"Fight Night"

The paint chips fall from the ceiling, as the basement shakes from the thunderous arena we warm up directly beneath. The acoustics of the blood stained concrete walls that entrap the most desperate, echo each strike landed. The rhythm of the arena’s concussions, with vibrations so deep, they penetrate through my ribs like xylophones. It’s difficult to simply catch my breath. I can feeling my lungs trembling on every other breath. Or it may have been from the anxiety from the expected, and especially the unexpected.

The Year 2121. The world is at peace, and the only fights remaining are the fights to survive, eat and stay alive. Some days I wish I wasn’t a fighter. Other days all I can think about is figuring out the puzzle with each opponent. There aren’t many of us human fighters anymore. Either all killed, or content to scrape the bottom at entry level. Other non-humans, either born freaks or freak constructed, dominated the fighting market.

“Fight Night,” as the retro-title tries to give homage, has little resemblance to the original name holders. Today’s “Fight Night” is a no rules fight to the death. Unlike its predecessors boxing and mixed martial arts, all the fighters are undefeated. A loss in a “competition” generally means death. “Fight Night,” established by the Board of The New Free World, gives opportunities for those who in the past would normally be subject to government assistance. “Fight Night” allows everyone to earn a living. However, if you cannot meet the statutory income expectancy or net worth, you must participate in “Fight Night.” If you cannot perform in “Fight Night,” under the qualified exemptions, you will be deemed a “Non-essential” Individual. Non-essentials’ rights are limited. To say an individual has rights is sort of a misnomer, as there is only one right that has been institutionalized by the New Free World: The Pursuit of Happiness.

As the unfortunate Reverend Jeremiah Jenkins discovered after his house and church foreclosed, you cannot refuse to compete. Refusal to compete could be construed as an infringement on someone else’s happiness. There are no fines, citations, or prisons. There are no other rights. They dragged that poor man of God to level two with Judah Malbec, a non-human. His name fitting for the dark wine-stained skin from all his blood-filled victories.

Malbec was sent to level two for murder. He mysteriously mutated into a non-human prior to his competition. He not only defeated Dragorian, a non-human, he has went on a killing spree brutally defeating all-comers. He is most often seen torturing his opponents. Like a cat disemboweling geckos out in a lanai, Malbec teased his pray with death, until they begged for it. You could hear the blood gurgling between syllables as the reverend choked on his last prayer. Your decision to not fight will be met in the arena with someone who has decided to fight.

Non-Humans were in fact human, or at least a byproduct that have undergone significant changes in genetic structures. Whether through genetic mutations, resulting from diverse radiations emanating from our most scientific advancements, or self-inflicted medical enhancements, the Non-Humans have advance size, strength and speed. There is always a cost. The recipe of mutations to the human body did more than just enhance physical abilities. Many of the non-humans have become significantly disfigured. An abomination. The fear instilled by the mere sight of their horrible disfigurements were itself an advantage.

Not everyone that participates in “Fight Night” are trained fighters. In the entry level, the prizes were very minimal. They consisted of food rations and small amounts of currency. However, the level of competition was much safer. Many successful human fighters stayed at the entry level. Non-Humans were not permitted to participate in the entry level. If you move your way up the rankings, you could get a chance to fight the champion, and a chance to gain economic freedom. This would mean you would have to move up levels and eventually fight a non-human.

“Anxiety suffocates the weak…” explains General Alaric Markham, as contagious cringes spread among the “contestants” when sounds of bowling balls crashing on concrete floors. Explosions against the walls that we can’t see teases our imaginations to a point of nausea and exhaustion. “Stay focus warriors,” exclaimed Markham. These mini-explosions and falling rubble give a play by play to the hidden eyes. The sound of bowling balls meant the fight was still going. However, the sound reminiscent of a pavement kissed watermelon splattered on a hot summer afternoon, is followed by an eerie silence. Like it always does. Silence from the shock of what had just been witnessed, and then the roar. The roar of the blood thirsty masters we serve our performances: Performances of entertainment and death. Performances so that I can make it back home with food for the mouths that are relying on my victory tonight. With a soothing Zen like commanding voice, Markham explains, “…don’t think about the outcome, that’s too much to handle, just focus on your performance!” Although, Markham was fully aware of who we were and what we were about to be going through.

General Alaric Markham was a retired decorated General in the New World Army. So the Board of the New Free World put Markham where he would serve best, he was an assistant manager of the Division of Opportunities. He had a patch on his left eye and a scar from the bridge of his nose with tracks that climb under. He was a seasoned man, mid-forties with countless experiences sketched on his face. Although not from a family of wealth, his valor and fame gained him opportunities in New World. Markham was a hero, and his heroisms carried over to his newly dedicated duties. Markham’s duties were mainly to manage and direct the operations of the “Fight Night” productions. He basically managed a triage with destined victims to their horrible deaths.

