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Description
A bright spark ignites in a dark place, something electric in the vicinity. Sodium, potassium and calcium being polarized in the axon, the electrical impulse shooting down the neurons in the elbow. The impulse travels down one neuron, then to the next one, then to the next one, each neuron dumping out neurotransmitters to the next neighboring dendrite. The impulse finally reaches the shoulder, where it combines with the spinal cord and up the central nervous system towards the brain. The signal enters the motor cortex, where the cerebrum tells it to move the muscles in the arm. A hundred thousand signals go through the nerves leading to the arm, telling the muscles to move. They move.

The new guy’s fist lands on his opponent’s cheek. He punches him again. And again. And again until his hand is drenched with blood. But he’s still standing.

“GET ‘EM!”

There’re people all around him and his opponent, cheering like on the Y2K celebration at Times Square. But he doesn’t hear them cheer. He’s focusing on his enemy; his eyes are locked onto his opponent’s eyes. His blue eyes. Fourteen eyelashes.

The new guy spears his opponent, blending the blood around the ring, the smell of sweat on the walls and blood in the air. He starts pummeling his opponent. You could hear that beautiful wet smacking sound like raindrops hitting cement.

Smack.

Smack.

Smack.

It sounds like heaven.

He swears for a second that he’s grinning. Grinning at how his prostrate opponent looks like some bloody Halloween decoration. Trick or treat.

Smack.

Smack.

Smack.

“STOP!”

“Goddamn, I’m not done with you,” he mutters,

But that’s the 3rd rule of fight club: If someone says, "stop" or goes limp, taps out the fight is over. The fight is over….

The new guy breathes heavily, inhaling the smell of blood each breath. His lungs feel like lead weights and his he’s crying blood.

He tries to get the blood off his hand by rubbing it on his chest, but his hand gets even bloodier because his chest is a blood volcano. Pain makes him proud; blood makes him hungry. He licks his fingers as if he’s just eaten KFC. Tastes like chicken.

He stands up, looks around at other men like him and then walks into the crowd. He knows its wrong to smile, but he does it anyway.

Because he did pretty damned well for a first-timer. Guess he’s coming every week now.

Wednesdays and Fridays. Maybe Sunday.