Cage fighter
I have never lost a fight with a human being. Admittedly, every opponent was already dead, and I now see how that may have affected the result.
The Cloven One has put me in a fighter's body. This week I'm supposed to find out why people volunteer for pain. After the supermarket, I thought the answer was wages. Apparently some of you pay extra.
The body comes with muscles. The ability to use them seems to be sold separately.
Monday
My coach said we would start with light sparring. Lovely phrase. Sounds almost affectionate. I stepped into the cage and offered my opponent both open palms.
He touched my gloves, waited for the signal, and hit me in the face.
I'd assumed the handshake settled things. It was apparently just an agreement to begin hitting me in the face.
I went down. The coach said, "Again."
Again? We had established the result. There was no fucking dispute. Still, I got up. This time I watched his right hand carefully while his left did the same thing.
By evening I was sitting in Accident and Emergency, answering a doctor's questions through a swollen lip. He asked if I'd lost consciousness. I told him I'd lost everything except the membership fee.
I made my collections afterwards. The man in the next ward asked whether dying would hurt. I said his pain was over. Then I winced getting out of the chair, which undermined the fucking presentation.
Tuesday
Watched a motivational video before training. A man beside a swimming pool said defeat was a choice. I don't remember choosing that first punch. Perhaps there was a box on the form.
Today I tried staying on the ground. My opponent put an arm around my neck. For a moment I thought he was helping me up.
The coach shouted, "Tap!"
I am Death. People beg me for mercy. I do not tap.
Tapped like a bastard.
Then I lost again to someone who'd been introduced as a beginner. His main advantage was having begun.
The coach said I needed to stop thinking about winning. Easy for him to say. He was standing up. Every conversation we had took place at a different height.
He asked why I hadn't protected my head. I told him I'd had no trouble with it before Monday. He rubbed his face for a long time. I recognised the gesture from the supermarket manager.
Wednesday
4 losses. No wins. I asked whether enduring the session counted as a win. The coach said no, but used a kind voice, which was worse.
In the changing room a man explained how he'd have handled my opponent. He had an answer for everything. Move here. Duck there. Catch the leg. I asked if he could demonstrate.
His knee was playing up.
Of course it fucking was. An entire undefeated career being held back by the one knee.
I lost the next round while remembering his advice. Somewhere between "keep your distance" and "get in close," a foot arrived.
Thursday
Decided the problem was hesitation. When the official came between us to explain the rules, I hit him.
At last, I had landed a punch. On the only man in the cage who wasn't allowed to hit me back.
Disqualified. The official needed stitches. I couldn't take his soul to make the problem disappear, either. He wasn't due. I had to apologise to a living man while he held a bag of ice against the evidence.
The gym banned me from competition. I argued that technically I'd never competed. They made it a lifetime ban before I could explain the distinction.
I asked whether I could appeal. They showed me the video. There I was, confidently hitting a man who was still speaking. There was even a little pause beforehand where you could see me deciding it was a good idea.
Horrible to discover that you're an idiot in slow motion as well.
Called the Cloven One. He said the week's assignment wasn't over.
"I've been banned."
"From competing. You can still clean the mats."
Friday
Returned to find the men I'd fought practising the same moves over and over. Nobody was delivering a speech. Nobody mentioned a swimming pool. They were sweating, getting it wrong, asking to try again.
One stayed behind to show me how to fall. I let him. Then I asked for a round.
Lost.
7 losses now. I had gone from being knocked flat to being put down carefully by a man who apologised afterwards. You may call that progress. I prefer not to fucking discuss it.
That evening I drank with some minor demons around a party buffet. They'd found a video of Thursday. Every time someone arrived, they started it again. I could tell a new guest was coming by the silence before the laughter.
Saturday
The coach sent me a message. "You coming back?"
No inspirational paragraph. No photograph of a wolf with something about resilience written across it. Just the question.
I opened my reply with a detailed explanation of Thursday. Deleted it. Tried blaming the new body. That sounded bad too. The coach had the same footage I did, and no reason to pretend it showed anything else.
Settled for "Maybe." A wonderful word. Lets a coward keep the appointment without admitting he wants to go.
I wanted to. That pissed me off more than losing. I'd spent the week claiming the whole thing was beneath me, and now I wanted another go at something I was plainly shit at.
Collected an old man that night who kept telling me he used to box. I asked how good he'd been.
"Terrible. Loved it."
Didn't know what to do with that. Put it in the report.
Sunday
Took my stained black hoodie to the dry cleaners. The woman asked what had happened. I said I'd had a difficult week. She looked at the sleeve and said, "The other fellow all right?"
Oh, beautifully. Every fucking one of them.
My next assignment is a priest. No more being beaten in front of an audience. I get to stand above them and do all the talking.
I see absolutely no way this can go to my head.
G. Reaper.