Mortal Combat: A comedy of Tragedy
Feb 2 2012 | by Lucky O'Connor
GVTW |
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_ Shakespeare Don't Got Nothing On
Adrenaline is gushing through your body. You and everyone around hear "thump thump thump" as your frail little heart is trying it’s damndest to escape the prison of your chest—abandoning you alone and cold, to conquer the mission at hand. Sweat is beading down your face faster than the snow falling outside. "drip drip drip." You're here for one purpose: a dance with death. Only one wooden object stands between you and the line of fire. You think to yourself that they never prepared you for this: mortal combat. _
It would seem fighting and dancing share many the same actions. They make their move, you must counter it. They step left, you go right. In circles you each travel until one of you go for the kill or one of you runs out the door into the cold moon-lit night, content with a night of defeat. You each are armed only with a dull knife: the only weapon left to finish this mono et mono entanglement. They stare in your direction. “Are you friend or enemy” never goes through their mind or yours. Y'all both know it: both know this will be the death of one of you. And you would rather take death thirteen times and wander the Nine Circles of Hell for all of eternity than suffer for one more second in this self-made, perpetuating hell you have gotten yourself into. Your palms are crying more than your soaked and matted hair: they are only things wet here. Your body is as tense as you could ever recall; but not near the level of unsexual tension that is erupting over the dinner table. She will not spill your blood tonight. Her crosshairs will be given to somebody else. Somebody not so...Ginger. _
You continue your meal in silence: silently damning her standards or your lack of social norms--they both are to blame, you decide. You don't remember how you got here. Speed date? Eh, maybe. Old childhood friend put in a good word to cute coworker? Probably. Some girl you wooed at the bars with your never-ending bag of charm and girl-snatching rhetoric? One. Big. Fat. No. I'm talking Fat Albert and Chris Farley finally combined their powers with a fusion dance, had sex with the offspring of John Candy and Roseanne Barr, and had a sad little chubby whopper baby. (It's acceptable that I'm being this mean, because I am not giving this greasy love-spawn red hair. He is still on a higher social hierarchy than you and I.) This whopper baby would thus be reared on a strict diet of milkshakes, Crisco, and any cereal besides Raisin Bran and Wheaties. Now go thirty five years in the future, and imagine how fat that man is. That is how fat of a “no” we are talking. One big fat no, it is then. You have no game. You have no chance of survival in these cruel hunting grounds. |