Lookin' for the fight of her life
In the real time world no one sees her at all
They all say she's crazy
Strike sat back in the darkened room. She scraped a match along the sole of her shoe, letting the head burst into flames. She watched it flicker for a moment before lighting her cigarette. Pulling a long draw on the other end and then letting it out slowly helped her relax back into the chair. She waved out the match to extinguish the flame, throwing it to the side not caring.
A lamp flickered in the opposite corner shedding it's dim light across the room with a fuzzy feel. Strike stared at the ceiling, alone in her world. A boy about Strike's age creaked the door open and motioned for her without a sound.
The girl stood solemnly, dropping her cigarette on the floor and snuffing it out. She knew what was going to happen next and she knew some thought her crazy for her to do it. She also knew she was the only one crazy enough for the job that someone had to do. It would be a five-minute brisk walk to the bridge.
Locking rhythms to the beat of her heartChanging woman into life
She danced into the danger zone
When a dancer becomes the dance
Strike tossed her dark hair over her shoulder as she stood in the middle of the bridge staring defiantly into the eyes of Japetto, a Harlem girl with dark eyes and black hair. Each of their own followers stood behind them. They were a mere 5 feet apart, hearts racing and eyes glaring like something out of a movie.
Japetto was the first to move, stepping forward and throwing her left arm out to the side, in the direction of Strike. Japetto's army cheered in anticipation. Strike stared at the open, outstretched hand for a moment. She circled back slightly toward her own army with a cocky smile. There was a ruckus as she then stepped out and boldly grasped the other girl's forearm. Fog started to seep up from the river below, just as thick as the tension in the air.
Two boys came forward; in their hands was a rope. They fastened it tightly around the wrists of the two girls who never broke eye contact. When the two stepped back the girls circled each other, testing the limits of their binding.
"Knife." Japetto demanded roughly of the group behind her and without delay it was supplied.
Strike snapped and held her free hand out to her posse of street kids. A switchblade was firmly placed in her hand.
It can cut you like a knifeIf the gift becomes the fire
On a wire between will and what will be
The girls crouched, flicking out the blades and slashing at each other. The fight had begun.
She's a maniac, maniac on the floorAnd she's dancing like she never danced before
She's a maniac, maniac on the floor
And she's dancing like she's never danced before.
A searing pain ripped into strike's shoulder. She bit her lip to keep from screaming as it bled. She rebounded quickly with a single feeling of primitive blood thirst and revenge. The entire fight was a big dance of twisting steps; she lunged in and drew blood from her opponent in anguish
ON the Ice-build iron sanity is a place most never seeIt's a hard warm place of mystery, touch it but can't hold it
You work all your life for that moment in time
It could come or pass you by
Crazed. That was the only word to describe the frightening scene unfolding under the viewer's eyes. Flames pierced the fighter's eyes and sirens screamed in their ears. They saw no one but each other and their blood stained clothes.
The deal was "mercy". Yes, that was the word. If only one of them would call "mercy" the pain would be over. But, no, "mercy" could not be spoken. To say "mercy" would be to die a thousand deaths worse than the one by knife, to let everyone down, be shunned by your own. No, they would never say "mercy". "Mercy" would ruin the legacy.
Pounce, wait, pounce. There was almost a rhythm to their blows. Twist, turn, twist, circle. Japetto smiled wildly and kicked Strike hard, sending the knife in Strike's hand flying away. Strike gasped for air and then jumped to her feet, she dodged a few unfair blows of the knife and then grabbed Japetto's other wrist, managing to throw the knife away.
As Japetto suddenly recovered, Strike saw her chance at that very moment. She pulled her bound arm up and looped Japetto's arm over her shoulder. She jammed her foot down, hard as possible onto Japetto's own. She wrenched her other arm around Japetto's stomach, tripping the girl backwards.
It's a push of the world but there's always a chanceIf the hunger stays the night
Japetto retaliated. She grabbed sand from the ground and threw it toward Strike's face. She sputtered and Japetto got up at lightning speed and kicked her opponent in the stomach.
There's a cold connective heat, struggling, stretching for defeatNever stopping against the wind
Strike stumbled backwards, falling and bringing Japetto with her. She then latched onto Japetto's hair, pulling hard. Japetto let out a scream and rolled in the direction of where a switchblade had fallen. She reached out her hand for it; yet, her arm just wasn't long enough. Only one more inch and she would have the upper hand
She's a maniac, maniac on the floorAnd she's dancing like she's never danced before
She's a maniac, maniac on the floorAnd she's dancing like she's never danced before
Strike saw it too; she threw Japetto to the side, as it became a wrestling match for the blade. They were a mess of bodies scavenging the ground. They were almost inhuman, dogs or bears, vultures. They seemed as primitive as can be.
It can cut you like a knife, if the gift becomes the fireOn a wire of will and what will be
Strike was the first to grasp the knife in her hand. She reacted quickly, scrambling to her feet. Slashing she cut the bond between them and struck Japetto across the face.
The crowd was silent. Not a sound was heard in the night, shocked tension filled the air. Surely someone would give in. Strike's chest heaved up and down in thick breaths.
She's a maniac, maniac on the floorAnd she's dancing like she's never danced before
She's a maniac, maniac on the floor And she's dancing like she's never danced before
Japetto looked back at strike. Blood streamed from the gash on her cheek.
Strike sighed and threw the knife to the side. She was tired of fighting over petty differences, stupid arguments, but Japetto didn't seem to notice. No, Japetto couldn't have noticed. She sprinted toward the attacker and tackled her over the rail.
The crowd rushed to the edge, staring over it in disbelief. A splash was heard in a quick second but no more. The river ran red that night as the groups dispersed slowly. They were all tired of fighting over these petty differences. Two people had died just because they couldn't agree, which they never expected to happen. It just didn't feel right.