Many were not trained fighters. Fifteen percent of the humans combatants are able to bring food back to their families. Five percent, make it past two fights. Only one has ever made it to challenge the champion, Typhon Tartarus spared not because of any sort of mercy and good will. His life was sparred as a taunt by the non-human champion to all human “weaklings.” Spared, but not unscarred as Typhon, still wears the rotting eyeball of his only human challenger around his neck.

There was something else, that made non-humans terrifyingly different. It wasn’t just their abnormal size and strength. They had this animalistic relationship with their own instincts. Their indifference to any life, left a chilling effects to anyone close enough to see those expressionless deformed faces. The only thing they love to do was kill, and killing was something they did viciously well, with a torturous perversion and palate for cruelty.

“Okay guys, Eddie didn’t make it. Yes that was him you heard a few minutes ago. Clean up the mess you made, and let's start warming up,” as Markham directed those who threw up, or messed themselves.

The goal to kill another life had been so desensitized to a form of lust by spectators and participants. In the New Free World, whomever had the most currency makes the rules. There was no government, the was no organization. The free market ran the world. Survival of the fittest, except the fittest were not the strong, nor were the fittest even intelligent. The fittest of this Utopia were the wealthy. Now the main goal, the façade this “Big Brother” has instilled into its Foundational Agreement, is the Pursuit of Happiness.

The New Free World, coalition was initially developed to influence the way governments ran their country, which eventually led them to control the world. At first they started by influencing politicians. Eventually, with control of the world’s market, and with enough money to finance an army greater than anyone has ever seen. The New Free World, through diplomacy, promises, and threats, took control of every world government, tribes, and any forms of civilization.

Pursuit of Happiness, is the only right in the Foundational Agreement of the New Free World. Where prior governments relied on too many ambiguous rules, rights, and laws. Interpretations of these laws became strategically manipulated by political agendas. Eventually, corruption was overtaken by the wealthy. There was somewhat of a Utopia that was formed. All the governmental financial responsibilities were handled by the most sophisticated accountants and financial experts. Poverty was almost decimated, or should we say, slaughtered.

Jacob Johnson, the event coordinator hurries in the warm up area. “That next fight is scratched. Come on, you’re up,” he shouts at me with his piercing blue eyes. Anxiety poured from Johnson’s pores leaving his efforts saturated under each arm and around his collar.

Here we go. This is my time to shine. God I am sick to my stomach. I can feel my hormones racing viciously. God help me do my best. My body and mind are preparing me for battle. God, help so that I am able to provide for my family. Thoughts of spilled giggles and strawberry-blond pigtails fill my head. Nervousness is an understatement. God give me the guidance to perform.

With sweeping hollow echoes, I walk down the damp stone hallway into a glowing light, pulsating with the beat of the crowd’s chants. I see my opponent, Malbec pacing like the last lion striding into a feeding frenzy. His drooped left eye makes it difficult to see his intentions. His exaggerated cleft lip and scars made his face light up with a smile that would make every clown nervous. With eyes locked, I step inside. Like the first plunge into a swimming pool in autumn, the cold stone floor sent an initial shock to bare feet. The announcers bellowed their loud declarations and introductions. It all was a blur. With the crowd lights dimmed, the cold concrete arena closes. I can hear the heart beats of everyone in the audience. No, I can feel it. Then I notice my own. I take a breath. I’ve been here before, this is my job. I feel the best prepared I’ve ever been. So many depend on this. They depend on me.

I look over at the other side, oddly this ugly creature signals to “touch gloves.” A gesture of respect before the fights start, where opponents touch each other’s fist like a formal hand shake before a meeting. That was surprising, and I really respect that. Malbec must have heard of my reputation. His respect is flattering. Excited and ready, I casually walk forward to reach out my hand. He reaches out to touch hands too, as I then notice how long his left thumb nail was. It was thick, dense and disgustingly dirty.

Something was oozing from his nail and his entire hand. I feel hoarseness in my throat. I try to clear it out. I can’t, and it is getting hard to swallow. It’s hard to breath. I feel strange. I feel weak. I lost Malbec. I don’t know where he is. I reach for my throat. Gooey warmth saturate my hand. Why is it so cold in here? My fingers enter the opening of the newly formed slash. Reality has just sunk in. I can’t scream! I can’t talk! Everything is starting to get blurry.

Malbec approaches laughing or smiling. I can’t see his face clearly. I can’t see much. His form now fading. Pressure. I’m on the ground. My cavity just burst open, and something is jumping out of my chest. Pressure. No, it's being pulled out. I can’t lift my arms. Everything is fading. Eyes are heavy. A calmness sets in, as all I can see is this beautiful shadowed figure with a glowing brightness against its back. I can’t keep my eyes open. It’s an Angel. No, it’s Malbec, wearing a dripping heart shaped locket around his neck… Wait?!