The first rule of fight club is that you do not talk about fight club, the stranger says in the smoky, crowded room. There's nothing else here - just the heartbeat in the ears, the smell of old sweat and crusty anger.
My brother is so full of shit. There he stands with me, alone at the edge of the crowd - my buddies, he said two days ago, my people - looking at nobody but the stranger, absolutely spellbound. What the hell has he gotten me into this time?
The second rule is that you do not. Talk. About Fight Club. This time I can hear the capital letters in his voice. Holy shit, this dude is nuts. I start looking for exits - sloppy girl, you'd think I wasn't trained at all, should have checked 'em out earlier. There's the stairs to the trapdoor - guarded, but loosely. I think I could take the nerdy one, and the rule of the social contract makes it more likely his buddy would help him stop the bleeding than chase me down. Then again, the social contract might not apply here, if they're all as batshit insane as the stranger.
The third rule is that if someone says stop or goes limp, taps out, the fight is over. There is some nudging, some glancing of eyes. But there is no jeering - a good sign, and the only reason I don't make a break for the door. Clearly, tapping out or calling a stop is not openly discouraged.
The fourth rule is, only two guys to a fight. Better still. Or maybe worse, if there's no way to maneuver your opponents into each other, hey?
The fifth rule - only one fight at a time, fellas. There is some laughing, and I chuckle uncomfortably along with my brother. We can all feel the animal tension rising in the air - he's nearing the end of the list.
Sixth rule - no shirts, no shoes. More chuckles - some of the crowd are clearly waiters. But now the gears are clicking. I shoot him a dirty look, and my brother shrugs uncomfortably at me, taking off his shirt already as some of the others are. They'll see the scars, there'll be the questions - what the hell am I thinking? No way I'm getting in the ring with some psycho on the first night!
Seventh rule - fights will go on as long as they have to. Wonderful. Clearly going to be an endurance workout - no! No fighting. Not happening. The hairs on my arms are standing up - I should've worn a hoodie or something. But it's not cold. The air is thickening.
The eighth - and final - rule: If this is your first night at Fight Club, you have to fight.
Fuck.
The minute we get home, I'm beating the hell out of that bastard. I swear he's almost grinning at me in the haze of bare lightbulbs. Nutcase.
Now two of them are standing across from each other. No bouncing up and down, no showing off their shit. No shaking hands, no touching gloves (no gloves, for one thing), no bowing or anything. No ceremony. No starting bell, no social norm. Just chaos.
The blond one throws the first punch. He's got a nice swing, but he chicken-wings it a little at the elbow. Just a little, but make it habit and eventually you sprain or break something because your angle is wrong. His opponent - looks kinda Asian, if that matters, so I'll call them blond guy and Asian guy - ducks and body-slams him into the concrete floor. That's gotta sting.
They roll around a little, and blond guy gets on top. Now it looks bad for Asian guy - but that little chicken-wing of blondie's is working against him now. One sour punch to the face, and he grabs his wrist in sudden agony. Asian guy makes a heroic recovery, some complicated spinning motion that puts blond guy in a wrestling hold, his air supply cut off by Asian guy's legs.
There's a frozen moment of shouting, cheers and insults (there are no audience participation rules in Fight Club besides one-fight-two-guys; it's like Elizabethan theater), and blond guy keeps making these rattly noises that mean he's running out of breath. Then the double-tap, and Asian guy lets go. Stands up. Offers blondie a hand.
I look closer to make sure my eyes aren't shitting me - the two are smiling. Blondie guffaws, a little brokenly, before going off to the opposite side of the ring where his friends slap him on the back.
"Mike?" I ask my brother. He turns to look at me.
"Yeah?"
"You have fucked-up friends."
There's another fight already in progress when I look back at the little gap in the crowd. For a brief instant, across the ring, I see the stranger - the back of his head as he talks to somebody in the crowd. Then he's gone.
Throughout the night, the stranger wanders in the crowd, holding no throne of state and no privileged ringside seat. My brother fights twice, coming back bloody both times. Then, in a moment of stillness, he steps into the center again. There are some guffaws.
"Had 'nuff yet, kid?" some wit calls out from the crowd.
"Sir!" Mike's had the same stage training I have, he knows how to throw his voice over a crowd. And there's only one person anybody calls 'sir' in this place, that much I know already.
