Doug: The Fight

“Let’s go.”

I’d be willing to bet anything he’s not expecting the straight punch to the face that snaps his head back like a whip. Two years ago he would have broken my wrist before I could get five inches from his nose. Now blood erupts forth like a fountain, splattering all over the mat.

I’m on him in a flash, knowing that the second he recovers and realizes he’s fighting for his life will be the second my fate will be sealed. Punch after punch rails down on his head and face. I feel a knucklebone crack but keep up my blows.

He reels. Hands come up and bat weakly at my arms. A vicious kick to his gut reminds him to cover his solar plexus. I cannot believe this is happening. This man used to be a god. He could fight like no other. I once watched him take down six armed assailants with just his hands. Now I, the untrained pup, beat him like a child.

He collapses to the ground. Rage fills me. “GET UP! WEAKLING! I COULDN’T HAVE LAID A HAND ON YOU A FEW YEARS AGO!” I want to punch him again and again until my knuckles show bone.

Blood and spit cover his face, making a mask of red. I can see the shame burning behind his eyes. He knows. Knows that he’s been beaten by someone weaker than him.

Bitter, disgusted, I drop my hands from their defensive guard. “You’ve forgotten who you are; shamed yourself. And me.” I can’t even look at him anymore.

That’s why the leg sweep surprised me. In a flash I’m on my back and he is pummeling me. I can see the feral glint in his eye, the killer instinct that has returned in his moment of shame. I fight back, but he’s running on something base now, an energy that I’ve never been able to harness, my blows are unfelt.

I have no chance. In minutes I am beaten to a bloody pulp. Two black eyes, I’m sure a few of my ribs are cracked, and my nose is pouring blood like a faucet. I struggle to stand, and stare blearily at the hand that is proffered, not realizing what it is for a full second. “Good fight.” He mumbles from between cut and swollen lips.

“You fucking kicked my ass.” I mutter. We’re leaning against each other for support, staggering towards the crowd that has gathered to watch our bloody mat room spectacle. Some blonde bimbo with a fake tan asks why we were fighting.

The man at my side laughs, I can feel it hurt him. “I forgot who I was for a little while. My brother had to remind me.”

I grin and that hurts too, but it feels right, and that’s all that matters.

-Doug

"There are many here among us that feel that life is but a joke."
Bob Dylan "All Along the Watchtower"