Few alive during the time would have forgotten the day that Allister arm wrestled his way to fame.
It all began with a slew of arm wrestling tournaments taking place in bars. Mainly impromptu, these tournaments sprung up like daisies in bars scattered across the world. They came unannounced and left the same way. The entire bar would roar, fists pumping, as competitor after competitor locked hands and fought. This roar would rise from the mundane mustiness the moment the first two palms met. The roar would encase the entire bar, resonating from wall to barstool to shotglass, the hum of which seemed as though it were always there. But, once the final match was settled, this hum would vanish in the must and the bar would turn back to its dingy self. People who once roared returned to positions of alcoholic immobility, passing out on their arms, supported only by the wood of the bar.
Why these matches began, was just as strange. The old drunks, the ones whose mouths were constantly buried deep in a stein of beer, would gulp and tell of a bloodthirsty man, a descendant of the Huns, named Falsetto. His most inconvenient name aside, there was nothing remotely high pitched and/or sweet about him. Though most of these drunks had never laid a droopy eye on him, they all seemed to have known someone who had. Their descriptions were elaborate, if not accurate. He was most certainly massive. His shoulders were said to have been carved of granite. No shirt ever fabricated proved able to contain these. So, his torso was always bare, exposing muscles so intricately perfect that they seemed fake. He walked in a constant slouch, a position of forever-pounce. His teeth were naturally sharp and some claimed that he replaced his birth set with dentures made of sabre tooth fangs. Some say he was bald, that even his own hair was afraid to be near him. What was most certain was that Falsetto's voice boomed in a most pure and powerful bass. Also, that Falsetto lived in an ever-present rage, stemming from the hurt he felt from being born hundreds of years too late, thereby missing the glory days of the Huns' barbaric past. This fueled him. This and gravel. Yes, it is true that his diet consisted solely of bloodlust and gravel.
Barbarian wars long gone, Falsetto traveled from bar to bar, fiercely arm wrestling whomever he pleased. The one other definite of Falsetto was that all who had laid eyes on him could attest to the fact that slung over his enormous shoulder were the arms of all those he had defeated. They were removed from the shoulder down the moment that Falsetto won the match. A simple tug from Falsetto. Tied together, the arm drape dragged behind him for miles. Though this certainly did not satisfy him, it most definitely kept Falsetto occupied. No one knew how to stop him, but all knew that he must be stopped. It was for this reason that spontaneous arm wrestling matches sprouted in random bars the world over. They were to lure Falsetto in, in the hopes that someday someone would defeat him before he left the entire human population lacking in arms.
In his youth, Allister's arms would certainly not be mistaken for tree trunks. In fact, they more closely resembled rattlesnakes. Smaller rattlesnakes, it should be noted. Indeed, smaller, venomless rattlesnakes would be the most accurate description. It was when he overheard the story of Falsetto resonating from a drunken hobo, seemingly speaking to himself or his bottle, that the thought crept into Allister’s head that perhaps his arms were insufficient. This, however, was not the main catalyst. That came a few days later when Allister dreamt he could crack brazil nuts using only his hands and awoke with a longing for fresh brazil nuts dancing throughout his body. He had never had a craving so strong. He began lifting buckets, filling them with ever increasing amounts of water until the buckets turned to barrels and so on. This was how Allister's small, venomless rattlesnake arms evolved into anaconda arms. Still lacking in venom, but most certainly able to strangle the largest of water buffalo.
Allister, though, hungered for only one thing and one thing only. He feasted, night and day, on bowls and tubs of brazil nuts cracked between his newly evolved palms. Special note should, of course, be paid to the fact that while Allister's arms were worked, the rest of his body was ignored. This left Allister with two enormous arms and an otherwise spindley body. To Allister, this form was not bizarre. After all, head, neck, chest, back, hips and legs were of no use when cracking brazil nuts between two hands.
Allister was hard to miss. This worked to his favor when Falsetto romped into a pub near Allister, The Hog's Toe. Falsetto quickly plucked eighteen people (men, women, and children) and locked arms with each one until their arm was added to his arm-laden sash. The bartender sprinted to the front door and shouted Allister's name. When Allister failed to return his call, the bartender laid down a trail of brazil nuts, leading directly to the table where Falsetto was dropping arms like flies. Allister eventually strolled in, followed by a dusting of brazil nut shells.
