Match #1: Trey Hardee vs Michael Phelps

Michael Phelps 6 foot 4, 200 pounds, 26 years old

Trey Hardee 6 foot 5, 210 pounds, 27 years old

Lance Armstrong, 5 foot 10, 165 pounds, 40 years old

Trey Hardee vs Michael Phelps, with special referee Lance Armstrong

Trey Hardee had had enough of Michael Phelps.  It had been proclaimed by everyone- especially Michael Phelps- that golden boy swimmer was the greatest athlete in the world.  But Trey knew the truth.  Phelps could only swim.  He was a world champion decathlete.  He had to prove himself in 10 different events, not merely do a few laps in a pool.  He had to run, jump, throw, you name it.  He just knew that he was the best overall athlete in the world, and he intended to prove it to Phelps.
Both jocks- and hundreds of others- were at the US Olympic training center in Colorado in preparation for the upcoming trials each would have to endure to earn a ticket to London.   Of course, both Phelps and Hardee seemed like shoe-ins, but you could never be too careful.
The morning after Phelps arrived at the center, he woke up at 5am to hit the pool before everyone else.  After 90 minutes, he slipped on a pair of board shorts over his navy blue speedos, and a pair of flip flops on his size 14 feet, then went straight to the cafeteria to fuel himself.  As he was finishing his enormous breakfast, Trey approached him in the near deserted dining hall, wearing a grey wife beater on top and grey mesh soccer shorts over white compression shorts.  On his feet he had on just a pair of black Adidas Sambas, with plain white no-show socks underneath.

"Hey stud," Hardee began.  Phelps turned to face Hardee, whom he'd met a few times, but did not know well.  "Word on the street is that you think you're the best athlete in the world."

"Trey, man, I don't think I'm the best.  I know I am.  Look at my medals.  Hell, look at my body.  You a little jealous, track boy?"

"Jealous, no.  I just want what's rightfully mine.  I'm not trained as a swimmer.  You're not trained in track and field, so I think we need a neutral sport to see who is the best in the world."

Phelps thought for a moment.  "Well, what sport?" he said, a little hesitantly.

"Submission wrestling" Trey declared, without missing a beat.  "I just did my morning run, you did your swim.  Neither one of us has to do anything until this afternoon.  We could wrestle right now."

Michael Phelps was intrigued, a little scared, and a little anxious to show Trey who was the real stud between the two of them.  "Where would we do it?  The wrestling mats are in use."

Trey had done his homework.  "No they're not.  The wrestlers are in the weight room until 10am.  They won't need the wrestling room until at least 10:30.  It's about 7am right now."

"What are the rules?  Is it just me and you?"

"Well, there will be a referee.  One you've probably heard of before.  And the rules?  Pretty simple, no punches, no hits to the head or groin.  And the first one to 3 falls wins.  A knockout counts as a fall, if it comes to that."  Trey was proud that he had covered all his bases in planning this match with Michael. 

"What does the winner get, exactly?"  Michael asked.

"The satisfaction of knowing for sure that they're the best; and the loser may never again lay claim to it, no matter what."

After a moment, Michael said what Trey wanted to hear: "You're on."

With that Michael got up from his seat in the cafeteria, and the two super fit jocks proceeded to walk to the Wrestling Building on the idyllic Olympic Training grounds.

The gym was everything you'd expect.  Cavernous, a slight lingering scent of sweat hanging in the air, and totally deserted.  And it was surprisingly warm.   It had to be 90 degrees and humid in the gym.  And unlike outside, there was no mountain breeze to provide relief. 

"Sorry, but the a/c isn't set to go on until 10am; you two will be long since done at that point" said the special guest referee.  To Michael Phelps' shock, the man who would officiate his sure-to-be-epic battle with Trey Hardee was none other than 7-time Tour de France winner Lance Armstrong.  Seeing the look of disbelief on his face, Armstrong told Phelps, "Who better than me to judge an athlete?" He looked the very picture of an athlete himself, with his tight, fat-free body, wearing only black training shorts.  He had a little more muscle than he did in his cycling days, because he was now engaged in more well-rounded training, as opposed to just concentrating on his biking.
Armstrong then said "Guys, whenever you're ready." 

