As I make my way toward Black (to disrupt, to seal, to stamp out forever and ever that screeching orifice!) I would stumble, knock out someone’s tooth with my shoulder, and bite my own lip clean through. By the time I reach the door to our dorm there would be no Black, or his victims. They’d all have filtered inside, and there, on the territory that’s been out of bounds for strangers since the beginning of time, the Night would unspool another loop of its interminable tail while Black and Blind entertain the assembled public by staging a “delectable rumble,” kicking dust and blood out of each other. The spectacle that would inspire certain Logs, Jackals, and other sundry historians to reach unsurpassed levels of excellence. Tabaqui, to pick a name at random, would in all seriousness claim that the most damaging blow Black delivered was with the words “Love me, love my dog!” To which Blind, though busy parting the floorboards with the back of his head, still managed to yell “Dream on!”—prompting Black to thump his chest, roar, bend the iron bars of the headboard, and bark, “In that case, prepare to die!” Fascinating, isn’t it. The bending of the bars especially. No one bothers to inquire to what possible end Black might have wanted to do that, they just open their mouths and take it all in rapturously. And so do I. I don’t recall Black specifically banging Blind’s head against the walls, but it is possible that when Blind fell a couple of times he might have bumped his head. I emphatically do not recall Blind tearing Black’s jaws (that scene is obviously borrowed from Greek myths). And I am pretty sure Black did not tumble down with a cry of “I’m finished,” and Blind did not then place his foot on the fallen body before wearily lighting a cigarette.
I too feature in those stories, quite prominently. I’m always somewhere close, beside myself with rage (that’s actually a realistic touch) and “waiting for the most opportune moment.” I wonder which moment that was. I guess I expected Blind to quickly lay him out (or the other way around, though far less likely), and then I’d jump in and throw them all out of the room, all those scowling, drooling gawkers, most of whom at any other time would not even dare dream about entering our place, but once there immediately felt themselves at home, covered the floor in spit, and even started rummaging in the back cabinets under the radar. This made me break out in horrible nervous hives right then and there. We never could find some of the tapes, cups, and ashtrays after, to say nothing about cigarettes—those were swept clean. I anticipated that, and wasn’t much surprised. I also anticipated the outcome of the fight. No one has ever managed to lay out Blind one-on-one, so I wasn’t too worried until it became obvious that he was ending up on the floor more often than Black was, and was taking more time to get up, too. That’s when I remembered he’d already taken damage from Ralph that night, and became really nervous. Time after time Black pounded his leaden fists into Blind, and Blind doubled over, and Black waited until he straightened up to pound again. The third time around, Blind crashed to the floor. There wasn’t much more noise from him falling than there would be if a bar stool fell, but the spectators gave out an almighty yell that continued all through Pale One’s attempts to restore the supply of oxygen to his system. I tried to picture in my head the nightmare that living under the Leadership of Black would be, failing utterly, which convinced me that if I couldn’t even imagine it, then it couldn’t exist in this universe. I flogged my imagination, scratching myself with my chin in all places I could reach, while all around me handkerchiefs and beer-bottle caps went flying, tossed by the ecstatic audience. I’ve never seen anything more disgusting. Blind got his breath back and stumbled a bit while getting up, grabbing the headboard of the bed near where I was sitting.
“Horror and shame, isn’t it?” he whispered in my ear.
“Wake up,” I pleaded. “Fight, or he’ll break you.”
“I guess you’re right,” he said. “I seem to be a bit out of practice lately.”
While we were thus conversing Black decided to finish the job. He took a step toward Blind and aimed a swing at him so hard that, had it landed, we’d have had to haul Blind down to the first and put him next to Crab. Blind ducked and appeared to lightly touch Black in return. Black gasped and fought for breath for at least a minute, and after that it was all over. I didn’t even have to look to know how it would end.
I see . . .
