Regional Qualifying Match #6

The late Summer air is pleasantly crisp as the Sun rises over the census-designated unincorporated community of Brownville, New Jersey. Like a stone-cold ninja, Hybrid Fighter Germany Reyes soundlessly parkours his way through the backyards of this still-sleeping community. The orange-gi garbed Jason DeLucia student draws each humid breath slowly, steaming up the inside of his American Flag plastic face shield as he slides across the dewy grass. All his years spent training black magic and Combat Aikido are finally going to pay off, he believes. The ecstasy of triumph waits for him just mere minutes away.

He had heard little about his opponent. All Reyes remembers about him is a little tidbit about who his favorite fighters in MMA are: George St. Pierre, Jon Fitch, Ben Askren… There seems to be something these men have in common, but the Hybrid Fighter can’t quite put his finger on it. Reyes ponders the matter as he leaps from backyard to backyard, careful not to disturb the slumbering elderly people inside their homes.

His trek stops abruptly in the shady backyard of some decrepit, long-vacant suburban shanty. As soon as he lands, Reyes’ eyes dart to-and-fro with apprehension. He sees neither his opponent nor the camera he was told would be present to film the fight. Beads of sweat and condensation form on his brow as he paces about the knee-high grass. He begins to wonder if he had landed at the wrong address, or if his opponent is trying to freeze him out. The mosquitos manage to find their way through his gi as the minutes tick by, agitating him further. Where could this clitsheath be?

Without warning, tremors. Reyes side-rolls to prevent himself from falling as the ground rumbles wildly and unnaturally. This is not like any earthquake he’s ever felt, not by a long shot. It feels as if the ground is just one giant, metal vibrator. Before he can even try to figure anything out, the Earth bursts open before him in a gaping pit. Reyes falls back now, his entire body quivering both from the shock and the ground still shaking beneath him. Before his very eyes, a massively muscled black man ascends from the bottomless hole in front of him, hoisted above the surface of the grass by an enormous mechanical platform. The man’s face beams as his feet meet the soil, carrying with him a camera and Fubu backpack in tow. As soon as he steps off of his fantastic, metallic stage, the platform recedes back down below and the Earth seals itself as it was before.

The vascular, beefy stranger sets the camera on a tripod while Germany Reyes continues to whimper in the dirt. The inside of his visor has steamed up so much that he can barely see the shaven headed man approach him from across the yard after he’s finished.

Germany Reyes: What’s going on? Who are you?

Delta Jackson: You have a PitFight scheduled for today, don’t you remember? I am Delta Jackson, MASTER OF LAY-AND-PRAY! I have risen from my subterranean lair to claim my rightful title of UGPF champion. Brace yourself, bitch, because you’re about to get whooped like you ain’t never been whooped before!

Reyes has a million questions in his head, but none can be uttered as the maniacal Delta Jackson hurls his body at him with the uncanny speed of a falcon. Before the Hybrid Fighter can even think to react, the sepia-skinned juggernaut has pinned his back to the ground hard enough to leave an impression in the soil.

Delta Jackson: Huzzah! The fight is won! The only thing left in your future is death, my friend!

Jackson lays motionless across the orange-sheathed torso of the neophyte fighter with no intention to strike or go for a submission. After several seconds pass, it finally registers in Reyes that he’s in a fight and must react to survive. Although it feels like the weight of an elephant is sitting on his chest, Reyes attempts to shrimp to guard. The Herculean Jackson chuckles softly as he prevents the Hybrid Fighter from advancing in position.

Delta Jackson: You’re already wearing yourself out? That’s good. Fools cook faster when they’re squirmin’ around. In the mean time, I’ll keep on kickin’ yo’ ass!

Jackson continues to just lay on Reyes like a dead weight, every fiber of his being dedicated to keeping the young fighter from moving. Reyes keeps trying to achieve the guard for several minutes until he finally realizes the futility of his efforts. He switches things up and attempts to bridge, but all this does is jam the back edge of his helmet painfully into his neck. Frustration quickly begins to mount as Jackson keeps laughing at the Hybrid Fighter’s ineffective efforts to escape.

Delta Jackson: That’s right, keep it up. The first stage is always denial. You don’t know it yet, but this is just the beginning of a long, painful journey.

