The First Rule of Fight Club is: You do not talk about Fight Club.

Fight Club does not exist except for the hours between when Fight Club starts and when it ends. Right. Like the euphoria vanishes that quickly. As long as you have the bruises, the abraded or torn skin, the loose teeth, you have Fight Club with you. Always.

How did I get mixed up in a fight club? That’s right, ‘a’ fight club.  One of many.  Well, it’s an odd story.  We had all seen the movie, right?  As a friend pointed out to me, we are NOT generation ex.  They died in the 80s.  We are generation Fight Club.  Eyes were opened.  It was an effective movie, you have to admit.  Most of us read the book afterwards.  It was even better.  Sort of.  So we played Fight Club.  We would be at someone’s house, playing laser challenge or Dungeons and Dragons, or beeping and booping on the Dreamcast, shooting zombies or some stupid shit like that.  Three AM would roll around, and we would pack up the dice, put away the controllers, shuck the target packs, and play Fight Club.  Play only; no face, no genitals, no major joints.  Safe fighting.  But we all looked at each other’s faces and wondered how it would feel to ruin a thousand dollar set of braces, cut the shit out of his cheek.  What would it feel like to snap someone’s knee back the wrong way. 

It was worst for me, I guarantee.  I had been a martial artist since I was six.  "Never to use our fighting skills for selfish reasons…"  Temptation is stronger than any man.  Out of everyone there, I had the most control.  I was least likely to hurt anyone, and I knew best how.  It was always worst when we played Fight Club.  Other times it was just a stray thought rising up as I walked down the high school hallway.  "How many of these drones could I incapacitate before they brought me down?"  Could I really do the things I had been training for for eleven years?  It was torture.  I’d be bouncing on the balls of my feet in the wet grass opposite somebody I barely knew, knowing I could slam my heel into his throat before he could blink, or smash the heel of my palm into his nose.  Would he really die if I shoved bone splinters into his brain?  I bet he would.  So we played, and I flicked my foot up to touch the toe of my boot gently at the corner of a good friend's eye.  "What was that?" he’d say as he saw my leg flash and felt the barest touch.  "My foot."  I’d say, resting on the balls of my feet, not even breathing hard.  "Shit." was the most gratifying response I got.  Not the smack of flesh on flesh.  Not the snap of bone.  Not the proof I wanted that eleven years of martial discipline had not been in vain.  Of course it was the discipline that held all of this in check.  I didn’t even want to go to the first REAL fight club Noah found.  He new this girl you see, who’s ex-boyfriend stole the keys to his mother’s dance studio every Saturday night to have fight club.  We had to go, he said.  Okay I said, but even if it’s my first night, I don’t want to fight.  But I did want to.  Oh, I wanted to let it all go, piss the restraint away, and be a god for ten minutes. 

So we went.  It was shaping up to be a real shit poor night, we got lost three times before we found it.  We knocked and nobody answered.  We pushed and the door opened.  It was like stepping into a locker room in fast forward.  We couldn’t see anything, but we could hear shouting, animal noises really, high-pitched adolescent voices.  We heard the sound of fighting.  Not sparing.  Not the calculated smack of padding on an opponent.  But rolling around on the ground, beating up fighting.  It smelled like sweat.  We went through he next door into the main floor.  We saw a ring of shouting teenagers. Kids.  About our age.  Some older.  A few had their shirts off, some had new bruises.  We walked towards the group and we heard the shouting crescendo and a muffled "stop."  The ring loosened and we saw to figures on the ground.  One was on his back, exhausted, bloody nose, the other was on his hands and knees choking, gasping for breath.  Interesting.  There was a masking tape circle on the floor.  A punk looking guy without a shirt (or a bruise for that matter) walked up to us. He was carrying a clip-board of all things.  His head was shaved into three strips along his scalp.  "First night at Fight Club?" he asked.  Stupid question.  There weren’t enough people here that he didn’t know everyone.  By face if not name. 

"Uh, yeah."  This was Noah.  I hung behind him.  I didn’t really want to fight, right?  I knew one thing for certain.  They didn’t want me to fight.  "Well then," said fuzz head, "I guess you’ve got to fight.  How bout you, tall scary guy?"  God damn, I hate it when people call me that.  It happens oftener than you’d expect.  I once had a little girl call me a bad guy.  It was cute, but it made me feel like shit.  I am not a bad guy.  I’m one of the best people I know.  I’m quiet and tall.  I have dark hair and eyes blue enough that people are always asking if I wear contact lenses.  I do, but they’re clear, they don’t change my eye color.  So I don’t smile a lot.  So I look like a big scary guy.  I’m not.  Just, reserved.  So anyway, this prick called me a tall scary guy.  "Yeah" says yours truly, "This is my first night at fight club.  But I’m not sure if I’m going to fight."  You really don’t want me to fight. 

