Gold Streak

The crowd erupted. Then came silence. A hundred thousand eyes and half as many mouths sat agog in dumbfounded confusion at what had just happened. A streaker, so fast that even the editing booth couldn't blur out his junk, had sprung over the barriers and stolen the gold medal right off Antonio Reginald Smith's chiseled ebony chest. He had dominated the track and field Olympics on behalf of the United States, coming just ahead of his silver-medal-winning rival, Boris Uri Maxim III, the only Russian Olympian to refuse performance enhancing drugs.

A cold stare was shared between the rivals as the pasty rear-end of the thief was seen bolting through the exit out of the stadium. With a telepathic sixth sense nearly as strong as their competitive spirits, Antonio and Boris dashed off in the direction of the streaker. Boris quickly shed the silver medal, considering it dead weight in his quest for gold. As far as he was concerned, if the American was not fast enough to retain his prize, then it was fair game. It was merely a law of nature. Antonio, when asked about it later, said "I wasn't really thinking. That's why I love running; I don't have to think. I just do it faster than the other guy."

With perfect form and in synchronous lockstep, the two Olympians sprinted towards the barrier. Lunging over the first hurdle, their legs were like muscular blurs racing towards the second, then third barrier. No one knows why they were set up this way, and when reaching out for an answer, security consultant Dave was unavailable. 

Dashing out of the stadium, they heard a commotion to their left. Several gasps and surprised faces surrounded the thief, his nudity thankfully concealed by the crowd. Antonio and Boris took off once more, sprinting with even better form than Tom Cruise. Guffaws arose from the parents of a youth-group who had just arrived while a bearded man with a way-too-deep-V t-shirt held up two fingers and yelled, "That's right, my dude! Don't let the society keep you down, man!" After a few hundred meters the two Olympians stopped, seeing that this uncharacteristically athletic naked man was further ahead than when they started. 

Boris looked to Antonio. "We must work together. You run fast, but Boris run strong."

Antonio caught the meaning between the broken, trite generalization of Russian English. Antonio had dominated the sprints, hurdles, and relays, but Boris was a monster in the longer distance events as well as vaulting and javelin. No one had seen him throw a discus in nearly a decade. The two split up, hoping to head off the streaker before he reached the nude beach and his trail lost forever. Antonio took a more direct route, following the thief through traffic, which the American vaulted over with ease. He followed the thief through a small plaza and past the outdoor patio of a local restaurant. Antonio snatched one of the round ceramic plates off a nearby table, if for no other reason than to continue the plot of this story.

Boris made his way around the plaza and saw the thief directly to his left. A cast iron fence post sat stuck fast in the ground, its slender shape perfect for tossing. Boris snatched it from the soft earth and held it over his left shoulder. Running forward for momentum, the Russian released the fence post and watched as it hurdled towards the naked man. However, it did not take long before he saw that the makeshift javelin would miss its target, and Boris took off once more, sprinting to catch up to the thief.

Antonio saw Boris just ahead. Calling out to him, he held up the ceramic plate pulled from the conveniently located restaurant patio. Boris reached his left hand back and continued running forward, his eyes locked onto the taut ass cheeks of their foe. With each stride Antonio drew closer to the Russian, and they both drew closer to the beach. Finally–the exchange. Boris grasped the ceramic plate. Antonio veered off; his energy spent. In fifty yards the streaker would be lost in a sea of saggy, soggy, and sunburnt skin. Then, like a bounding antelope, Boris gave a little skip and a hop, bringing his left arm around behind him and holding the plate in the crux of his wrist. Antonio’s eyes grew wide as he stared at the slow-motion scene before him. Chariots of Fire began playing from a speaker system before copyright lawyers showed up. The crowd froze to watch. Muscles rippling, Boris flung the ceramic plate with all his might, overcoming the physical limits of aerodynamics by sheer power of will. It flew towards the streaker. Smiles began to arise on the faces of the crowd. Slow claps were on the palms of that one guy who can’t quite get it started. Suddenly, the plate began to topple. It lost its graceful presence in the air, and the smiles toppled with it. Antonio looked to Boris and saw that the Russian had a grin on his face. It was the type of grin you see on a twelve-year-old boy when he’s about to do something he was told specifically not to do. As the plate toppled, it began to dive vertically, and it landed precisely in between the butt cheeks of the thief. He let out a groan which could be interpreted as either pain or sensuality, and fell face first onto the blacktop just outside the nude beach. The gold medal was flung from his hands and landed in the margarita of an eighty-year-old woman. The thief lay there, discus protruding from his rear, unsure if the new implant was more painful than the castration he had just experienced from falling onto the concrete. 

Boris retrieved the gold medal and handed it to Antonio. “Here, friend. This yours.”

Antonio refused. “No, you are the gold medalist in my book.”

The two clasped hands in friendship just as a crew of Olympic agents screeched to a halt in a fleet of unmarked Cadillacs. Several were speaking into earpieces as the lead agent, Neil Ulysses Traeger Sr., approached the two men wearing aviator sunglasses and chewing on three pounds of bubble gum.

“What the hell were you thinking?” he shouted. “Chasing this man across town and abdicating the Olympics?”

Boris spoke up, “We retrieve gold medal.”

The agent retorted, “Congratulations, Vlad, but that’s not the real medal. And even if it was, we have a team of highly trained agents named Ethan Bourne or Jason Hunt to take care of guys like him.” Agent Neil then snatched the medal from Boris. “And you lost, big guy. So, this isn’t even yours!”

Antonio looked to the agent. “If it’s not real then there’s no harm in Boris keeping it. He’s the one who got it back after all.”

Neil ripped the glasses from him face and shoved them into Antonio’s chest. “I would rather have this medal shoved up my own ass than give it to this Commie bastard.”

Antonio and Boris shared a look, and before long, a mischievous smile began to form on their faces. Finally, Boris turned to the agent and said with a thick Russian accent, "Deal."