Germany Reyes: Ah, fuck you! You ain’t even fightin’! How the Hell are you even supposed to win just by laying on me?

Delta Jackson: You’ll find out the answer to that question soon enough, bitch-boy. Soon enough…

By the way, you’re in the anger stage now.

Reyes goes back to shrimping again. He learned a few advanced side control sweeps from the Royce Gracie bottom techniques book he bought, but he can’t remember any of them at this point in time. His attempts at shrimping eventually turn to spazzing after several minutes and that’s what he does for the better part of an hour. Jackson, meanwhile, just continues to call him a “bitch-boy” and ridicule his desire for freedom. Once Reyes’ energy is spent, he feebly tries annoying Jackson with some padded short-punches from the bottom for a few minutes before eventually stopping to recoup his strength. The taunts from Jackson cease at this point, the only audible noise in this unmaintained yard now being Reyes’ muffled, wheezing gasps for air.

As the Hybrid Fighter rests underneath his absurdly masculine foe he ponders just what exactly Jackson is trying to accomplish. How is he supposed to win by just laying on him? What did he mean by this being the beginning of a “long, painful journey?” As Reyes’ body begins to relax, he notices once-again the mosquitoes are going to town on his grease-saturated skin. This agitates him beyond belief and makes him steam up his visor to the point where he can’t see outside at all. He tries to take the blasted thing off, but its tied so tight that he can’t remove it while his head is stuck to the ground. So distracted by this is he that he doesn’t even think to respond when Jackson suddenly transitions to mount and puts the grapevines in.

Delta Jackson: We’re goin’ Joe Moreira-style now, man. I think it’s about time for breakfast.

Although Reyes can’t see through his helmet, he hears Jackson fumbling around in the Fubu backpack he had around his shoulders. Reyes had forgotten he had been wearing that thing all this time. After several seconds of shuffling, he hears a wrapper being opened and the sound of Jackson taking a bite out of something chewy. Bits of crumbs and goo splatter on Reyes’ visor, which is beginning to clear enough for him to see his opponent munching on a Big Az burger and chugging spoonfuls of MET-Rx Pancake Mix.

Delta Jackson: Mmmmm… This is just the way to start a week of asskickin’.

Reyes violently spazzes out and tries to rip the food from Jackson’s hands, but the brawny grappler manages to pull back his burger and keep it from falling to the grass.

Delta Jackson: C’mon, man. You gotta at least let a brother eat.

Reyes doesn’t stop his impotent, infantile flailing. Hours and hours pass, with the Sun rising high in the sky. Still, Reyes refuses to stop. It takes until about mid-noon for his adrenaline to wear off and his body to go limp. Jackson had transitioned back to side control during this time and still abstained from doing anything other than blankly staring at the ground and occasionally eating. Once that big marathon of energy had been exhausted, Reyes crashes hard and passes out in a fit of delirium and hunger.

While unconscious, the Hybrid Fighter has a vivid dream about himself when he was living with his parents a few years back. It was a dark, foggy night and he was jogging shirtless around his neighborhood by himself. Suddenly, through the thick clouds, he spots a girl he used to know from back home. This little cutie would always wolf-whistle at him when he would run past, but he never had the guts to talk to her. This time she doesn’t whistle or click her teeth, she just sort of stands in his way and smiles. Her teeth glow like the moon as she waits for Reyes to come to a stop before her at the edge of the street. The two wordlessly lock eyes, as if communicating through some esoteric mental connection that they alone share.

In an instant, Reyes finds himself in this girl’s bedroom (Or at least what he imagined her bedroom to be like). Bathed in red light, the young but nubile girl splays herself nude across the silk sheets of her bed, waiting for Reyes to take her. Reyes complies, albeit with a strange and unexpected disentrancement. The Hybrid Fighter pulls out the jammy and kills the punani. The red lights of the room grow brighter with each thrust, warping the room into some kind of surreal netherreealm. It’s as if they’re on a podium in the middle of Hell, executing their act for the entertainment of an audience of incubi. Just as his radiant lover is about to climax, Reyes pulls out a Gurkha knife and slits her tender throat. The blood, barely distinguishable under the red lights, flows from her neck like a bubbling geyser.

