Fighting, Am I Right?

My blood pours into the creases of your own hand, and his. The thin, jagged crevices between your teeth separated only by gingivitis gums yearn for sustenance amongst the bashing. Your scalp is tearing, and your age begins to show. The hundred or million faces around you look blankly at the guy's fists as they repeatedly try to cave in your cheek, not unlike a battering ram. What's inside my mouth, who knows? Maybe he thinks I took one of his cigarettes. They're not even the good kind; the kind which doesn't fog up your gum. One more hit to the cracking concrete beneath the cradle position you've been in for over ten minutes and you go limp. The fading, but once dark tattoos you got when you were twenty are static works printed onto barbed wires bent in twain. I feel guilty for the pothead who spent hours on them; he probably thought I'd be the one beating up someone to a pulp. Ten years since, and you've got nothing to show for them, unless you count that one time you gave your little brother an eternal Chinese burn. Your heavy, unpredictable breaths left inside your lungs reek of gin and tobacco. This autopsy could go two ways. And then everyone pauses. The prosecution stands by and adjusts his coat like the gentleman he is. I hear a glass shatter a mile behind me and the tobacco buds hit floor. Is the show already over? Jesus, I'm weak as shit. Moses parts the Red Sea and the man with the coat pushes past the crowd, now several people thick. I use my arm to push my body off the ground, but I just look dumber than I did before, and that's hard to do. Now, it's like a conversation between myself and the passer-by, only, they're the ones doing most of the watching. It's this awkward moment where the drunks want to join in and I'm left relying on their girlfriends to hold their alcohol back. Shit, I forgot about the people behind me; I'm sure they'd like to see my face too. I swivel on my backbone and turn towards the cameras. They love me, and that's all I need.