Flash dance of hands; locking then losing the gaze; heaving yet measured breath; the sliding of grip on sweated flesh; the knotting of legs; the intervention of gravity; grunts and growls; saliva arcing in the light; a final plunge of connection and then, for a moment, stillness.

 

In livestock barns in Monroe, the ring cobbled from cattle gates and livestock rope, shitkickers in turtle waxed boots stepping from Chevy dualies, spitting black missiles of Kodiak and holding tight to bravado; on the root-broken asphalt of vacant lots south of Seattle, cheered and jeered by surrendered men of shadowed beard and threadbare cloth, who shuffle and shove with others, raised on these same cracked streets and quick with the hustle—and then a dash of gap-toothed men from far-flung countries trying for more luck than America allotted; in the brewery warehouse of a gastro pub in Leavenworth, under the enlightened gaze of bearded hipsters and a float of hardscrabble men that missed the memo about tapping tourist largesse; the polished cement and dark oak of a winery in Woodinville, spectators on chrome stools, rotating right and back left with the tap of a boat shoe, side bets slurred out the side of fed mouths, terrified and fragilely wealthy, adjusting bespoke blazers, sucking vapor pens and sipping vintage, vaguely aroused by the notion of men going toe to toe, eager for the bragging rights of being close enough to see capillary spurt.

 

Always, the banging of their four fists together before and after the fight; always, the victor lofting the arm of the defeated; always the exchange of the bottle of Crown Royale, throatfuls of fire that conclude the ritual charade of savagery.

 

Sometimes $1,000, sometimes $1,250, sometimes $3,000, and, once, $9,000, the purse slack or bulging but always cinched tight into the purple fabric of the empty Crown Royale bag.

 

Always, a Ford Rocket, arguably red, more blood than cherry, rust like scabs, and a leaping V8, detaches from a parked row; always, in another corner of the lot, an aged white Impala with a stencil ghost of the animal on the hood, a trick-throttle beast that can pace with the Rocket; the fighters clutching their internal need to combust until the blacktop invites the full release of the clutch—sometimes this roar and blur is crimped by the hues of dawn, colors that both fighters swear mix and swirl on fast when they yank their gear knobs and are pressed back into cracked leather, stealing smirks at one another through broken lips and bug-gutted windows, kicking RPMs back and forth like playful shoves.

 

The snaked gravel drive; the peripheral opossums, coyote, and deer angling back into wild; the dim and shuttered-looking cabin; the tilted garage that protects the cars only from view.

 

The squeal of a chrome-handled fridge, packed with ice, keto bars, slabs of beef shoulder, a jar of pickled Italian asparagus, and myriad beers, some faded domestic labels, some dazzling with the manic design of craft IPA.

 

The joists that creak and whisper at the fighters’ movements, like the cabin attempts the same side-bends, warriors, scorpions, and happy baby stretches as the fighters breathe through the limbering after battering; the hiss and gasp of propane lit, the sizzle and pop of meat on oiled iron; the high pitch of a twisted tub faucet, the off-beat pipes that swell and shift as the pained fighters do, cautious steps and turns, a diametric choreography of an hour before in the halogens’ wash, in the light, too, of the disturbing, profitable hunger of those that watch.

 

The slough of ice cubes into the claw-footed tub missing a claw; the barely perceptible plink of drops escaping the claw-less corner’s cracked O ring; the throaty shout of one fighter shuttling his battered torso beneath the freeze; the staggered sigh of calibration once his body is still; Formica plates slapped with chuck or maybe strip if the month is lucky; the ting and scrape of blades and tines as the fighter sitting on the toilet masticates the last of the flesh; the re-mixed symphony of trading places, with the other fighter sliding beneath ice water now tinted by rust and open wounds.

 

Clipped and easy exchanges, always, softly released, with affection, a metronome of domestic script that sates the fighters with mundanity after the perverted spectacle of their post-hope gladiator charade.

 

The brass bed, sagged but always polished, turned up with sheets, on nights like these, that are clean and soft; the guttering spit and tipsy dance of candle flame, and the beginning of a kind of dance that no one in the world can name:

 

Flash dance of hands; locking then losing the gaze; heaving yet measured breath; the sliding of grip on sweated flesh; the knotting of legs; the intervention of gravity; grunts and growls; saliva arcing in the light; a final plunge of connection and then, for a moment, stillness.