With that cue, Phelps kicked off the flip-flops, dropped the shorts, and determined to wrestle in just his form fitting speedos.  Trey removed both of his Sambas, then the little white socks.  Lastly he took off the tank top, revealing his strong and sculpted torso.  It was hard for either Lance or Michael to think of how anyone could be more ripped.  Trey was left in just his grey mesh shorts, with the white compression shorts underneath.
The two of them circled on the center mat, for a moment or two, sizing each other up.  Trey was slightly taller, and had a little bigger muscles overall.  But Michael had advantages as well.  He had a longer torso and wingspan, and nearly every joint in his body- ankles to shoulders- were double jointed, making him absurdly flexible.  Finally, they locked up...

For a moment, they pushed each other, back and forth.  They'd break it and then tie up again.  This time they pushed forward, arms going outward as their chests pressed together.  Hardee began to win what was becoming an old-fashioned test of strength.  Phelps was pushed down, ultimately onto his knees.  To Trey's horror, though, there was no pain on the swimmer's face.  There was a toothy smile looking up at him.  Wasting no more time, Trey suddenly and viciously smashed his right knee into Phelps's chest.  They immediately broke their clench, and Phelps fell onto his back, the wind knocked out of him momentarily.  Trey, still on his feet, then kicked his opponent in the ribs, on the right side.   Phelps curled up, fetal style, in pain.  Trey leaned over and wrapped his arms around Michael's waist, and immediately jerked him up and over in a suplex.  Michael landed- with both of their weights- on his upper back, shoulders, and head.  It left him dazed, further winded, and with pain all over the top of his back.  And to his dismay, he did not feel Trey's grip let go.  Before he knew it, he was hoisted up yet again, and slammed back onto his devastated shoulders.  And again.  When he was sure he was about to slammed a fourth time, Trey repositioned himself, scooped him up to slam him, and brought him down hard onto his knee, crushing his lower back.  At this point, both men were covered in sweat.  Rather than release him, Trey picked him back up, and power slammed him onto his back, with his own weight bearing down as well.  By now, Michael Phelps had been utterly dominated for several minutes, was short of  breath, and his whole back, from the bottom to the top of his head, was in pain.  He felt like a train had hit him.  Observing, Armstrong was amazed at the torture that Trey Hardee was dishing out.  Trey, for his part, felt amazing, although he was a little surprised at what seemed like an easy match versus the pool stud.  On the mat, Trey rolled Michael onto his stomach.  Trey mounted him, applied a full nelson, pulled Michael back, and rested the swimmer's arms on his knees.  He was applying a hybrid full nelson/camel clutch.  It compressed Michael's spine, with 210 pounds coming down on the small of his back.  It simultaneously stretched his abs to their limit, spread his shoulders beyond their design, and applied intense pressure on the back of the neck, pushing his head forward.  Michael's breath was labored, his abs and back were in opposite kinds of pain, and he was disoriented, with no apparent leverage to get out.  His arms flailed about.  His legs below the knees kicked helplessly.  He was groaning and straining to no avail.  Trey's strength and determination held him in place.  Eventually, after two bitter and endless minutes, Hardee's desperate prey tapped out, slapping his palms against the iron strength of Trey Hardee's legs.  Trey released the hold, and pushed him down, face first, into the ground.

Lance Armstrong made it official, "First fall to Trey Hardee."
Trey took a moment to catch his breath.  He walked away, admiring his handiwork writhing on the floor.  Michael was laying on his back, breathing hard, trying to get his bearings.  He couldn't believe either the pain he was in, or how he was just manhandled by the tough track champ.  Slowly, and a little wobbly, he got up to his feet.  Both men just glistened under the lights.
Trey couldn't resist a little tease.  "Wanna just tap out now, and save yourself the pain?"