The Hybrid Fighter abruptly wakes up in the middle of the night. His visor had steamed up so much that his breath is literally raining back down on him now. The damned mosquitoes have infiltrated his mask as well, and appear to be nestling inside of his facial orifices in between biting him. Icy sweat has completely soaked through his gi; it feels like he’s laying in a puddle now. Jackson, meanwhile, has switched up to a kesa-gatame on the other side of his body.

Delta Jackson: Sorry if I woke you. I just had to take a shit, you know.

Reyes suddenly notices the alien sensation of warmth on his hip. It barely even bothers him at this point. A sudden, ominous realization creeps into his mind as he continues to lay there, immobilized in the dirt.

Germany Reyes: Man… What are you even going to do with me?

Delta Jackson: Haven’t you realized by now? This is it.

His fears confirmed, Reyes throw up a little in his mouth before blacking out again.

Day 2

Reyes is awoken by the sound of idle chatter. Unseen to him, two women prattle on in muffled dialogue about some incomprehensible topic. With his visor now virtually opaque from steam and food droppings, and with tall grass surrounding him at every side, it’s completely impossible for him to even get a glimpse of the gibbering old women. They could be anywhere from the next yard to the trash-strewn patio on this very property. Reyes tries to gather as much breath as he can, but ends up choking on the dry vomit and mosquitos caked on the inside of his horribly-stung mouth. His subsequent call for help is as weak and flaccid as his attempts to escape from underneath Jackson were the day before.

Germany Reyes: *Cough* … Help… Me… Help…

The conversation continues.

Germany Reyes: … Help…

Delta Jackson: Ain’t nobody can hear you, bitch-boy.

Germany Reyes: … Help… Please…

The dialogue abruptly stops. Reyes’ hairs stiffen as he hears movement nearby. Spitting out as much crud from his mouth as he can, Reyes gathers his breath once again for another shout. He wants it to be really big this time. Just when he’s about to call out, however, he hears a door open next door and the two women enter the house, causing him to gargle and cough instead of scream.

Germany Reyes: *Cough*Cough*Cough*

Delta Jackson: I told you they couldn’t hear you, bitch-boy. Nobody can. Your destiny lies under me.

Tears begin forming in the Hybrid Fighter’s eyes.

Germany Reyes: *Cough* … Why? Why would you do this?

Delta Jackson: Quit your whinin’, bitch-boy.

Germany Reyes: I… I give up. All you wanted to do was win the fight, right? Please… Just let me go.

For a moment the mammoth lay-and-pray artist is silent. After a few seconds of pondering, a grin uncurls on his beefy face.

Delta Jackson: Oh, you submit? Well why didn’t you just say so yesterday? Sure, I’ll let you up.

A wave of relief unlike anything Reyes has experienced before washes over him as Jackson abruptly stands up. His stomach is practically convulsing from hunger and his ribs feel like they’ve been crushed by a concrete building foundation, but his excitement nonetheless fills his body with enough energy for him to spring to his feet. Immediately he rips off that heinous, germ-farm of a helmet that had encased his head and throws it to the ground. He looks down at the impression his body had made in the grass over the past thirty hours with weary but fascinated astonishment.

Delta Jackson: You put up a good fight. I guess the only thing left for us to do now is shake hands.

Jackson jovially extends his vice-like paw for Reyes to shake. The Hybrid Fighter, so overwhelmed by happiness, forgets the torturous excursion his opponent had put him through and clasps hands with his adversary. Like a flash of lightning, Jackson immediately hits Reyes with a monstrously powerful arm-drag takedown that leads into a head snap. Before the Hybrid Fighter is even aware of it, he’s being shoved face-first into the pile of shit Jackson had left on the ground over the past two days. Jackson assumes back control while continuing to push Reyes’ already infectious face into his own rancid, festering feces.

Delta Jackson: Oh yeah! How does it feel, bitch-boy? How does it feel?

Germany Reyes: *Gargle*Spit*Cough*

Delta Jackson: Without hope, there can be no despair. Let me tell you something about me, bitch-boy: Everything about Delta Jackson starts with the lay-and-pray. Everything about Delta Jackson ends with the lay-and-pray. I’m not going to quit what I started just because some pantywaist cum dumpster thinks he can just up and surrender in a goddamn PitFight. Your worthless life rests in my hands, fool, and your ordeal is still in its early stages. If you want out, then you better get busy dyin’. That’s your only path to freedom.

