Sweat stank breath leaps from every cubic slimy inch. A square box of damp hell contains twenty wrestlers: groaning, grunting, growling. A primal quest for survival wages tonight and every night. The wet slap of limbs rings down the hall to where cheerleaders bounce and squeal.

Never have you felt so alive; never have you wished you were not. Starvation limits the mobility of even the fittest. Under a mass of hairy flesh, you gasp for air and wriggle for the resurrection of control. Slipping out — fueled only by self-preservation, sheer will, and revenge — you twist a wrist and wrench it between naive legs. Your open fist cracks along the nose: spirit crippling cross-face cradle. Bleeding baby bird in your arms does not expect mercy, nor does the rest of the gymatorium. A roar erupts as his face strikes the mat and only a sustained whistle brings realization: the heaving chest and trembling limbs are your own.