An idea inspired by @BR4VL3RZ Thanks for the Idea!!

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The sounds of their bodies bashing against one another forced me further into hiding. My sombrero threatened to jump from my skull against the air pressure they produced. Each clash was a whirlwind accentuated by two mighty beasts roaring for dominance.

From the comfort of cover, I managed to peek into the action. They sat in the middle of the chaos. The epicenter of the madness that was forcing my fellow patrons against the perimeter. They were locked in a stalemate that burst with energy as each new blow was exchanged. A duo of devilish dynamos with wild smiles and a thirst for more.

This is how their conflict began.

I remember sitting inside Lupont's Bakery with Lou and Rico. We'd only come in today because Rico's affection for the owner whisked us toward the doors. Lou wasn't one to snack on human food and I wasn't hungry either, so we ended up ordering dessert with no lunch to settle our stomachs. Every time Madam Lupont walked down the aisle Rico became a babbling baby. It always fascinated me how he insisted on visiting her only to crumble when the cookie was presented.

Outside of us a few extra customers were relaxing within. I saw Shelly and Fang sitting at a table together. Then a small party consisting of Edgar, Janet, and Max sat in the corner bickering to themselves. For the most part, any other visitors were common folk just stopping by on their way through the park.

It was calm inside the walls. Like those small-time breakfast shops you'd find in a dirt and brick town stuck in the past. If only we'd known how the mood would drastically shift.

The doors to the front swung open violently. I remember my bones jumping just from the force of the slam. Instinctually I and every other customer turned to see what had happened. Two massive frames were blocking the sunlight from outside. They stood miles above the tables and walked like giants.

One was a masked machismo with a dirty frown. His body was covered in scrapes and cuts with a massive network of bandages running up his torso. His shirtless demeanor usually showed off proud muscles with the grandeur of a superhero. Yet for some reason, he looked more like a monster.

Next to the torn mask of El Primo was a cook gone killer. His eyes were shadowed by his massive eyebrows. The brass nose ring glistened under the soft white lights accentuating the tattered white tee-shirt he kept under a black leather jacket. On his hip was a triple-barrel shotgun that had a noticeable crack running down its length.

Each footfall echoed off the wooden walls in tandem with their breaths. They stared forward and took a combined seat at the bar without a word. Their elbows rested on the table as Lupont calmly approached with a notepad in hand.

The three of us were focused on them without even knowing it. They didn't manage a word as they quietly huffed with their visible damage. An air of tension was palpable between them. Then suddenly Bull spoke.

"11."

Lupont gave an inquisitive glance as if to ask, "We don't have numbers for our orders."

"13."

El Primo's voice came up next. His numerical musing was clearly in contention with Bull's previous statement. A fact that only angered his companion. He squeezed his glass of water and responded, "11."

"13," Primo rebutted with a vein visible pulsing along his arm. He too was frustrated. For what reason I have no idea.

I was a long-time friend of the wrestler so I could often read his emotions. I knew when he was sad, happy, frustrated, and angry. Right now... he was furious. A furious El Primo is a disaster you don't want to encounter.

Looking around others were noticing the growing discourse between the new arrivals. Janet reached into her bag for her microphone while Max popped the cap off her energy drink. I noticed Shelly unclip her shotgun in preparation. She'd be needed to quail her cousin's rage.

Bull blatantly grumbled something inaudible before rising from his chair. Lupont's face showed a twinge of shock though she hid it well beneath an air of professionalism. El Primo, however, began to swell. He snapped around to follow his companion's departure deeper into the diner.

Bull passed by us without looking at anything in particular. Lou hid a snow cone in fear that he'd smack it away and Rico tried not to make eye contact. Even I backed away. An action that I immediately regretted. I should have gotten up and stood in the way. Maybe I could have stopped them.

As Bull was getting closer to the bathrooms further down the hall a glass of water collided against his head. It broke like paper mâché and the cold liquid within doused the growing fire in Bull's loins.

"13!" El Primo barked.

Bull looked at his hands dripping with the foreign fluid. He slowly turned around as his black pompadour drooped. The sound of his chain link waist ornaments clambering accentuated his response. A low grumble that left no questions, "11."

Max jumped out of her seat like a warm blur. The blonde heroine in her red and yellow jumpsuit stood between them. She put up her arms and ordered them both to calm down. This was a public space, any Brawler disputes are to be settled inside designated areas or private abodes. Two brawlers (especially two with power such as theirs) should not rope civilians into their antics.

Bull's response to her nagging was picking the woman up by her shirt collar. She kicked at his chest and bashed his massive arm to no avail. Her allies also stood up in contention. Edgar's scarf came to life making a pair of steel fists ready to smash against Bull's cheek. Janet's voice came to life but couldn't deter Bull's actions. He reeled Max back like a beachball and launched her ahead. Everyone's voices caught in their throats as she smashed against Primo's chest. Though he didn't seem to notice.

