I can picture the corners of my lips sealing themselves together. I can taste the salt in my sweat. I want to open my mouth but I wonder if it might tear at the skin. I’ve been sat here for hours. You stare at a clock long enough, it consumes everything you are. You’re always just waiting for that next tick.
We used to do battle out in the open. People would always stare. They’d look at us with the words “What,” “The,” “Fuck,” tattooed across their eyes. Reaction is conformity personified. We spend our lives expecting the same. We spend our lives expecting nothing to change.
Somewhere in Delaware, there is a man. His name is Brett Jenson. He owns the sports car that he’s supposed to. He owns the TV screen with six-hundred channels that he’s supposed to. He has the pretty wife with the massive tits that he’s supposed to. Right now, he is fucking up her face because she did his eggs differently this morning.
People do not like change.
Sometimes we’d meet in underground parking garages. Sometimes in the dingy basements buried underneath our homes. Humanity spends every second fearing being buried. They run from this fate with their fat asses flapping in the wind. Yet here we are, buried, the only place we are safe from society. From conformity.
Victor stood in the corner. He folded his arms and stepped forward.
“These are the rules,” he said. Circling round us like a tiger scouring for prey.
“Two men per battle, and fellas, one battle at a time.” He paused and smirked at the wall. “If this is your first night here. You will not be spectating.”
Spectating. Being an observer after coming here was like fucking Scarlett Johansson, then going home and jerking off over a picture of your Aunt Mabel. This is your reason to get up. Your reason to cut your fingernails. Your reason to scrub the shit from between your teeth. You aren’t alive anywhere except in this room. Everything else becomes a haze. A mirage. None of it is real.
Your home furnishings.
Your De’Longhi 15-bar pump espresso maker with advanced dual boiler system.
It means nothing.
Sometimes I’d see the people I’d meet here in “real” life. Out there we were nothing. We were the dregs of society. We were the skid mark on the ass of the world. You could go up to each other. You could even shake that man’s hand. Tell him he kicked ass last night. But the eyes of that man would not be the same eyes you stared into the night before. In this room we are kings. We are the all-singing, all-dancing, skid marks of the world.
Right now, Brett Jenson is promising his pretty wife with the massive tits that it won’t happen again.
People do not like change.
“Gentlemen,” Victor said. “Welcome to Chess Club.”
A short pastiche of Chuck Palahniuk.