"Nice try.  You're tapping next."  The two began to circle on the mat once again.  As they approached a lockup, Trey lunged and grabbed Phelps around the waist, and locked on a bear hug.  Reacting just a tad too slowly, Michael yelled out "SHIT!" Trey's large and trained upper body muscles were compressing the lower spine of the suffering swimmer.  The newly sadistic track star held Phelps hard, with his own head against Michael's lower abs.  Use his his strength, he straightened his back, and hoisted Phelps into the air.  All the pressure of his 200 pounds was was now pressing on his lower back, no longer being offset be standing on his own two feet.  Phelps squirmed, although he realized soon enough that the more he moved the more it hurt his back.  He tried push off of his tormentor, using his increasingly rubbery arms.  The sheen of sweat covering both men merely caused his hands to slide off.  His energy was being sapped, his back was being crushed.  He was unsure how much he could take, but he was determined not to let on about his plight.  To lessen the pressure on his back, he wrapped his legs around the chest of Hardee.  A quick attempt to squeeze Trey's massively muscled ribcage brought no result: he had no leverage.  With a violent thrust, Trey drove Michael into the ground.  The wind was knocked out of the swimmer.  Trey released the hold and jumped up to his feet- only to be victimized by the lack of air conditioning.  He slipped backward on the sweat-drenched mat.  Although in rough shape, Phelps saw his chance. He bolted forward, still catching his breath, and landed both knees into Hardee's gut.  After losing his air with a groan, Trey rolled over onto his stomach.  Phelps jumped onto his back, and threw on a tight choke.  As Trey's arms came up to try to pry his throat free, Michael rolled over onto his back, and wrapped his legs around Trey's midsection.  Dazed and fazed for the first time in this fight, Trey desperately tried rolling left, then right.  But it was no use.  He had no leverage.  He was still managing to breath a little, but it was difficult.  He bridged, elevating both men's lower bodies, but that just made it easier for Phelps to tighten the squeeze on Hardee.  Phelps then managed to perfect the choke.  Hardee held on as long as he could, his face turning beet red.  Limply he tapped on his opponents forearm.  Trey was then thrown off of Phelps.

Armstrong declared: "Second fall for Phelps."

Michael Phelps knew that his chance wouldn't last long, so he jumped right back in, and speared Trey as he tried to stand.  He then grabbed both of Trey's legs and rolled him into a  single-leg crab, on the left leg.  He leaned back, putting Trey in a sickeningly U-shaped position, with his free leg flailing about.  His hamstring was being stretched.  His knee and hip were in pain from the contortion.  And his lower back felt like it was being stabbed from the pressure.  But Trey willed himself not to tap.  He could endure this.  After a minute or two of squiring, Michael changed tactics.  He locked both arms around Trey's leg, and rolled onto his own back, and wrapped his legs around Trey's super-muscular right leg.  He locked on the modified spaldle, known as a banana split.  Once in place, he pulled his arms up, pushed his legs down.  As Michael straightened his own body, he stretched Trey's crotch.  Slowly he ground it harder and harder.  Trey was groaning and grunting, squirming as much as he could.  But he had no counter.  Laying on his back, perpendicular to Phelps, he could hardly even land a punch.  He tried mightily to pull his legs together, but the hold rendered moot his massive leg muscles: his crotch was being torn apart at the pelvic joints.  Michael began to wonder if he should just tap now.  He probably waited too long in the last fall, making him easier to beat this time.  No, he thought.  He would endure all he could every time.  So he gritted his teeth, sweat pouring off his head onto the mat.  He tried to control his breathing.  He tried everything, in fact, to take his mind off of the pain.  But after a couple of minutes, it was no use.  Michael showed no signs of tiring.  And the burning, tearing pain from the inside of his left knee, up to his crotch, and back down to the inside of the right knee was too much.  He began to tap both hands hard on the mat.  "I give... I give... I give..."

Michael released him, and Lance said, "Third fall to Phelps."

Once free, Trey rolled over, squeezing his legs together.  He would be sore there for weeks, he knew.  But there were other tasks at hand.  Namely, he had to get Michael to tap out.  And then he had to do it again.  All the while, he had to avoid getting choked out or having his crotch destroyed.  He had learned the hard way, Michael Phelps would not be easy prey.  Phelps had already stood, hands on his hips, catching his breath.  All the while, his sweaty body stayed facing Trey as he got up.  Trey walked a little funny, his inner hamstrings very much worse for the wear.  But he tried not to let on, to avoid inviting a repeat of the torture.  Sweat still poured down Trey's body, too.  He caught his breath, and braced himself for the next round.