The luchador looked down as Janet ran down the hall to check on her. The heroine clutched the back of her head from the sloppy fall and was helped to the side where Madam Lupont assisted in checking on her. All the while, El Primo continued to stare ahead. Unfazed by the projectile or the effect it had on the people around them.

It was at this point that I reached for my guitar. Musical healing would be needed to speed up her recovery and maybe halt El Primo's response. I don't know when it happened but suddenly El Primo was in front of us. He reached down beneath our table and gripped the mast. I could see his nose furl beneath the skintight mask. A bit of air flowed around the tuft of black locks peaking from the damaged visor. Then with a soft grunt and one swift movement, he yanked up the bolted-down table we were eating at. Our cakes spilled into our laps and drinks sprayed against our clothes. Though we couldn't care less about such trifles. We were stunned by a show of oppressive power like no other.

El Primo walked forward a bit and slammed the table down into the flooring. Linoleum cracked beneath us as the table was wedged into the ground. It was at this point that many visitors began running out the front door. A select few non-Brawlers stayed to watch the spectacle though I'm sure in a matter of moments they would regret this decision.

Bull addressed this advance by grabbing two wooden chairs from the table previously occupied by Max's group. One of those chairs happened to be occupied by a distraught Edgar who held onto the arms and legs with his hands, knees, and scarf in kind.

The empty chair was slung forward for El Primo to receive. A catch that left an audible smack against his palm. Bull sat his chair down across from Primo who patiently awaited his partner's arrival. Edgar turned around with a wicked shot aimed at Bull's chest. The sound of his meaty defense was almost as horrifying as his response. Bull didn't raise a hand against Edgar in any way. He continued to stare ahead at El Primo almost awaiting Edgar's departure. The boy instinctively fell backward like a crab avoiding the tentacles of an octopus. Then he hit a wall. He turned back to see Primo staring a hole through him. While there was no malice harbored toward him directly, I'm sure he felt as if being between them would be detrimental to his health. So, he skittered away to where his friends were helping Max to her feet.

At this point, I knew we had to do something. Bull had taken a seat at their custom-ordered table and the two were clashing without a word nor motion. The air was heating up. And they continued to repeat their numbers back and forth. I turned to where Shelly had been sitting hoping to signal her to move now. Whatever was holding her back needed to be dismissed.

However, when I looked past the masses, I saw no sign of Shelly's presence. Her table had been left filthy and the food unfinished. I searched the tables for a sign of her advancement. Then came a soft rasping on the window behind me. I turned to see a young man in a visor waving with a small smile from outside. He had a bucket of popcorn and was passing the confections to the purple-powered Latina I was searching for. She gave me a disapproving nod that said, 'Should have escaped while you had the chance.'

I wanted to complain but something was stirring in the center. I looked back to see the two behemoths resting with their elbows on the table. They were again going back and forth saying eleven then thirteen, eleven then thirteen.

What these numbers meant I have no clue but they continued to chant beneath their breaths as their palms met in the middle. Their sausage-sized fingers intertwined with one another and then clamped shut. In one final grunt, the two of them barked their numbers and strained.

A massive wave of heat pushed against my cheeks. I could see everything around us warp. Lou's snow cone began to rapidly melt away. The table turned into sauna seats with a gentle warmth for the muscles and tendons. I soon realized that this intense change in atmosphere was caused by the duo ahead of me. Was the force of their muscles alone enough to have this effect?

They began straining heavily as their biceps curled and forearms went frigid. Their skin turned to reinforced steel and they battle silently. The only sound coming from them were subtle grunts accompanied by an "11" whenever El Primo made headway in this arm-wrestling match. Followed by an assured, "13" if Bull began to take the lead.

With each additional ounce of force they exerted the heat continued to rise. So much so that keeping my hands on the table nearly boiled the marrow within my skeleton. We all watched on with nervous trepidation as approaching them seemed counterintuitive. What if getting in range meant boiling your skin? They clearly wouldn't be phased by outward influence nor swayed by our voices. But something in my heart said I have to interfere. Why? I wasn't sure but I had to stop them.

I stood up as another wave of heat flew from their cores. I immediately stepped back to adjust to the temperature and then pushed ahead. If I had organs I'm sure they would have shut down from the heat. As I grew closer I could hear their throats rumbling. Their voices grumbled out that same back and forth but with a twinge of frustration. Not the rage I had heard initially. I got within arm's length (an action that Lou lobbied against for my safety) to place a hand on El Primo's shoulder.

If the tables were a sauna then Primo's skin was the surface of a boiling colander. I immediately retracted as my non-existent nerve endings were reawakened by the fire. My yellow bones glowed an odd pink from the brief interaction. I wondered how Bull was keeping next to him but a brief inspection of his neck showed steam rising as the liquid from before evaporated.

