Fight or Flight
The two men faced off. Something had set off a powder keg of anger which caused Brute A to chase Brute B to the darkened, unstaged part of the arena.The threats hurled between them were ridiculous in that way which only happens when the parties involved are truly angry at each other. It was as if people of limited vocabularies decided to have a conversation by speaking in tongues. Apparently, one was going to pummel the other so badly his grave stone would say he wasn’t buried there so much as poured into the ground. The threats, while preposterous, escalated to raised hands. It would be silly if it weren’t so serious. Blood was in the air and something bad was going to happen. And in between the two stood my friend Emmett, holding a rapidly wilting corn dog. He looked back and forth, caught off guard by the unexpected surround of testosterone and tattooed knuckles. Did these yahoos even see him there? Emmett was a lover, not a fighter. He would fantasize about deftly taking down a roo...