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I saw the movie Fight Club for the first time last night. All and all, it was a halfway decent movie, I suppose. The ending was a bit lame and there were a few other parts I didn't like, but it had plenty of amusing parts throughout and I thoroughly enjoyed watching them beating each other up and stuff, though why they had to actually enjoy having the shit beaten out of them, I will never know and it did take a lot of the pleasure out of the experience, but wha'cha gonna do, right? And those scenes in the testicular cancer ward were not only funny as hell, but they really made me feel a lot better about my own genitalia. I may still have an incredibly small cock, but at least I still got my balls!
But aside from that and a few other "special" moments in the film, it also reminded me a lot of my own little experience in an underground "fight club" a few years ago. I had heard things about it, just rumors really, but I still found it intriguing and wanted to check it out for myself. And so I followed a few other people one night after work, trying to remain as discreet as possible, even though I didn't have to. It was supposed to remain a secret to society as a whole, particularly anyone involved in state, federal, or local government affairs and law enforcement, but it was open to all, just as long as you were over the age of 18, preferably male (unless of course you were one of those butch chicks or something), and had no communicable diseases such as AIDS or hepatitis or anything like that. The guy wanted everyone to remain nice and healthy, you could say. He didn't give a rat's ass if you got pummeled, crippled, or even killed in the ring, but I guess he didn't like the idea of getting sick from the guy you were fighting, or having your opponent picking up some kind of disease off of you. Go figure. Not an easy rule to enforce, but I guess he kept everyone on the honor system. I like the honor system because it's so easy to violate whatever stupid rule they impose on you and get away with it. But anyway, you had to pay a fee of five bucks to get in, but that wasn't that bad. I had all my bills and rent paid up, so what else was I going to use the money for?
After paying the entrance fee, I descended down a flight of old, creaky stairs, lost in a dense crowd of other men, mostly between the ages of 18 and 48. I heard knuckles cracking and picked up snippets of various conversations and laughter, and with a few others goading each other into a fight. I was only there to watch and see what it was like, but if someone wanted to fight me, I guess that was okay, too. It was a clinical realization that I might wind up in a fight with someone that night, which was probably why I accepted the possibility so calmly and willingly and why I wasn't terribly worried about it at all. Then we were in that huge cellar beneath the bar and tavern, with the floor of solid cement that during the winter would probably have been freezing if you had to walk on it barefoot (not that it would have stopped these guys, I bet), but during the time of year this was, it wasn't too bad. There was a whole score of men in that basement, of every race, a variety of ages, and of all shapes and sizes as well, each one sitting against one of the wall. But the center of the basement, the one where the light shone over the brightest remained empty for now. That was were the fights were all going to be taking place, the ring, so to speak, where the spotlight would be on only the two combatants.
Then a man, the founder of this whole underground "club", I assumed, stepped into the "ring"; he looked as though he hadn't shaved in a week, his dark hair ruffled a bit, and he was dressed in a gray muscle shirt with old jeans. I had him pegged at somewhere in his thirties, and he looked like he probably lifted weights or something. He came out, greeted and welcomed everyone here, and then got to explaining some of the rules for those of us who were here for the first time—some of the rules were similar to those in Fight Club, some a little different:
"Rule Number One: What goes on in this basement stays in this basement. You are not allowed to tell anybody outside about any of this, whether your best friend, a spouse, your boss, law enforcement officers, or anybody else. If someone asks about whatever bruises, gashes, or black eyes, or anything else, make something up. Tell them you fell down a flight of stairs or were mugged or whatever kind of story you want to make up, but whatever you do, don't tell 'em the truth!
"Rule Number Two: Anyone who has any communicable diseases whatsoever may not particpate. No exceptions. With all the blood, sweat, and other bodily fluids flying all over the place, the last thing we need is some diseased asshole spreading his illeness to the rest of us.
"Rule Number Three: We are not in any way responsible for any injuries you incur while participating. If you are seriously injured, we will take you to the hospital, but you will be responsible for paying your own medical bills. If you are accidentally killed, we will dump your body in the nearest river and you will be considered by law enforcement agencies and loved ones to be a missing person.
"Rule Number Four: Fights go on as long as they have to and will not end until one of the participants taps out or falls unconscious.
"Rule Number Five: Only one fight at a time.
"Rule Number Six: You are not allowed to wear any shoes, shirt, or jewelery of any kind while fighting.
"That's all for now. Let the games begin!"
The crowd roared and cheered as the fighting commenced, and I cheered along with them, shaking my fist, crying for blood, hoping someone would get seriously injured or perhaps killed. I witnessed three fights breaking out that night, all in the center of the ring. The end was perhaps the most intense. They were both thin men, one white and one black. I could see the blood spraying from both of their noses and mouths as they pummelled into each other, and could hear the packing noises of closed fists slamming against tenderized flesh. They grunted and growled as they groped at each other, the black man taking the white one down. The white man screamed as his left arm broke against the black man's shoulder and the jagged piece of broken bone poked out through his flesh. I burst out laughing as he cried out in pain. "STOP!" he screamed, with tears streaming down his eyes. The fight ended, and I was still laughing at his suffering as he retreated into the background, whimpering discreetly.