Jackson’s shit is beginning to moisten from the tears pouring out of Reyes’ eyes. He endures about a half-hour of this before his mind refuses to allow him to experience any more. Once again, the Hybrid Fighter passes out.

Day 4

Germany Reyes spent most of the last two days sleeping. His feelings of powerlessness and emasculation, more painful than any anxiety he’s ever experienced, are the emotions all martial artists fear the most. He refuses to endure this humiliation, but with no means to escape from underneath his opponent’s meat musculature he resigns himself to dreamland. The dreams are pleasant considering the circumstances, but they don’t last long enough to truly shield him from the horrors of Delta Jackson’s lay-and-pray. As long as he remains alive, even someone in a pitiful situation such as his has to wake-up at least sometimes.

Delta Jackson: Yeah, put me down for three-hundred on Champoux.

The Hybrid Fighter awakens, still face-down in his opponent’s shit. From his perspective, it appears that five pounds of insects have burrowed into his face and are weighing his head down even more into the festering excrement. The heinous, unmitigated depression and exhaustion he’s feeling right now is too strong for him to muster any more revulsion at his situation, however. With his opponent still as firmly rooted on his body as he was on day one, Reyes is more or less inclined to accept that this is his fate.

Delta Jackson: I don’t like him either, but I don’t see how Tank could ever beat him. That old stooge was washed up since the days when he was sellin’ coke to Michael Dokes.

Germany Reyes: Who… Who are you talking too?

Delta Jackson: I’m just calling up to bet on the next PitFight. You’re takin’ me too long, so I need to get this in if I’m ever going to make rent.

Jackson goes back to prattling on his phone. Reyes feels like he should just tune him out and cry himself to sleep again, but something inside him forces him to pipe up. He may be weary with hunger and throbbing all over, but for the first time in days he suddenly feels a fire inside of him that implores him to open his mouth. Perhaps it’s the reignited furnace that drives his ego, or maybe it’s a sudden burst of mania brought on by deprivation of food and water. In any case, he’s no longer too exhausted to muster up any feeling.

Germany Reyes: *Cough* Hey, bitch-boy, put me down for three hundred on Tank. I’m gonna clean you out, pussy.

Delta Jackson: Excuse me? What the Hell would you use the money for, your funeral?

Germany Reyes: I’ll use the money when I get into Hell. C’mon, put me down for three hundred, you simple-minded prick.

Delta Jackson: Just shut the fuck up, bitch-boy, I need this rent.

Germany Reyes: And I need you to get the fuck off of me, but apparently that’s not going to happen either.

Delta Jackson: Bitch-boy! You’re interruptin’ my mamma jammin’ call, goddammit!

Germany Reyes: Well then just put me down for three hundred already, bitch-boy.

Delta Jackson: You better watch that damn tongue of your’s!

Germany Reyes: Or what, bitch-boy? What are you going to do? You gonna hit me? You gonna choke me out? God, I wish you fuckin’ would. *Cough*Cough*Cough*

Goddammit, you fight like a turtle fucks. Are you really that afraid of taking chances and doing something that might actually finish the fight? How can you even call yourself a fighter when all you do is sit on people? Jesus, I can’t imagine this can be very entertaining for the audience. Hasn’t the camera run out of film yet?

Pfft, what does it matter? I doubt anybody would watch for this long anyway.

Delta Jackson: Listen, mutherfucka, it ain’t my fault that you can’t escape from the bottom!

A long silence ensues. After a few minutes, Jackson calls back to finish his bet and Reyes goes back to sleep.

Day 9

The days have been getting colder now. Jackson’s backpack is feeling pretty light, and he realizes that soon he may have to grit his teeth and outlast Reyes the old fashioned way. That orange-garbed husk of quivering flesh beneath him hasn’t said much for days now, but the brawny grind-artist can still feel a pulse emanating from somewhere deep within that pallid mangle of dirt and bone. Most of his victims in the past just gave up and died before starvation or thirst could even set in. It’s an interesting phenomenon, one that has been observed numerous times in POW camps. This Germany Reyes seems to be holding on pretty well, though. He still draws his breath, albeit feebly.

