Pistol Pete might be packing serious heat in his skimpy thong-bikini, but the pistol in his pants can’t stand up to the muscular guns that Kid Q brings to the table. Kid Q’s massive quads constrict Pete’s neck in a prolonged scissor that drains the stud’s body of its last ounce of resistance. Toying with his prey, the bigger man pulls the dazed boy toy up to his feet and slaps on a sleeper hold with juuuuust enough wiggle room for Pistol Pete to squirm and writhe as the oxygen is gradually cut off to his brain. Throughout the remainder of his doomed struggle, as Pete’s arms grow limp and flaccid, his crotch pistol remains semi-hard and cocked even in the throes of defeat.