The stranger looks up, also amused.
"Yeah, kid?"
"There's someone new in the crowd."
Oh shit. My blood runs cold, and for a few seconds, the rumble of the small crowd and the faint creak and grumble of the pipework blanks out. Nothing here but heartbeat, in and out tidal breathing.
Then sound rushes back in, and I find that people are looking at me, almost taken aback. They draw away from me, opening a lane as I walk hollowly to Mikey's beckoning hand. What shit has he gotten me into now?
Standing in the center, I realize in a flash that all the crowd are men. Young and muscled, old and wiry, all colors, even a fat middle-aged dude in the corner. But all men.
The stranger walks into the center with us. There's something about him - something untouchable, something like a housefire.
"Now, before we get carried away, gents, I'd like to say a few words." I know that tone. I've heard it before when my uncle Freddie gets his tent crowd calmed down on revivalist Sundays. The mutters, some angrier than others, die down. "And in the tradition of this lovely democratic country of ours, I'd like to start by asking y'all a pointless question, 'cuz I'm not lookin' for flat answers. How many of you come from single-parent homes? Don't need the details of a divorce or a death or whatever. How many? You don't even need to raise your hands. I just want to see the truth in your eyes. We are a nation of men raised by women - the sons of jailbird, deadbeat, wormbait fathers. I'm not inclined to think another woman is the solution."
"Didn't realize my brother was draggin' me along to the He-Man Woman-Hater's Club." I said calmly, remembering to breathe first so I'd have the air for a speech. There was a rustling among the audience, a few looks thrown in Mikey's direction. The jerk deserved it for making me talk my way out of this mess.
So they're already unsettled. Time to pull out the big guns. I whip my t-shirt off.
If my opening statement caused a rustle, this was a fuckin' eruption. The more tame turned around or looked away. The lecherous started to grin as their eyes trailed downward, then -
"Holy Jesus!"
"Fuck!"
"What the hell - !"
One guy was sick into a nearby trashcan. I rolled my eyes.
"See? No tits, no rules. Speaking of - ," I rounded on the stranger, "Nothing in the rules about no girls allowed."
His eyes flicked briefly to my chest - so to speak - and back up. He looked me in the eyes. He grinned oddly.
"Okay." He beckoned to a ringsider - one of the more lecherous ones who'd tried to sneak a look. Not the sick one, who was still crouched over in the corner. This one is tall and skinny, so I'll call him Beanpole. Hate fighting taller people - maybe it's some repressed size-inferiority thing, or some other psychoanalytical bullshit.
There is no bell, no bow, no starting flag. He aims for the face. Almost definitely untrained. I pull the same move as Asian guy earlier and duck under, but instead of tackling him ('slamming the wall', so to speak), I keep my weight on my feet and punch him once, twice in the gut. My third shot lands on his ribs. I can't hear or feel a break, but he'll definitely be feeling it in the morning.
Time to get past his comfort zone. That's what I hate about taller people; I'm a blitz-raid fighter, normally, but fuckin' beanpoles cramp my style. The outer rim of the defensive circle is their territory. Lanky jerks. If I get right up under his guard, I lose maneuverability - but he loses his reach advantage. Unless he decides to get clever with his elbows.
The best thing about my style, in my humble opinion, is the rapid-fire capacity. None of the other fighters so far tonight are this light on their feet, this fast with their punches. Just to show off, I give him an upward knife-hand to the face. Something crunches. Probably nasal cartilage. Then he goes down, taking me with him. Fuck.
Things start to blur a little after that, just the sensation standing out on my skin - the sweat in my crew cut, the tearing sensation of a cut starting to pull apart on my scalp, the faint itch on the back of my knee from a mosquito bite. I give some blows, I take some blows. Mostly take. Then he gets me in a headlock, pulls us back up to get his weight under him properly.
Bad move, sucker. I turn my head into his elbow right snappy so he can't choke me out, then plant my legs, grab his arms, and twist. For the briefest instant, I am the axis on which the world rotates. Then he goes down, slamming with a sickening thud onto the concrete.
Now, my dander is well and truly up. I'm on top of him, dishing out everything he served me, and then some.
Eventually, he goes limp after I clock him on the temple. There's a frozen moment when I look up from his beaten, bloody face to see the stares of the crowd.
"Fuck off,"
I've always had a way with words, haven't I?