As they stepped into the arena, they could hear the crowd screaming in a language they could not understand. Jim thought it was Japanese but John insisted that it was Korean. “It’s China, Vietnam, Korea,” he insisted. “That’s the order. Japan isn’t until next week.” They were so tired. Every night it was the same: bright lights, lights so bright they couldn’t see the masses producing those howls, but they could see each other, every crease, every hair, almost every atom. Jim knew John’s moles now, could draw them by heart. He knew this because he had: it was something he’d started to do after every match. A way to decompress. Know thy enemy. But was John his enemy? Jim wasn’t sure.

Here’s what they were supposed to do: fight. But with no gloves, no protective equipment. Neither of them was particularly strong. That was the gimmick: two middle-aged men, both out of shape and with visible potbellies, put into a ring with no equipment and told to have at each other. The fight lasted until one of them gave up. The winner would get $5,000. Every night he won after that, the prize money would double for him. But if the other guy won, then it would start again at $5,000. This was to discourage them from taking turns. But it didn’t work. They had agreed somewhere in Eastern Europe that they would write up a schedule. It couldn’t be too regular or else Management would catch on. They decided to use radioactive decay to generate their sequence. “It’s a metaphor,” John said. Jim didn’t ask what for. He was so tired. At least this way, if they knew who was going to win, they didn’t have to try so hard; if you went in as the loser, there was a certain comfort in it, you relaxed, you put your faith in the hands of the winner and trusted that he would make it all okay. He would do what needed to be done. All you had to do was trust him with your body, was give yourself over. It was just teamwork.