The two jocks began to circle once again.  Both would love to quit right there, but pride would allow only winning.  Pride- for all champions- comes ahead of the body.  They locked up again, testing each other's strength again.  Trey push harder than Michael, and backed Michael up to the edge of the mat.  He then broke the hold.  Trey assumed it was to return to the center of the mat.  It was not.  Trey- with every sprinter's muscle he could summon- tackled Michael, landing hard on top of the swimmer, on the bleachers.  The pain of his back being slammed onto the bleacher boards, his body splayed out on several tiered benches, his own and Trey's weight crashing down, was a terrible blow.  His back was in pain.  His lungs had the air violently forced out.  Before he could even right himself, Trey grabbed his feet and pulled him back to the mat.  His head and back feeling each bump as it was dragged down the several bleacher steps.  Once on the mat, Trey pulled him up to his feet, turned him around, and locked one arm on Michael's leg, and one around his neck, and hoisted him up in a torture rack.  Michael felt his back being bent over Trey's shoulders.  His back killed.  Meanwhile, his abs were being stretched and stretched.  Trey decided to up the ante.  He bounced Michael up and down by pulling hard and then letting up, pulling hard and letting up, and repeating it for a good minute.  Michael's arms and lower legs flailed helplessly.  Trey then just dropped his victim to the ground, and the swimmer landed in a heap.  Trey spun around, grabbed his opponent's ankles, tucked them under his armpits, and rolled him into a full on Boston crab.  Initially Trey held Michael near the ankles, and squatted down over him.  After a minute of this, he adjusted his grip to be just under the knees, and sat back on the middle of Michael's back.  The pain was terrible.  With each bounce up and down on his victim, Michael's toes would curl and his fists would clench, a seemingly involuntary reaction to the pain.  Michael tried to break the hold, but Trey's strong legs, unbreakable grip, and full weight leaning back made it impossible to throw him.  He tried to crawl forward, hoping to lessen the pressure on his back, and maybe gain leverage to break it.  But Trey was just so much stronger.  He could not move, he could hardly breath, and he could take no more.  Michael pounded the mat with both hands.

Lance, seemingly very impressed, announced "Fourth fall to Trey Hardee."  Trey released the hold.

Trey stood up while Michael lay face down on the mat, trying for a moment to recover.  Trey decided to end this match now, and end the question of greatest athlete.  He mounted Michael as he had gotten to his hands and knees.  He threw his right arm around Michael's neck from the left side.  Then, he rolled over onto his back, and wrapped his legs around Phelps' midsection in a tight scissors.  His free left arm restrained Michael's left arm.  Michael was now in a dragon sleeper, with painful scissors added on.  At first his face in Trey's sweaty right armpit, although within a minute, the lock had been cinched down around the neck and throat.    His abdomen was being crushed with Trey's vice like scissors.  His chest was being stretched unnaturally over Trey's torso, and his breathing was slight and very labored.  Without waiting any further, his free right hand began to tap the mat.

Lance made the announcement: "Fifth fall- and the match- to Trey Hardee."  But Trey wanted not just to win, but to finish him off.  He locked on the sleeper even tighter, cutting off Michael's blood supply.  After 30 seconds, Trey released his unconscious victim, and pushed the sleeping swimmer aside. 

