Back vs. Tack

One short section of the quarterback’s arm was exposed: the jersey covered the upper arm to within a few inches of the elbow, and just below the elbow, the forearm was covered by a brace to the wrist.

“You’re arm looks strong, but I am stronger,” scoffed the beefy left tackle. “Look at my hands. They can tear your arm apart.”

The hulking lineman showed the quarterback his huge, violent hands, throbbing with unbelievable strength.

“You’re full of shit and bluster,” the quarterback rejoined. “You could never match my arm. Just try.”

The quarterback stiffened his arm along its entire length as the tackle, smacking his hands on his breeches and flexing his fingers, screwed up his face into a horrible, grinding grimace.
Seizing the quarterback’s upper arm with the left hand, and the forearm with the right, so that he could lock his thumbs for added torque, the tackle groaned and winced and gnashed his teeth as he twisted and strained. The quarterback trembled to maintain his rigidity.

Suddenly, with a loud snap, the elbow gave way, and the lineman tore away the quarterback’s lower arm and hand, sending both men reeling to the ground.

“I told you I could tear your arm off,” the tackle wheezed. “These——these hands of mine——they are——invincible!”

“Damn your eyes, by gosh, you’re right!” the quarterback cried. “But you tried my weak, right arm. My left is much stronger. That’s my passing arm. You couldn’t have done a thing with it.”

“Could.”

“Couldn’t”

“Dare you.”

“Ha!”

Again the tackle lunged, grabbed, twisted, puffed, strained, even plunged both cleated feet into the back’s gut for leverage. He gnashed his teeth to granules inside his mouth and nearly strangled himself on their dust, yet the quarterback’s strong left arm withstood every assault.
He flapped the stump of his right arm against his ribs non­chalantly, waiting for the tackle to concede defeat.

“Oof! I quit.” the tackle collapsed on the turf. “Your left arm is more than a match for these——these hands.”

The quarterback merely shrugged, as the lineman sat on his ass in disbelief, regarding his throbbing, scarred, impotent hands.

“Better luck next time, anyway,” said the quarterback. “I told you my left arm is strong, but you wouldn’t listen. Now you see what it’s all come to. It cost me my right arm to teach you a lesson, but if you’re truly cured of your emptv bragging, I count it a small once to pay. Go ye forth and brag no more.”