“I win!” the dying vory said, trying to raise his hands in the air and failing to do so. “I knock block off.”

Colt clenched his jaw, trying to contain his rage. This hottie had some nerve. First he steals Colt Dixon’s favorite leather motorcycle hat, then he says he beat up Colt Dixon.

“I greatest fighter of all great fighters,” Yuri said.

Colt turned Yuri over. “NO ONE,” he said, lifting Yuri by his scrotum, “and I mean NO ONE, beats up Colt Dixon.” Then he tore a handful of Yuri’s brain matter from his skull, put it in his mouth, and swallowed it down like a delicious fruit salad.

He glared at the other Russians. “So do you guys wanna die or do you wanna be my new special friends?”

Bradley Sands is the author of several Bizarro novels, including the cult favorites Rico Slade Will Fucking Kill You, Please Do Not Shoot Me in the Face, and Sorry I Ruined Your Orgy.

His brand new novel, TV Snorted My Brain, is Available Now in Paperback and Digital through Kindle and Nook.  

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One thought on “The Dominator by Bradley Sands

  1. Pingback: Bizarro Bathhouse Time | Solarcide

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