"It’s not like you’ve got much choice," quoth fuzzy head. "It’s a rule. No spectators.  You have to fight."  You really don’t want me to fight.  "Okay." this is me again.  "I guess I’ll fight."  I have this really great pair of green silk pants.  Noah calls them pantaloons.  Noah’s a dick.  They’re really great pants, I wear them all the time.  I got them down at the Maryland Ren Fair.  I have two pair, one light, one dark.  I’m getting more.  I love these pants.  Pure silk.  Best stuff I’ve ever worn.  I was wearing those my first night at fight club.  And a black T.  Sandals.  So I’m an eccentric dresser.  Fuck you.  I like comfort and freedom of movement.  Fuzzy head wrote down our names on his little clip-board.  He assigned us fights.  We were late, so didn’t get to pick who we fought. 

It was better organized than I’d expected.  We were really late.  There were only two fights before Noah’s, then mine.  The first was completely lame.  A skin draped skeleton had picked a wrestling jock.  I guess it was a grudge match for him.  He threw a few pitiful punches before the wrestler locked him up and turned his face blue.  Had to hand it to the little shit, he passed out before he tapped out.  Didn’t give up.  Skinny guys fight to the burger.  Not this one, but it was something to remember.  Next fight was a little better.  Two guys, mostly unremarkable.  Lazy computer nerds looking for adventure was my guess.  Not skinny or fat, not tall or short, but pale as an egg.  Smashed each other up pretty good.  There was real anger in those punches.  There faces were a mess of blood before one caught the other in the groin and he shouted stop.  Noah’s turn.  Noah was not in any shape but what his ergonomic computer chair had put him in.  But he was lucky.  He was up against one of, if not the, youngest guys present.  Noah had about three inches on him. And the reach. He slammed the kid in the face pretty good before they went down into a heap.  That kid bit Noah’s arm to shit, but Noah slammed his fist into the kids temple about seven times and he let go and rolled off, shaking his head.  Noah was bleeding.  The kid threw a couple of punches, and then Noah grabbed his foot and put him on his ass. He then proceeded to kick the shit out of the kid.  The kid yelled stop after a while.  Noah was breathing hard and smiling. 

My turn.  I stripped off my shirt.  I kicked off my sandals.  I stepped in.  I am not shaped like a refrigerator, a tower of pulsing veiny muscle.  But I am defined.  I am trained and a hell of a lot stronger than I look. I am also very pale except for my forearms. I work outside during the summer.  You really don’t want me to fight.  People call me arrogant.  I hate that.  I’m aloof, reserved.  Actually, I’m shy.  I don’t like talking to people I don’t know well. It makes me uncomfortable.  And I am normally confident.  Very.  But I have been put in my place too many times to be over-confident.  So I was wary of the guy that stepped out to face me.  If there was any poetic justice in the world, it would have been fuzzy head.  It wasn’t.  It was a nondescript, blond headed retail worker.  I could tell he had worked in fast food before.  I usually have a very good memory, almost photographic, but not quite.  So it’s odd that I can’t give better details about the guy.  But I remember the fight.

I didn’t want to fight. It was stupid and juvenile. It went against everything I’d been trained to believe.  This was not the way to use my martial training.  And I wanted desperately to prove myself wrong.  I wanted to dodge the fist headed for my face.  I did, no sweat.  I skipped around the ring, testing the guy.  I never threw a punch or kick that didn’t hit.  He did. He wasted energy. He was panting.  He charged, I sidestepped and spun down.  I swept him off his feet.  He hit the floor hard.  He jammed a knuckle.  I could tell. He didn’t fall right.  He watched me wearily.  The shouting was different now.  They shouted encouragement at the underdog.  That was not me. I was breathing deeply, but not hard. He rushed again, arms wide, trying to take me to the ground. I’m not good at wrestling. I don’t do it.  I am very good at kicking. He noticed my balance shift.  I know he did, his eyes flicked to my waist.  I turned my heel, shifted back, and side kicked him in the chest. I aimed for the chest. My heel caught him in the solar plexus.  I could have hit him in the sternum.  I could have broken his sternum, maybe. I could have hit him in the throat.  I am not a killer.  I knocked him on his back.  He hit his head very hard. He couldn’t breathe.  He could barely move. I know the feeling. I know exactly what he was feeling. You don’t get to be a black-belt without a lot of pain and bruises.  You don’t get to be an expert without experiencing a sidekick in every way it can be experienced.  Half of that experience is on the other end. 

I jumped up as high as I could.  Over him.  I landed with a heel on either side of his head. I could have landed anywhere.  He got some of his hair pulled when he tried to get up.  I sat on his chest.  I leaned forward. You really don’t want me to fight.  "You're dead." This was me as I sat on his chest, arms on knees looking down on this first unsanctioned opponent. No one else enjoyed the fight.  Not like they enjoyed the others.  Everyone was really quiet.  It made me uncomfortable.  Noah said later that it was the coolest fucking thing he’d ever seen.  Whatever. I went back again, but the only person who wanted to fight me was the wrestler, and I didn’t want to wrestle.  So I made the fight a short one.  I front kicked him in the face, he stumbled back.  Bad idea.  I am a very good kicker.  I did a step in sidekick.  Just about the most powerful kick I know.  Blasted him right in the stomach.  He threw up.  I think he cracked a rib when he hit the wall.  Probably just bruised it.  No one fought me again that night.  I didn’t go back.  Noah did, a couple more times.  I didn’t ask how many.

Tim Dodge d7582@erols.com