Like Fight Club, But Much More Pathetic

I walked into the makeshift ring in Serge's back yard for the second time that afternoon. Deep focus, static shot.  My face was still a little swollen from the last match.  Not a dramatic cut on my cheek that could be covered up by a Nelly-esque band-aid, but rather a general redness and puffness.  Brandon faced me, he had just fought his brother, and almost kicked him through a green house.  I shook his hand, the tip of his thumb was missing from a knife fight last year.  Have you ever seen the video for Micheal Jackson's "Bad?"  The one where those two dudes tie their hands together, and then have a knife fight with the opposite arms.  In the end Micheal Jackson shows up and saves these wayward youths with the power of dance.  Why did he never show up at times like this in my life?

I got my first punch deflected. Stallone in Rocky. The second landed on his left cheek. Stallone in Rocky II.  I might actually be able to pull this off.  I dodged Brandon's first and second punch, but the third landed in my ribs. Carl Weathers in Rocky IV. I lowered my guard for an instant.  Brandon saw his opportunity, and went for it.  Before I could raise my arms, Brandon's foot knocked my temple. The plot of Rocky V.

My knees buckled.  Oh shit, I'm going down. I started to fall, collapsing onto myself.  I stumbled forward, then backwards, then onto my back.  What would Edward Norton do?  Oh yeah, yell for a stunt man.  I laid on my back for a second and looked up at the sky for a moment.  Static shot, cue indie music, preferably Elliot Smith 'cause have you even seen The Royal Tenenbuams? Brandon stood over me, with a lit cigarette in his mouth.  Switch from deep to shallow focus.  He took one drag, then handed it to me.  Maybe it was my brain bleeding, but I'd like to think he said, "I regret that we meet in this way.  You and I are of a kind.  In a different reality, I could have called you 'friend.'"