Falsetto, upon glimpsing Allister's arms, immediately decided a forfeit of his current match was most necessary. This, he accomplished by removing the arm of his opponent, a sixty seven year old grandmother, and tossing it aside as if to say, "I already have one of those." Allister locked eyes with Falsetto. He had never used his monstrous arms for anything beyond the cracking of brazil nuts, but here mankind needed him. And when mankind calls, it is most difficult to ignore. Allister sat across from Falsetto, who let out a bass-filled laugh of intimidation. Allister, not sure of Falsetto's humor, laughed, as well. With both men laughing, the entire bar erupted in a roar of guffaws. Not a single soul knowing why anyone else was laughing.
But, once arms locked, humor left the bar. For five whole minutes, both hands remained perfectly still. All muscles in both Falsetto and Allister's arms flexed and pulled while the hands remained in place. Falsetto could feel the rage surge through him, calling upon his great great great great great great great grandfather, Attila, for strength and more rage. Now Allister…well, Allister could think of little more than his beloved brazil nuts. He could almost taste the brazil. He imagined the largest brazil nut, sitting in front of him so large and brown. Its shiny shell asked Allister to crack it in the only way a nut can ask anything: by doing nothing. And Allister did just that. He squeezed with all his might until he heard Falsetto's bones crack. Falsetto let out a scream in a pitch that matched his name for the first time in his life and his hand dropped to the table. Allister looked inside his palm where the brazil nut should have been and found, instead, Falsetto's broken hand.
The bar cheered Allister's name and continued long into the night. Falsetto somehow collected himself. He rose from his seat, his head bowed down to the victor. Falsetto, then, promptly ripped off his arm and offered it to Allister. Allister stood dumb founded. He could not accept this trophy. Who could?
Allister tried to place it back in its rightful socket, but Falsetto would not take a negative for an answer. Falsetto finally rescinded to leaving his arm on the table for Allister to take home later. Then, just as promptly as he ripped his arm off, Falsetto disappeared forever. It was at this precise moment that Allister lost his taste for both arm wrestling and brazil nuts.
It all began with a slew of arm wrestling tournaments taking place in bars. Mainly impromptu, these tournaments sprung up like daisies in bars scattered across the world. They came unannounced and left the same way. The entire bar would roar, fists pumping, as competitor after competitor locked hands and fought. This roar would rise from the mundane mustiness the moment the first two palms met. The roar would encase the entire bar, resonating from wall to barstool to shotglass, the hum of which seemed as though it were always there. But, once the final match was settled, this hum would vanish in the must and the bar would turn back to its dingy self. People who once roared returned to positions of alcoholic immobility, passing out on their arms, supported only by the wood of the bar.
Why these matches began, was just as strange. The old drunks, the ones whose mouths were constantly buried deep in a stein of beer, would gulp and tell of a bloodthirsty man, a descendant of the Huns, named Falsetto. His most inconvenient name aside, there was nothing remotely high pitched and/or sweet about him. Though most of these drunks had never laid a droopy eye on him, they all seemed to have known someone who had. Their descriptions were elaborate, if not accurate. He was most certainly massive. His shoulders were said to have been carved of granite. No shirt ever fabricated proved able to contain these. So, his torso was always bare, exposing muscles so intricately perfect that they seemed fake. He walked in a constant slouch, a position of forever-pounce. His teeth were naturally sharp and some claimed that he replaced his birth set with dentures made of sabre tooth fangs. Some say he was bald, that even his own hair was afraid to be near him. What was most certain was that Falsetto's voice boomed in a most pure and powerful bass. Also, that Falsetto lived in an ever-present rage, stemming from the hurt he felt from being born hundreds of years too late, thereby missing the glory days of the Huns' barbaric past. This fueled him. This and gravel. Yes, it is true that his diet consisted solely of bloodlust and gravel.