Someone brushed up against my shoulder from behind. I turned to see who it was, and it was a man in his early twenties, a weight-lifter by the looks of his bulging muscles, with thin stubble across his face that didn't quite make a beard. He was grinning eagerly at me. "Hey, laughing boy, wanna fight?"
My laughter ceased. I looked up at him in disbelief as my stomach rose to my throat. I had been aware of the risks of coming to a place like this, that someone could possibly challange me to a fight. But I had come to terms with those risks only in an academic sense. I hadn't believed in my heart that I might actually have to fight someone for real. I came in with the intention of being a spectator only, not participating in a fight myself. "What?"
"You heard me," he said, "Come on." He beckoned me forward, and reluctantly, I joined him.
I've never been that great of a fighter and it really showed that night in the underground fight club when I was a combatant. I might have gotten a few decent shots in there, but for the most part, my opponent kicked my ass and beat me to a bloody pulp. I fought in a dizzying haze as his fists continued to hammer against my head. I hunched over as he jambed his knee into my stomach, gasping for air. He had knocked the wind out of me and I could utter only a few harsh gasps as I struggled to suck air into my lungs. Barely a few minutes into the fight, I wanted to shout STOP to end it and give him the victory, but I couldn't. Whenever I opened my mouth, his fist slammed into my jaw and my head twisted to the side as he dished out another uppercut, thrusting my face upward. I saw the ceiling as a huge wooden blur as I was taken off my feet and my back slammed against the ground. As I lay there, I thought about playing unconscious. The fight would be over. But my leg twitched. I blinked as I rose my head and lay propped on my shoulder. I saw him coming to me, and should have yelled STOP then and there, but I didn't. My opponent closed his hands around my throat and I couldn't breath. I felt my face tingling and it probably turned a deep shade of purple. I couldn't breathe. Once again, he brought his knee into my stomach before releasing his grip on my throat, and I felt nauseaous, sick to my stomach.
"Stop," I hissed, but wasn't loud enough to be heard, and my oponent thrust his fist against the side of my head. The sadistic cheers of the crowds echoed throughout the basement. They liked what they were seeing. They enjoyed watching me getting beaten to death. I could usually understand such sadistic behavior, and had it been someone else who was being beaten as severely as I was, I would have been cheering right along with them, enjoying every minute of it. As I lay there, warm blood dripping from my temple, gazing into the dim lights at the ceiling, I wanted to hurt my opponent, not just because of my sadistic nature but now it was personal. I wanted to beat him as badly as he had beaten me. But I couldn't. I felt the bile scraping up the back of my throat. I coughed, hoping to puke over my opponent. Perhaps that would be enough of a distraction; but I was trying to vomit on an empty stomach and my stomach juices only burned the back of my throat.
My opponent swept his foot over the ground and kicked me in the stomach again, and my body jolted, nearly jumping into the air, before I lay on my side, coughing harshly, looking up at him and blinking my watering eyes. I was barely able to get a breath in when suddenly I was lifted into the air, onto my feet. He elevated me, and I stood, staggering drunkenly, my head lolling about over my shoulders. He threw another punch and I felt my jaw swing painfully to my left.
"Stop!" I screamed. I coughed and found droplets of blood over the back of my hand. "STOP!" I screamed again, coughing, and this time was loud enough to be heard.
And just like that the match was over.
I stood about for a few seconds in silence. The cheers and roars of the crowd had stopped. The room spun around my eyes as I wiped thick blood from my nose and lips. I thought a few of my teeth had loosened, but wasn't sure. My head was throbbing and I thought I might have been suffering from a light concussion. Perhaps I was bleeding internally. I had no way of knowing, but hoped there would be no permanent damage.
My opponent just stood there for a few seconds. He never smiled at me or put out his hand in a sporting gesture to say Good game. He barely even looked at me. That was fine anyway, as I wasn't feeling like a very good sport anyway. I wanted to vomit and pass out at the same time. My eyes rolled back and then I regained shaky focus once again.
I looked back toward my opponent, who was suddenly charging at me. "What the fuck are you doing?" I cried, gasping in surprise. "The match is over!" He tackled me, and before I could get another word out, I was taken down. My head slammed hard against the cement floor, shaking up my already blurry field of vision. He layered his hands over my head again, gripping tightly as he lifted it into the air, and then smashed my head against the cement ground.
"What the hell are you doing?" The club founder called as he raced toward us and pulled the man off of me. "Goddamn it, the fight is over!"
My opponent said nothing as the founder of the club pulled him away. I watched as my opponent was being carried off, then stared up in a daze, gazing up at the ceiling, which blurred and seemed to break apart before my eyes. My head was pounding painfully, my temples throbbing, as my eyes rolled back and I fell unconscious.
Created: June 2001
Revised: February 07, 2003