Bloodshed

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It was late spring, in the city. The streets had turned into a pulsing sea of stranglers, swashbucklers, drunken sycophants, rich mistress and disillusioned swaggerers. We had paid the bouncer (quite handsomely) to make us slip in the back door of a secret club. As soon as we got in, the club was invaded by defiant, aggressive agents. The music stopped, harlots in midair. Bartenders stopped; hands stills on the massive draft handles. They were over capacity. We quickly ducked in the bathroom to wait out until the party was back on again. The agents captured a bunch of less agile customers and we were soon enjoying the psychotic atmosphere, the heavily alcoholic cocktails, as if nothing happened.

Of course, the club soon came boring and we were back on the streets, exchanging glances and kisses with complete strangers. This continued into the night until we were ushered off the street by exhausted but polite agents attempting to make way for the street sweepers…

As we tried to formulate a plan to get back to our home base, we peeked down a dark alley way and saw a man strutting calmly but firmly towards us. When he stepped into the light, we saw a bright red streak coming from the man’s nose; his mouth was drenched in thick blood, missing teeth heavily bleeding down under his dirty shirt.

We asked what the fuck had happened.

He passed by us, calmly but visibly in pain. He turned back, a horrible smile on his face and said:
-Why don’t you go find out?

We looked at each other for a moment and in one movement, we went down the darkest, scariest alley of the lower-city. Then, we heard some yelling on the top of a huge concrete parkade. We sprinted to see what was going on and as we approached, we saw two huge shadows in a flurry of fists. We came closer and in front of us were two men trying to tear the heart out of one another. One had his lips torn in a weird way, gore slipping from the orifice that was formerly his mouth. The other had a deep cut over a pierced eye. They were screaming like animals.

And just in that moment, we felt like we’d never been more alive. We had found the pulse of the city, the crude sight of bestiality. We jumped into the fight, both bleeding monsters turning to face us.

“You can swallow a pint of blood before you get sick.”

Everything had fallen into place that night and it couldn’t have ended better. Ended in a rooftop fistfight.

Petit texte , essai littéraire, défi personnel écrit par moi comme introduction à notre site Rooftop Fistfights.com. Inspiré par une histoire vraie qui m’a été raconté par Scott Bellerby. Quote tirée de « Fight Club » by Chuck Palahniuk. Je suis très fière du résultat.  Si vous voyez des erreurs dans mon anglais loin d’être parfait, n’hésitez pas!

Photo par la merveilleuse Julie Artacho.

Modèle: moi 😀


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