Brawl: First Blood

Posted: July 4, 2007 in Brawl, Dark, Fiction, Sci-Fi

New series for Independence Day…

Chapter One

I drove my fist into his rib cage with the force of those possessed by the demons of old. The resounding crack led to a grim smile crossing my bloodied face. When you’re a winner, you don’t notice the pain until the morning after. You moan and grit your teeth and say you’re never going to do something so stupid again, but that night you’re back in an alley with a stranger who’s bent on breaking some part of you. The madness, the pure animal lust that you get caught up in, is a cry that is impossible to resist, night after night. It’s all good for you. You’re feeling more confident, more powerful, so above everyone else. Breaking bone, the fragile framework for the human body, fills you with its same brittle power that can break other bones so easily.
The man I’m fighting doubles over, screaming in pain. Already the damaged area on his abdomen is growing dark with bruised glory and I can’t stop myself. My left fist sails in for another shot on his broken ribs, another explosive crack reporting my victory. If this man ever sees me again, there’s no doubt he’ll kill me.
I don’t care.
All that matters is the immense POWER that I feel, flowing through my corded muscles like a bullet, exploding out of my arm and connecting with bones that are already shattered. My fist is the bullet and I’m not running out of ammunition anytime soon.
Whatever primitive, primal part this feeling is dredged up from, it feels good. It gets my blood pounding just from the thought of another fight and it reveals a smile that is born in hell, specially made for this occasion. I manufacture pain for my customers, customers who are people like me, those that feel the call of the fight, the feeling of power. If the fight is in them, they’ll keep going. If not, they’ll limp home and simply become another zombie, another drone of the American culture.
But I won’t be a zombie. I’ll be Muhammad fucking Ali, I’ll break every one of their goddamn heads just to satisfy my need and to let my blood and my heart sing. The smug faces that populate the back alleys will turn into grimaces as I permanently force their visages into nightmarish creations for my power.
The man I’m fighting, the man I’m killing, he’s not moving. My fists don’t hurt, nor do any of the places he was able to land a punch on. Everything is buzzing, and my blood is roaring in my ears. I walk away from the man.
I don’t look back, but I can tell.
He wasn’t going to get back up.

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