You know the feeling. The feeling of finding yourself in a dream, and you're falling. The feeling of your insides shooting up through you as your exoskeleton tumbles down into the abyss below. You know the feeling. One time I found myself in a dream, and I was running up a winding staircase. I spiraled upwards not downwards as I made my way to the top. Next thing I know, I am falling. I must have slipped? Maybe I tripped? Maybe I put my foot down and there was simply no stair there? Maybe that's why I am falling. Maybe I am falling because I am supposed to be falling. Maybe I find myself falling because falling was my destiny all along. I am falling. You know the feeling. One time I found myself in a dream and I fell off a scorching roof on a hot summer afternoon. I sped like a comet in the heat towards the earth. Falling. One time I found myself in a dream and I fell off a scorching roof on a hot summer afternoon. I sped like a comet in the heat towards the earth. Falling. One time I found myself in a dream surrounded by cops. A swat team army of foot soldiers, motor vehicles, and helicopters from up above; shining their bright spotlights on me in the night sky. Loaded guns. Tear gas. Bulletproof vests. All here just for me. I found myself on Skyway Bridge, two full football fields in length above the water. "Put your hands where we can see them and step away from the vehicle." "Step away from the vehicle!" The cops yell at me through a megaphone. I jump to freedom. I fall. I find myself falling. You know the feeling. You fall and fall and fall then Bang! You open your eyes and wake up back in bed. Safe as safe can be. It is here I find myself. Falling. I fall and fall and fall then Bang! I open my eyes.
I see the blurry faces of the crowd in the distance. I see dolled up women and dressed up men. I see them with their black and white clothes, their stiff drinks, their cigars. I see smoke. I see open mouths and raised hands and clenched fists. I blink. The faces are still cloudy. I see three ropes suspended horizontal in the air. One red. One white. One blue. I feel the cold of canvas. It feels familiar. I smell my own sweat, pouring out of me from deep within. It forms puddles like quiet little lakes on the surface of the canvas floor. The odor of my bodily fluid mixing with its rubbery stench. I am becoming one with this canvas. I hear a voice. "One!" What did he just say? I fix my gaze on the crowd. I see a beautiful woman in a red dress. She is staring at the floor next to her, cigarette smoke curling around pursed lips; burning holes into the earth with her gaze. I can't help but notice her eyes. They are wild and green-blue and wide. They are spinning in their sockets. She looks like she witnessed something terrible, something brutal, something violent. She looks like she had to look away. She is holding a glass of red wine, as red as the dress she is wearing. The wine is untouched. It is merely an ornament, there for appearances only. She cannot drink it as she is green in the face. She reminds me of Christmas, the greenness in her face contrasting against the redness of her wine and her dress. If she takes even a sip of that wine surely she will vomit all over herself. The poor thing. She'll ruin her dress. She doesn't belong here.
I hear the voice again. "Two!" Why is this guy counting? Fuck me. Speaking of vomit, my insides are stirring. I feel a tiny little demon, the size of a gnat, grab some particle inside of me and ride it up. Through the tunnels of my intestines. Through the dried-up lake of my stomach. Through the cave of my throat. I cough. Red mucus coats the inside of my mouth and oozes around the sides of my mouthpiece. My particles stain the canvas red. Fuck me. "Three!" I finally realize what is happening. The motherfucker knocked me out. The motherfucker knocked me out and into next week. I must have caught his left hook with my face. That mighty blow reduced me to rubble. It is in ruin I lie here. Motionless. I am one with the canvas. An arranged marriage of which I already want out of. My mind stops racing. Instinct takes over. A lifetime of training and muscle memory climb into the driver's seat. Shoving all intuition to the side; my mind becomes a passenger. "Four!" I detect an imagined maliciousness in his voice. Fuck me. Even the damn referee is against me tonight. I push my hands and forearms out in front of me, intentionally smearing them around in my blood on the canvas. Fresh battle paint for this warrior. I begin to get my legs back under me. On my way up I can't help but sneak a peek back into the crowd. I search for the Woman in the Red Dress. Her seat is empty. She is gone. There is no way she vanished without a trace in four seconds time. I simply cannot see her from the passenger seat of my being. My body is still driving. "Five!" Fuck this guy.
I finally reach my destination and stand tall in this square-shaped cell. I look down at my own two feet; the spotlights up above me, reflecting off the leather of my shoes. The ties of my shoes are tied so tight on my feet I feel as if these warrior boots have actually become my feet. The external leather and laces are now my skin. I watch a single drop of ball fall off my face and descend down onto my right boot. I feel it land on my big toe. Wet and warm and real. "Six!" What a fucking tool. Can't he see I'm standing up? I look across the ring at my opponent. He is chiseled, bronze and beautiful; glistening in sparkling, effortless sweat. His trunks are jet black, matching his hair and eyes and perfectly complementing his dazzling body. The Grim Reaper. The Angel of Death. He goes by the first moniker, but is known by the second. Rumor has it "The Grim Reaper" killed a man south of the border in the ring a couple of years back. Rumor has it he sent rosary beads to the widowed wife and child who survived that poor fighter. Soon after, whispers of the new nickname began to trickle out of his camp. The Angel of Death. Ugh. What a name! Angel of Death in the black trunks. How grandiose. I used to wear black trunks. I wanted to for this fight. But the Angel is the champion and I am the challenger and he's in the black trunks tonight. And he is smiling all about it through his mouthpiece. Sick bastard. He's rubbing it in that he's in the black. Eh. Maybe not. Maybe he's grinning because he knocked me halfway to hell. Angel of Death sent me halfway to his home.
"Seven!" Where'd they get this fucking guy? I look the referee right in the eyes. His face, puffy and red. His shirt bleach white, his black bow-tie, askew. He reminds me of a penguin. He looks like he's been working harder than The Angel tonight. I see the questions in his eyes "Are you good son? Where are you?" Mother fucker I'm right here. I shoot daggers back at him and he finally clears me. I move towards my opponent. The Angel. He's toying with me now. Why am I getting my ass kicked so badly tonight? My body is still driving. My mind sits shotgun and takes a nap. I put up my hands and throw jabs and dance with the devil underneath the bright lights. I'm totally lost. I'll figure this out next round. He toys and I dance and the penguin referee signals it's the end of Round 1. Fuck me. Eleven more to go.
