Fight or Flight

A Story by Fishbear

One man has to decide whether to fight or take flight. Oh, and there are some minor swears (my apologies).

Kerry remembered reading about something called the fight-or-flight response where the body basically prepares to either fight the threat or get the hell out of there. Surrounded by guys so ripped that each of their abs practically had a six-pack of their own as they all chanted for him to fight the champion boxer before him, everything in his body screamed FLIGHT. But whenever he tried to get out of there, those muscles stood in his way like a brick wall. He frantically looked around for an escape route, but instead found the guy who got him into this mess in the first place standing in the front row, arms crossed, face smug.

Kerry rushed over and said, “Sir, there’s been a huge misunderstanding, I-”

“You walk into my fighting tournament, so now you’re gonna fight,” he grinned, a gold tooth sparkling beneath his lip, and whispered. “For your life.”

“Wait, no!” Kerry shook his head. “I didn’t mean to interrupt this Mortal Kombat- er, I mean, your fighting tournament. Some guy pushed me into here and I didn’t- look, this was an accident! I’m sorry!”

“I see,” the man considered it for a moment and nodded thoughtfully before saying, “Yeah, I don’t really care. The boys could use some good entertainment.”

“What? Wait, I-” Kerry was pushed into the middle of the circle by some drunk and lost his balance, toppling to the ground. The crowd hooted and roared with laughter as he got back up, patting the dust from his pants. His opponent, the notorious fighter, Rourke, was hopping from foot to foot lightly, swinging his fists at imaginary targets. The guys behind him cheered his name and Rourke grinned, lifting his arms and encouraging them to cheer even louder.

“Oh come on,” Kerry moaned. “You’re just showing off.”

“You ready, ya little prick?” Rourke spat and sneered at Kerry.

“Well that’s just rude…” he muttered.

If Rourke was a fire, the roaring crowd was gasoline being tossed into the flames. The fighter soaked up the chants of his name and rushed Kerry, swinging at him with a strong left hook.

“Holy crap!” Kerry cried as he just barely jumped out of the way.

The crowd booed while Kerry, ignoring the nervous sweat on his face and the shaking in his bones, tried to figure out what to do next. Rourke geared up for his next hit, cracking his knuckles one by one and eyeing Kerry as if he were nothing more than an egg to crack for a quick breakfast.

Oh god, Kerry thought, watching Rourke come closer. I might die here. This guy could totally kill me!

Kerry backed away until he hit the crowd and they screamed in his ear for him to fight, so loud that Kerry was surprised his ear drums didn’t burst, and nudged him back towards his opponent, towards his doom.

“See if ya can dodge this one!” Rourke called out.

Time seemed to slow down as Kerry’s mind raced. You can do this, Kerry. Just think about all those movies where the underdog came out on top. Calm down, focus your breathing. You can block his punch and then send an uppercut right into his gut! That’ll take him down a couple notches for sure, and if those chumps on the big screen can do it, so can you!

Barrelling forward like an ox, fist ready to send him to the moon, Rourke came at him. Kerry was ready, though, watching his opponent’s movements, trying to time it just right. But as his attention focussed on Rourke’s incoming left fist, the right fist came towards him right after to finish up a quick one-two strike. Kerry managed to avoid the first punch and tried to send his planned uppercut but was off-balance and stumbled right into Rourke’s right fist. Knocked out cold with a punch to the cranium, Kerry slammed to the ground and the cries of the crowd slowly faded away.

“Hey,” a janitor poked Kerry’s side with his boot. “Get up.”

“Huh?” Kerry finally came to and carefully sat up, holding his pounding head with one hand and winced. “What happened?”

“You got your a*s kicked, that’s what,” the stranger said, crossing his arms.

“How long was I out?”

“Couple hours?” he shrugged. “Everyone cleared out once the fight was over and they just dumped you into some corner.”

Kerry shook his head and tried to clear his thoughts. “Ugh, I really thought I could beat him…”

“Seriously!?” the janitor laughed so hard he had to hold his stomach. After a moment, he said, “Listen kid, you’re real lucky you tripped back there and got knocked out right away. If that fight had continued, Rourke would’ve pummeled you so badly, hospitals wouldn’t even know how to fix you. There’s no way in hell you ever had a chance of beating him.”

“But… In the movies they-”

“This ain’t a movie!” the man shook his head and sighed. “Wake up. This is real life and you gotta make the choice of whether you’re gonna be able to fight whatever challenges come your way or if you’re gonna run. You’re not some invincible hero like in the movies so make the right choice next time, dumbass.”

“Thanks?” Kerry said as the janitor shambled away to mop up the deserted warehouse. He struggled to get up off the dusty ground, patting his pockets as he muttered, “Damn it, Hollywood, you lied to me…”

Then he frowned and checked his pockets more carefully. They were completely cleaned out.

“Oh yeah!” the janitor turned and called out to Kerry. “They took everything you had in your pockets. Something about paying them back for lack of a good show.”

“That’s it!” Kerry screamed, frustration boiling over. “I’m going home!”

“You should watch a movie when ya get home!” the janitor called as Kerry stormed out of the warehouse. “It’ll help calm ya down!”

“Screw you!” Kerry tried to ignore the old man’s howls of laughter as he got the hell out of there, ready to take some Advil and watch some televis- wait, no, read some books. Or sleep. Yeah, sleep sounded good.