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 room of 100 bad guys using his guile, his quick observational reflexes, and his study of the ancient arts learned by watching at least 15 online videos about different cultures. When presented with the reality of two trained fighters, their vision clouded by anger, it’s clear he was more lost than found. I exclaimed “Oh God Emmett! Get out of there.” At least I think I yelled that. It’s possible I just screamed it in my head. My brain often works faster than my mouth and sometimes I have a complete conversation in my head before I utter anything. Emmett’s face betrayed his fear. As the brutes feinted, testing each other’s resolve, Emmett would flinch at each sudden movement, his body contorting and lowering to avoid potential harm. I felt compassion and fear which gave way to wonder when I unexpectedly noticed the corn dog mirroring the shapes that Emmett’s body twisted into. With each jerk and stammer of the brutes, the corn dog looked sadder and more afraid. The corn dog crumpled. The corn dog seemed to grimace. The corn dog was laying down prone. I looked up to see security of the respective teams pulling their men away.

“What the fuck was that?!” Emmett exclaimed, pushing himself up to one knee, taking a tired breath, then standing the rest of the way up to 5’9”. He continued griping, walking towards me. “They aren’t even that good. This is some mid-tier MMA bullshit.”

“Yeah”, I said.

“You know from my low to the ground position, some Pencak Silat, would have messed them up.”

“Yeah.”

“And for what? They risk injury, potentially life threatening injury, when their fight is in 30 min?”

“Yeah.”

“I could have hurt them!”

“Yeah.”

“They can’t wait? Fuck!”

Emmett was wound up. The opportunity to go backstage at an MMA event was too much to pass up even if it was a mid-tier event and we barely knew any of their names. He loved the feeling of being tough and watching MMA gave him confidence that since he understood tough, it meant he was tough. It was a simple gift I got to deliver to my friend, thanks to a strange poetry contest on KXAM. Write a haiku that expresses the combination of strength and sensitivity of MMA. It was a clear PR program designed to help redraw the public impressions of MMA fighters who are much maligned in the media for picking a barbaric profession. My poem apparently captured the exact image they wanted to promote to soccer moms.

“Muscled limbs protect”

“Caressing the crying child”

“I’ll kill the effer”

It was radio… I couldn’t use the f-word for real. 

I stared at the plastic seat afforded us by winning the contest. It was at least better than the metal benches for the regular folk who don’t have the same facility with erudite language. I settled down and felt it creak uncomfortably beneath me, unsure whether it would continue to do its job or give up the ghost somewhere in the first hour. The back was unusually straight. Higher end seating was clearly an after the fact addition to this local college stadium. Emmett arrived at our seat carrying the largest bucket of popcorn I’ve ever seen. It had a handle fashioned to look like a bicep. “You know, this is the only arena in the world to use real beef tallow to cook their popcorn. It’s more expensive but man is it worth it. Want any?” Standing above me, he shovelled a handful in his mouth. I watched some partially opaque khaki colored substance drip from the kernels in his hand. From my angle below I felt like it would land on my face and quickly closed my horrified, agape mouth.

The match was starting four rows below us. Despite them being rigidly upright, it was hard to argue the backstage pass didn’t come with great seats. In some kind of cosmic coincidence, Brute A was named Emmett as well. His fighting moniker was ‘The Mauler’. Brute B was named Johnny. It seemed appropriate. I’m not sure what the beef between the two of them was but they were about to squash it, literally.

Mauler jumped out of the gate with a flying knee that partially caught Johnnie and somehow managed to send Mauler into a forward flip, landing behind the stunned Johnnie. He grabbed a rear naked choke and Johnnie, still wondering where his opponent went, crumpled to the mat unconscious. It was quick, brutal, and decisive.

Emmett, my Emmett, sat there just as stunned. All this wait and it was done. In the ring, Mauler answered questions while doctors attended to Johnnie. “I’d like to thank the troops and of course God for blessing me with these talents. Through him all things are possible.” 

A series of thoughts ran through my head. Why do they always thank God? I don’t recall God naming people Mauler. But even so, the implication is God granted Mauler the power, not Johnnie. It’s as if Mauler is declaring himself a better Christian.

“Hey, if only you prayed a little more, you could have taken me out with an anaconda choke. I guess I’m just more pious than you.”

And if this were true, that would mean MMA is the most Christian sport in the world. What hope does an atheist have against someone with a knife tattooed on his cheek and Jesus tattooed around his neck? And what if two atheists fight? What then? And if two Christians fight, instead of knocking each other’s teeth out, they might as well sit cross legged in the center of the ring and have a pray off instead. Less blood, but one of them is clearly going to hell at the end. I’d pay money for that. And what if it’s a catholic vs a protestant or a jew. They believe in God. Maybe fighting is the only way to know for sure, which religion is the best. Are there brackets of Christianity?

Apparently whatever issue existed between them was not over as Mauler, in true Christian fashion, was being ungracious about his win. This affected his namesake to my right. Emmett complained “that was a thorough beating and you can’t just take the win? You have to rub it in? For what? Fuck you asshole, where is your humanity?”

I watched the kernels in fits and spurts make their uncoordinated way partially into Emmetts mouth. Some falling to the floor, others getting pulverized into tiny particles, some of which escaped in a tiny cloud of Emmett’s breath as he gesticulated wildly, still complaining about the way Mauler was ruining their shared good name. 

The crowd booed and cheered in parallel. The plastic creaked beneath me in protest as I adjusted uncomfortably. The scent of burnt cow graced my nostrils. Where was the humanity indeed?