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American culture has gone all backwards. Somewhere along the line we’ve decided to embrace our more sensitive sides with skinny jeans, tai chi, and, dare I say it, getting in touch with our inner child. But there’s a glimmer of hope left here in Austin, as a couple of rag-tag kids aspire to recapture the original American Dream, something our founding fathers could totally get behind, by gettin’ burly and beating the shit out of people at arm-wrestling. Austin’s First Annual Arm Wrestling Competition came to fruition this April, and Loco Nunca was there to capture the raw passion and rippling musculature in all its glory. It was enough to make Lincoln Hawk shiver in his boots.
“I lived in Milwaukee, Wisconsin, which is the drunkest city in America 7 years running,” explains Veronica Ceci, aka The Vindicator, one of the event’s coordinators. “When I lived there I was a lot drunker than I am now because that’s just how you are in Milwaukee, and I had a reputation for challenging people to arm-wrestling to get them to buy the next round of drinks. Now, I did not have a reputation for winning … so I’ve been arm-wrestling for a long-ass time, just not very well.”
It became clear to The Vindicator that an official tournament was the necessary progression to obtaining that seductive sense of satisfaction that only a great bout of arm-wrestling can bring. In preparation for the competition, The Vindicator and fellow event director Stephen “Lefty” Andrews began a rigorous training regime, following the guidance of the pro talents featured in their recently procured Secrets of Professional Arm-Wrestling DVD. In the meantime, word spread of the looming competition, and others began a series of montage-esque training regimes to bulk up. A team of Amazonians assembled under the title Tuatpockets (sing it thusly: whatcha gonna pick? Tuatpockets!), vowing to murder their opposition with their physical prowess and really menacing aliases. Brew-pubs were brimming with young hopefuls in muscle-shirts flexing their forearms, ripe for competition. Game on.
Finally, on the eve of April 4, sixteen bright-eyed contenders entered the arena of sorts, with biceps bulging as big as their dreams. A row of golden armed trophies, as well as a portion of the $5 buy-in and the overwhelming prestige of ultimate arm-wrestling infamy all within their iron grips.
Three Playboy-poster-sized lists of official rules and regulations hung behind the regulation table, looming over the competitors, proof that, yeah, this shit was totally legit. Additionally, Natalie Cuccia, referee extraordinaire, proved it was not her first time with a whistle around her neck. “When I blow my whistle and turn my ass to you, you have to spank it,” Cuccia told the crowd, adding to the monster list of professional conduct. “And if someone breaks the rules, I’m taking them around the corner to beat their ass,” she made sure to note as well.
As with any genuine clash of athleticism, the contestants were encouraged to assume the most intimidating personas they could muster. Most costuming consisted of temporary tattoos executed with a red sharpie, but some competitors went all-out. Pambo, leader of the Tuatpockets, sported some camo and an ammo belt Stallone would salivate over, while heavyweight contender “Guns” Grasso grew a mustache just for the occasion. Team Tuatpockets even brought along their mascot, Greta the Pomeranian, who hobbled around with a grenade strapped to her collar. Pambo admitted the outfit was kind of a cop-out. “But how do you make a Tuatpocket? Tape some cheese to ‘em?”
The contestants were divided into eight major brackets: mens and womens, heavyweight and lightweight, left-handed and right-handed. The official charting experts here at Loco Nunca were able to construct a visual of the tournament’s winner’s bracket through hours of careful arrow-placement, as seen below:
While most of the results were fairly predictable (the inevitable triumph of male goliath “Guns” Grasso in particular) a portion of the resulting match-ups yielded surprise outcomes worthy of their own made-for-tv movies. Hollywood Chopper, a crowd favorite, made up for her diminutive stature (the girl stands at 5’2’’!) with a positively frightening game face, and won top-spot in both of the women’s lightweight divisions with ease. Lefty was another surprising contender, who despite his wiry frame was able to use his jedi-visualization techniques to obliterate his opponents. The constant exclamations of “Skinny boy, fuckin’ it up” and “We’re piss-testing that guy at the end of this” from his mesmerized audience only went to prove that a sweet pair of guns is no match for some serious mind-focus visualization. Although eventually overcome by the biceptual prowess of “Guns” Grasso for the men’s overall title, you couldn’t deny the kid has talent.
The most controversial match pitted die-hard Tuatpocketeers Pambo and Two-Fisted Dixie in a to-the-death double elimination challenge. Dixie eventually took down her teammate, but no hard feelings remained after 
the match, as the two hugged and vowed to use the competitive energy drummed up by their unanticipated confrontation to “kill someone who deserves it.”
After trophies were awarded, the tournament morphed into a free-for-all barroom brawl, pitting the Referee against some old dude, while The Lump (Loco Nunca’s favorite participant) challenged everyone in his immediate vacinity, congenially losing every time. Even audience members stepped up to test their skill as Hollywood Chopper christened her trophies with a time-honored armpit-scratching ritual.
By all accounts, the event was a raging success, and, according to The Vindicator, only promises to be bigger and better next year. “By the time people started registering I kinda knew that I didn’t have a snowball’s chance in hell of actually winning the whole thing, even though I’d been trying to do my own jedi-visualization,” The Vinidcator conceded. Despite her badass costume and rigorous training, The Vindicator was knocked out of the competition in the preliminaries. “I figured after the tournament I’d go back to my normal workout routine, but now I’m like, ‘fuck that, man!’ I’m gonna take Hollywood Chopper OUT next year!”