Barbarian wars long gone, Falsetto traveled from bar to bar, fiercely arm wrestling whomever he pleased. The one other definite of Falsetto was that all who had laid eyes on him could attest to the fact that slung over his enormous shoulder were the arms of all those he had defeated. They were removed from the shoulder down the moment that Falsetto won the match. A simple tug from Falsetto. Tied together, the arm drape dragged behind him for miles. Though this certainly did not satisfy him, it most definitely kept Falsetto occupied. No one knew how to stop him, but all knew that he must be stopped. It was for this reason that spontaneous arm wrestling matches sprouted in random bars the world over. They were to lure Falsetto in, in the hopes that someday someone would defeat him before he left the entire human population lacking in arms.
In his youth, Allister's arms would certainly not be mistaken for tree trunks. In fact, they more closely resembled rattlesnakes. Smaller rattlesnakes, it should be noted. Indeed, smaller, venomless rattlesnakes would be the most accurate description. It was when he overheard the story of Falsetto resonating from a drunken hobo, seemingly speaking to himself or his bottle, that the thought crept into Allister’s head that perhaps his arms were insufficient. This, however, was not the main catalyst. That came a few days later when Allister dreamt he could crack brazil nuts using only his hands and awoke with a longing for fresh brazil nuts dancing throughout his body. He had never had a craving so strong. He began lifting buckets, filling them with ever increasing amounts of water until the buckets turned to barrels and so on. This was how Allister's small, venomless rattlesnake arms evolved into anaconda arms. Still lacking in venom, but most certainly able to strangle the largest of water buffalo.
Allister, though, hungered for only one thing and one thing only. He feasted, night and day, on bowls and tubs of brazil nuts cracked between his newly evolved palms. Special note should, of course, be paid to the fact that while Allister's arms were worked, the rest of his body was ignored. This left Allister with two enormous arms and an otherwise spindley body. To Allister, this form was not bizarre. After all, head, neck, chest, back, hips and legs were of no use when cracking brazil nuts between two hands.
Allister was hard to miss. This worked to his favor when Falsetto romped into a pub near Allister, The Hog's Toe. Falsetto quickly plucked eighteen people (men, women, and children) and locked arms with each one until their arm was added to his arm-laden sash. The bartender sprinted to the front door and shouted Allister's name. When Allister failed to return his call, the bartender laid down a trail of brazil nuts, leading directly to the table where Falsetto was dropping arms like flies. Allister eventually strolled in, followed by a dusting of brazil nut shells.
Falsetto, upon glimpsing Allister's arms, immediately decided a forfeit of his current match was most necessary. This, he accomplished by removing the arm of his opponent, a sixty seven year old grandmother, and tossing it aside as if to say, "I already have one of those." Allister locked eyes with Falsetto. He had never used his monstrous arms for anything beyond the cracking of brazil nuts, but here mankind needed him. And when mankind calls, it is most difficult to ignore. Allister sat across from Falsetto, who let out a bass-filled laugh of intimidation. Allister, not sure of Falsetto's humor, laughed, as well. With both men laughing, the entire bar erupted in a roar of guffaws. Not a single soul knowing why anyone else was laughing.
But, once arms locked, humor left the bar. For five whole minutes, both hands remained perfectly still. All muscles in both Falsetto and Allister's arms flexed and pulled while the hands remained in place. Falsetto could feel the rage surge through him, calling upon his great great great great great great great grandfather, Attila, for strength and more rage. Now Allister…well, Allister could think of little more than his beloved brazil nuts. He could almost taste the brazil. He imagined the largest brazil nut, sitting in front of him so large and brown. Its shiny shell asked Allister to crack it in the only way a nut can ask anything: by doing nothing. And Allister did just that. He squeezed with all his might until he heard Falsetto's bones crack. Falsetto let out a scream in a pitch that matched his name for the first time in his life and his hand dropped to the table. Allister looked inside his palm where the brazil nut should have been and found, instead, Falsetto's broken hand.
The bar cheered Allister's name and continued long into the night. Falsetto somehow collected himself. He rose from his seat, his head bowed down to the victor. Falsetto, then, promptly ripped off his arm and offered it to Allister. Allister stood dumb founded. He could not accept this trophy. Who could?
Allister tried to place it back in its rightful socket, but Falsetto would not take a negative for an answer. Falsetto finally rescinded to leaving his arm on the table for Allister to take home later. Then, just as promptly as he ripped his arm off, Falsetto disappeared forever. It was at this precise moment that Allister lost his taste for both arm wrestling and brazil nuts.
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