Trey layed next to his victim.  Exhausted, absolutely soaked in sweat, he was jubilant, and looking forward to some water, a shower, and nap.  They had been brawling for 40 minutes.  Lance walked over to him, offering a hand to help him up.  As Trey was rising up, Lance hooked his right arm around Hardee's neck.  He then dropped back delivering a nasty DDT to the would-be best athlete in the world.  He pushed Trey off of him, and Trey rolled over, dazed and dizzy, face down on the mat.  Lance pounced, dropped both knees and all his weight onto Trey's back.  Trey let out a noise that was impossible to describe.  It was the sound of air being pushed involuntarily through the vocal chords.  Lance got back up, grabbed Trey's legs, and turned him face up on the mat.  Still suffering from the DDT, Trey was unable to plan a defense, let alone a counter-attack.  Then he felt Lance grab his ankles.  Lance twisted the left knee, and fell backward, and locked on a super-tight figure four leglock.  Trey howled in pain.  He didn't understand what was happening, but he knew he was in trouble.  He could feel stretching and tearing all around the knee.  Lance lifted himself up, bridging to add pressure to the knees.  Under ideal circumstances, Trey had a substantial strength advantage over the biking legend.  But his body was so sore, so lacking energy, that he could not muster enough momentum to roll over and reverse the hold.  As he continued to suffer and sweat, Lance stayed focused keeping the hold tight.  In vain, Trey leaned forward- which increased the pressure and pain on his knee- to try to punch Armstrong's legs to release the hold.  But Lance outfoxed him. and reached out and grabbed Trey's wrists.  He then leaned back, pulling Trey's torso sickeningly forward and down atop his own contorted legs.  Trey screamed, and yelled, "Stop, I quit, I quit, I quit."  Lance released his hands and he snapped back, and Armstrong released the leglock as well.  As Trey lay curled, sweating, twitching, and crying, Lance decided to have mercy.  He grabbed Hardee's right arm, pulled him back to the center of the mat, and wrapped his mountain biking legs around Trey's neck.  Like a boa constrictor, he slowly tightened it, until there was no hope.  A minute later, Trey was out cold.  Lance released his victim.

As he stood up, he noticed that Michael Phelps had stirred.  "Thanks, Lance."

Armstrong was a little confused.  Did this dumb ass swimmer think that he just destroyed Trey Hardee to stick up for him?  That angered the biker.  "I just kicked Trey's ass.  I did it to prove that I am actually the greatest athlete in the world.  Now it's your turn."

Fear froze Phelps fast.  Armstrong delivered a swift kick to the swimming stud's stomach, causing him to double over.   Lance bolted forward, and tucked Phelps's head between his legs, and wrapped his arms around the swimmer's long back and abdomen.  He jerked the swimmer upwards, into a perfectly set-up piledriver.  Holding him erect for a good fifteen seconds- allowing the blood to rush his head- he dropped to his knees.  Michael Phelps was back in la-la land.  Laying face down, he was dizzy, aching, gasping for breath and unsure of what was happening.  Suddenly, he felt a pair of hands on his head, pulling him up to his feet.  Once standing on his wobbly legs, Armstrong's strong, small arms grabbed him around the waist, and pulled him up off of his feet.  Already very sore from repeated abuse from Trey- among other things, he had just endured a bear hug and tight Boston crab-  his lower back was sore as hell.  Every beat of his pulse caused a hard throbbing at the base of his spine.  His legs were at first wrapped loosely around the torso of Lance, and his arms hung loosely around Lance's head and shoulders.  But gradually, the pain and fatigue caused him to abandon even slight resistance.  Armstrong made it worse by shaking him back and forth like a ragdoll.   However, he had only just broken into a sweat, and had every bit of mountain biking energy in reserve.  Michael's legs fell limp.  Because of his height advantage, his feet dragged on the ground.  The arms hung straight down, moving about only as Lance violently jerked him from left to right.  The sweat still pouring off him, he began to drift off.  He fell backward, his head nearly hitting the ground.  But Lance held on.  In fact, he held it even tighter, as the swimmer's legs came up under his armpits.  Desperately, Michael Phelps said, barely audibly, "damn... stop... please... please stop."  But Lance was not done.  He held fast.  Phelps attempted to tap out, although he was so disoriented he could barely locate the floor beneath his head.  He just let out an occasional moan.  And then- after maybe five minutes of backbreaking torture, combined with the blood rushing to his head, and the abuse he'd suffered all morning- Michael Phelps went entirely limp.  Just to make sure that he was out cold, Lance jerked him up, and slammed him hard on his back, and then let him go.

Lance could tell that his lights were.  Lance grabbed Michael's wrists, and dragged him next to the still KO'd Trey Hardee.  Looking at the two destroyed studs, both sweaty and drooling, Lance simply announced, "I am the greatest athlete in the world."  He grabbed his gym bag, and threw Trey and Michael's clothes and shoes into it.  He couldn't wait to hear what the wrestlers said when they happened upon Trey Hardee and Michael Phelps, beat up, knocked out, sweating, and laying together, wearing nearly nothing.