A massive elbow slowly rose to my cheek. I saw Primo's knuckles compress as the air locked between naturally escaped. His fist was almost vibrating with the amount of force he was putting into it. I wanted to grab him and stop his assault, but he was too quick. His fist cracked the air around it as Bull's mouth was smashed in beneath. All why shouting, "13!" I couldn't avert my eye-sockets though a massive force of wind did knock my sombrero clean off my head. It floated down beside the quad of bodies huddled against the counter where this clash had begun.

Every patron was taken aback as the shockwave was akin to the force of a racecar barreling past at 250 km/hr. Some were plastered against the wall while we Brawlers stubbled to find our footing. Then our knees went weak when Primo moved his fist. The sheer weight of the blow was felt by all spectators despite our lack of physical interaction.

Bull however barely seemed phased. All except for a spot of blood trickling from his nose he stood stalwart with his hand still fighting El Primo's constant push on the tabletop.

Then he followed the wrestler's example. The diner worker reeled back a massive fist matching the one that was sent his way grunting, "11!" This time I got to experience a taste of the true horror. When El Primo's face was concaved by Bull's knuckles I got such a powerful gust of wind slammed against me that I fell to my rear. Like a cowering puppy, I began backing away on my butt until I met the trio that had originally interfered with this dispute.

I placed my hat on my head and denied what I'd witnessed. It wasn't possible. Completely improbable. For there to exist humans with force this otherworldly. Trading blows with the turbulence of wind turbines and producing sounds akin to two locomotives thrashing against one another in a concert hall.

And they showed no sign of stopping. In turn, they sent bone-shattering blows against the other's jaw. With each shot, the intensity increased. The force of the blows rocked the room till we were struggling to stay on our feet. The doors were sealed shut as the air pressure they produced forced every molecule to rush away.

And there I found myself. Plastered against the cabinet struggling to move a muscle in the wake of their power. Was it fear? Maybe respect? Or just instinctual that I refused to flee. My natural need to survive telling me to stay put and avoid making myself visible. Or is it that I needed to see how this ended? When an eighteen-wheeler plows through a tankard you might worry for the safety of those involved, but deep inside you want to see the carnage in full color.

So, I watched. I braced. We all experienced it together. A clash of unbelievable titans as they battled for dominance in their primal field. Who's to say when a bout like this would take place again? The arena was always filled with superficial fussing. This was true.

After a few minutes of bashing each other's faces in they suddenly halted. The temperature began to fall as the two of them let their punching arms rest. Their muscles relaxed with the stagnant air. I saw how their eyes seemed to fade away into their skulls. El Primo's head in particular began to falter. His head reeled back as if he were preparing to fall asleep on a vertical bed. Bull however rocked forward like a schoolboy falling asleep during a lecture.

We all waited on bated breaths to see who'd collapse first. Their hands started to release from one another. The arm wrestling match had been abandoned to focus on staying upright.

Then suddenly their pupils burst to life. Both hands locked back into a tight embrace as they arose like bottle rockets. With wrists locked they both allowed their massive fists to careen backward in preparation for the final blow. The heat hadn't returned. Not from their bodies, but rather it erupted in all those in attendance. Then suddenly they rocketed forward behind enraged roars.

The sound of their fists simultaneously cracking open the other's skull was disgusting. The shockwave they caused made the room quake. The windows burst and cars rocked. Passersby were violently thrown to the floor and I could hear a disgruntled Fang complaining about his snacks. We all slammed against the walls or cowered behind our seats as a ringing sensation in our eardrums arose slowly.

I was the first to my feet. I'm not sure how or why but I managed to get into the fray first. I went over to El Primo with a tune ready to heal his wounds. I cringed away at the sight of his swollen cheeks and busted-open eyebrows. I felt worse looking at Bull's lips which had been split open from his broken nose ring.

Others slowly approached soon after. We marveled at the warped steel support beneath the table. The wooden chairs had bowed under their weight. The fractured floors and steamy seats. The tabletop was in tatters. Their mark had been left on not just the store but the entire block.

Whilst I began tuning my tool, a woman's feet plotted themselves across Primo's body. I looked up to see the bandanna'd bandit shaking her head. She took a knee and grumbled in her accent, "He never knows when to quit."

Then came a soft grumble, "...mmm..."

We looked down at Primo as his lips began to move. I leaned in closer to hear what he was saying through swollen lips.

Bull's voice came up next, "...t-t-t-t..."

We looked back and forth as they stirred to life. Then suddenly their eyes shot open. With their backs flat against the ground they said in unison, "Twelve?" The two shot up into a sitting position. With their faces still ruined they smiled as if nothing happened, "Twelve!"

They got up to their feet much to our horror. However, we quickly realized that this time they had a different connection. They were happy. Sharing a proud handshake they repeated, "TWELVE!!"

The macho monsters snagged the other's shoulder and began walking away. They stepped over rubble and pushed through the mess of bodies crowding the front door. As if the fight had never happened the pair stepped back out the shattered glass door and walked down the street joined at the hip. All the while we heard them chanting...

"TWELVE!! TWELVE!! TWELVE!!!"