Jackson ponders his past. He remembers when he first discovered the will-sapping power of lay-and-pray, and the utter sense of despair it inflicts on its victims. Jackson understands the nature of the strategy very well, perhaps more so than any other turtle-fucker out there, because he was a victim of lay-and-pray himself when he was a child. A shiver runs down Jackson’s spine just thinking about his mother, a four-hundred pound Jamaican hooker who would pass out drunk on top of him while he was sleeping every night. The helplessness, the futility… Sometimes she wouldn’t get off of him for over half a day. This went on until he was sixteen, when he finally ran away from the opium den and vowed that he would never be dominated that way again. Better to be the big man on top, than the bitch-boy on bottom. That’s what he always thought.

Jackson scrounges around is backpack and finds only one 7-11 pizza slice and a near-empty bottle of insect repellant. It looks he will have to run through “the stretch,” as he calls it. The last few days of lying on a guy without nourishment are always brutal and fraught with anxiety. As he munches on his preservative-laden hunk of offal and cheese analogue, the same old worries are already beginning to creep their ugly heads inside of his mind. What if this dude underneath him actually outlasts him? Reyes has so much heart, he’s survived for so long. Without all his food and other luxuries, will Jackson just wilt like a pansy after a few days? What if the nights begin to cool down so much that they both catch their death? Jackson neglected to pack any sort of protection for the weather… He didn’t expect this excursion would last into a cold autumn.

Stupid, absolutely stupid. Jackson can’t believe how he could’ve made that blunder. It’s the end of fucking Summer, how could he not think to pack for the cold? In a haste, he attempts to formulate some type of plan to prepare for the worst. He reasons that maybe he could sneak off of Reyes in the middle of the night… Go down to the CVS half-a-mile a way and shoplift some clothes and food. If only he brought some money, goddammit. Does CVS even sell clothes? He knows they’ll at least have some white socks there for people who like to huff. Of course, this entire plan hinges on the assumption that Reyes won’t just leave while he’s gone. With all that in mind, Jackson begins to think he might as well just give up right-

Germany Reyes: Hey, Delta?

Jackson is stunned for a second, his train of thought completely derailed.

Germany Reyes: Delta?

Delta Jackson: Uh, yeah?

Germany Reyes: Do you really live in a subterranean lair?

Delta Jackson: … Yes, I live in the center of the Earth with the Mole Man. We split rent.

Germany Reyes: … Wow.

The Hybrid Fighters falls silent, still face first in Jackson’s shit.

Delta Jackson: Bitch-boy?


Delta Jackson: … Germany?

Still silence. Slowly and deliberately, Jackson presses his fingers into the side of Reyes’ neck in search of a pulse. A few seconds later and he’s slumped off of his opponent, staring up at the sky from the tall grass that reigns over this debris-ridden backyard. Several droplets of rain speckle the muscle-man’s face as he forces a heavy sigh. This arduous contest is over.

Stiffly, groggily, Jackson climbs to his feet. There is still one last thing to do. With a smile as soft and as broad as the clouds above him, Jackson takes the gnarled corpse of Germany Reyes into his arms. He looks down on his former enemy with a sort of fondness. Reyes’ shit-covered, insect scourged face is so bloated it’s beyond recognition. His ice-cold body smells like the inside of an orca’s cancerous bladder. Nevertheless, Jackson takes this abominable glob of carrion and carries him through the front gate to the street outside, breathing in deep the early morning air.

Despite the drizzle, it’s fairly pleasant out. A group of school children down the road stand in wait of their bus. Jackson nods to himself as he softly creeps up on the idling youths. Hoisting Reyes’ corpse high above his head in a military press, he hurls the body straight into the group and knocks several children down. The kids shriek as they frantically try to scurry out from underneath the disease-sodden cadaver.

Delta Jackson: HA HA HA HA HA!!!

The children’s screaming continues as the bus pulls up and the obese, female bus driver rushes from her seat to see what’s going on.

Delta Jackson: OH MY GOD!!! WHY?!?! WHY?!?!

Delta Jackson: HA HA HA HA HA!!!