A Story

I'm up late and this is what comes out.

Fight

He was drunk and pissed, and his friends were egging him on even. At this point I don’t think even Jesus himself would have had a choice. I think back to the previous couple of minutes, it’s impossible to even remember what this stupid shit is even about anymore. It’s probably just the couple of beers screwing with my system.

“I wonder how much longer I have,” I think. I look him over one more time.

“Probably only a couple of minutes.”

So I finish what’s left of my beer and lead the group outside. It seemed to have swelled quite a bit in the intervening minutes.

“Well at least we’ll have an audience.”

Once we clear the doorway, the group seems to decide through telepathy that the best place to do this would be behind the bar in the alley. And so we all mosey on back there. He’s jumping up and down now, all pumped and pissed; he looks just like a boxer in the ring. I’m almost expecting someone to start rubbing his shoulders and squirt water into his mouth.

I stand off about ten feet away from him, hands in my pockets, and just stare. When the cops come a running, I don’t want to be the one getting booked on assault charges. However, it seems that just standing and being quiet really pisses this guy off, because he starts screaming.

It’s the usual pre-fight trash talking and cursing, calls me a pussy, my mother a whore, asks me when I’m going to grow a pair and swing at him, etc, ad naseum. I’ve heard way too many times to count, and it’s always the same shit. You’d think that people would show some differences, being unique and all. But every single time it’s the same worn out, tired curses.

I just watch him. He doesn’t really seem to notice though. He’s playing to the crowd at this point. Flexing his muscles, taking off his shirt in really dramatic way, throwing those pointed barbs at me. They all seem to appreciate the show. Finally though, he stops the pre-game bullshit and wades in.

I could tell he thought he knew what he was doing, probably was in a fight or two in high school, and maybe played on the football team. Like that teaches you anything realistic. One thing I’ve always noticed about these guys, they fight like they’re being watched; big haymakers, dodging and weaving like a boxer, aiming for the chest and head. And I’ll be the first to admit, it doesn’t look bad, it’s just a bad way to fight. Fighting isn’t about looking good, or playing fair, or getting that perfect knock out punch. It’s about one thing and one thing only, pain.

A lot of people don’t realize this, or at least realize it in anyway that counts. A fight is about causing enough pain so that your opponent is no longer a threat. Think about that for a second, your goal, or at least what should be your goal. Is to cause his eyes to water with pain, to have pretty much all thought and cognitive ability absorbed by the waves of anguish you cause; to leave him on the ground whimpering. It’s a nasty, bloody, dirty business. So that’s how I start off.

He advances, arms up, left foot forward, basically like every boxer he’s ever watched on prime time. I’m still standing and watching, hands still in the pockets. You can tell he doesn’t like this; it doesn’t look good for one. I’m supposed to throw ineffectual punches at him so he can feel justified as he pounds my skull into a pulp. I’m not supposed to just stand and not make any moves whatsoever. His friends are yelling though. And the mere thought of being somehow “disgraced” in their eyes is enough to overcome his last vestiges of moral qualms.

He swings. A simple jab to the chest, I take it. It knocks me back a bit, but not enough to make me shift my footing. And it hurts a bit, not a lot, but I wasn’t supposed to get hit by that one anyway. Everyone knows that you block the first punch and then get set up for the right hand roundhouse. Unfortunately, just letting him hit me isn’t part of that pretty little plan. So he pauses.

“Perfection.”

That one pause is all I needed; in the half second he’s trying to figure out why I didn’t move, my feet are moving. Front snap kick, it really sounds innocuous. However in this kind of street fight, it’s anything but. There’s always that first look of surprise in their eyes as the ball of my foot connects with their groin. If he had any breath in his lungs at this point, he’d probably say something like:

“That’s not fair.”

Which is kind of the point.

It doesn’t end the fight though, not just by itself. A quick rabbit punch to the sternum and then I grab his arm. It almost looks like we’re shaking hands, so I step in, my back to his front and his arm up over my right shoulder.

I bring the arm down.

He screams at this point, a broken arm will do that to a guy. I step back and to the left, keeping my grip on his arm. It flips him over and onto his back. He’s gasping, tears running down his face and onto the pavement. I bring my fist down on his nose.

Just so you understand that last part, I was standing vertical and he was on his back on the ground. I brought my whole body weight and then some onto the bridge of this guy’s nose. Needless to say, it smashes flat, and his head bounces off the concrete. He goes limp.

No one’s talking and shouting anymore, and I always wonder why that happens. They got what they came here to see, they saw blood, they saw pain, they saw someone win and someone lose. No one ever says anything though; they just drift off to the sound of approaching sirens.

I leave my opponent to his friends; I couldn’t care less about him at this point. I just want to do what I originally came here for. So I walk into the bar, grab a stool, and order a beer. It’s nice and cold, a perfect drink.