Michael Tyler

Desperate Mystic Fallacy

Every movement a flash cut. Every moment an eternity. Every fiber of my being a delicate multiverse of which I am most aware. I sweat though I am seated. Breathe. What the fuck am I doing? Fifty grand. Why the fuck am I here? Fifty grand. This is fucking insane. Fifty grand.

A man opens the door to this dour concrete cell. “Um minuto,” he says taking a moment longer to look at me than is necessary. ‘It’s that obvious.’ I think, ‘It’s that obvious I’m fucking scared to death.’

And I’m nine and short and a little round about the waist and the boys cry ‘Fatty, fatty fat, fat!’ as I run up the hill and I’m grabbed and lifted and thrown down and I roll and I do not cry and I stand and run up the hill and the boys cry ‘Fatty, fatty, fat, fat!’’ and I will be king of the mountain and there’s a grass stain on my shorts and Mom’ll be mad and I stand once more and run up the hill …

I begin to dry wretch. I buckle forward, the stomach revolts but there’s nothing to regurgitate. I haven’t eaten a scrap all day, and now one minute … thirty seconds … the man reappears. “Me siga,” as he points for me to follow behind.

And I’m thirteen and my older brother throws a cushion at me and boys will be boys and Mom and Dad back away as we roll in the living room and he gains a mount and slaps and I cry out and he slaps again and I cover up and Dad chuckles as big brother reigns down blows and I name him Lord and he stands up and smiles.

I stand and stutter-step down the long corridor toward the noise, toward the mob, toward the cheers of blood lust pure and simple.

And I’m nineteen and it’s one a.m. and he’s been eyeing me for a good ten minutes and he looks back at his boys then back at me and here he comes, and his nose is broken and his eyes alight, and he calls me ‘wrestling bitch’ and all heads turn and all conversation halts and I grab my beer and leave the party.

A burst of light hits as I enter the auditorium. I recognize my name over the loudspeaker as a cheer rises and fades to grey. There I am on the big screen. I am twenty two years old, six foot two, two hundred and forty five pounds of lean muscle, nude but for lycra shorts and tape around each hand. I am twenty two years old, an American in Brazil. I am twenty two years old and I have a single finely honed talent that’s brought me scholarships and medals galore, but no money. And so I look elsewhere and that’s when Vale Tudo call and offer $50,000 for the big American to fly to Brazil, strip down and fight. Not wrestle. Fight. No strikes to the groin, no eye gouges, that’s it, end of rules. I’ve wrestled all my life. I’ve never been in a fight.

I am twenty two years old and I am terrified as I look to my opponent.

My opponent is experienced, a street fighter, taller and a bit heavier. This is a man born with a bent toward violence. ‘Motherfucker,’ he mouths while pointing in my direction. My knees begin to buckle but the bell rings and all fades to the singular.

We meet in the middle and grapple. I throw a knee to his stomach then release him and step forward to shoot and take him to the ground. He attempts to throw me off but it’s obvious he’s never wrestled - there’s no rhythm, no shift of weight, he’s a street fighter, no technique. I make a fist and throw once, twice, move to the side, hold his head to the mat and knee him twice to the bridge of the nose. Blood spurts. Hammer fist to the side of the head, four more knees to the face. Something atavistic has overcome and I continue to knee and knee and feel bone retreat at each collision. I close my eyes and throw my head forward and our skulls collide, and I lean back and he’s cut and I keep my eyes open for the next one.

There is no more face, simply blood and matted hair.

I headbutt again.

Someone grabs me from behind and just as I turn to strike. I recognize the uniform and relent. Raising myself to my feet, I look down as the referee shouts at the man on the floor.

Love, sex, these are pittance compared to this. The crowd roars, I raise both arms and dripping the blood of the defeated, my hands are raised toward the sky.

Michael Tyler has been published by Takahe, Bravado, Adelaide Literary, PIF, Daily Love, Danse Macabre, Apocrypha and Abstractions, Dash, The Fictional Café, Potato Soup Journal, Fleas On The Dog, Cardinal Sins and Mystery Tribune. 

 Michael writes from a shack overlooking the ocean just south of the edge of the world. He has been published in several literary magazines and plans a short story collection sometime before the Andromeda Galaxy collides with ours and …