Michael Seidlinger - The Laughter of Strangers

Disclaimer : I need to define each round in order to be able to direct myself through every action without losing something in the process.

It’s not unlike the impulse every single self-respecting individual has to continually redefine who he or she is with every single pulse.

“Who am I right now?

“How about now?

“And now?”

I flex my biceps, mock victory pose.

I might not see the boundaries; I may not be able to answer the questions I’ve posed, but at this moment, I feel good, confident, about as courageous as I currently look, standing on the second turnbuckle, victory pose like the best of the best.

“Can I really go another twelve rounds?”

DON’T WORRY

IT WON’T TAKE THAT LONG

“Well who got the last laugh at Spare Change?!”

That is directed to Black Mamba, who I bet won’t reply. I listen in, expecting to hear crickets, nothing if not because he is a one-sided predator, capable only of loose threats and complete carnage. His only card is that of the enigma, the young, boastful boxer poised to induce an upset.

Victory will not be yours.

DID YOU HEAR SOMETHING?

I shout, as if he’s in the basement with me, “Don’t avoid the fucking question, Mamba!”

SEEMS I ALREADY ANSWERED YOUR QUESTION

“No you didn’t!”

THE PHONE

The voicemail. I drop down from the turnbuckle. I grab my phone resting on the tabletop, right next to the TV, and I listen.

“Hello, it’s Willem —”

Just like him to start the message with a patronizing “hello.” He goes on and on about altruism and how it’s great that I’m such a kindhearted celebrity. But when he mentions the true punk-anarchist nature of Spare Change, how it vouches and promotes public cacophony via vandalization, rebellious artistic expression, how it basically aims to support what I denied at the Heights, I begin to lose that edge. Confidence slips away from me as I begin to sweat.

End of message.

To repeat this message —

DID YOU HEAR SOMETHING?

I look at them half expecting one of them to break free of the harnesses. I take a step towards the turnbuckle. I see them wince.

I shake my head, disappointed.

Suddenly dejected, the enthusiasm, the confident charge of my sparring session depleted by yet another notice of my mania.

My hypocritical fight for the full spotlight.

“But anyone would do the same, right?”

Yeah, no answer.

DID YOU HEAR SOMETHING?

“What?! What am I supposed to be hearing?”

I hop up onto the top turnbuckle, reaching towards the ceiling.

“I’m listening, Mamba.”

IMAGINE WHAT THIS MUST LOOK LIKE

“I’m fine. I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

YOU ARE NOT FINE

YOU ARE TALKING TO YOURSELF

“What if I told you I was talking to Spencer?”

HOW COULD YOU BE?

HE’S ALREADY THERE

WAITING FOR YOU AT THE VENUE

WHAT IF I TOLD YOU ‘EXECUTIONER’ SHOULD HAVE NEVER EVEN FOUGHT IN THE FIRST PLACE? WHERE WOULD YOU BE NOW? WOULD YOU STILL BE FIGHTING ME?

I am, as always, the last to know.

Disclaimer : My mind is ripe with mania.

Between what I do to remain relevant and what I do to remain myself, there is no middle, no sense to the nonsense.

Nonsense is pure publicity.

Nonsense is what ultimately keeps me as a cultural commodity.

A fighter must fight all aspects of himself if he wants to win the fight.

And the world’s favor.

“I spent a lifetime winning their favor; you aren’t taking it from me now!”

Disclaimer : I am sure that I’m not talking to myself.

DISCLAIMER:

YOU ARE GOING TO BE LATE TO THE FIGHT

I look at my captive audience.

They look at me.

We know at the very same time what happens next.

I fall from the turnbuckle, nearly twisting my ankle.

I curse Black Mamba’s name, which means I curse my own name, our name, whatever…

I crawl over to the ropes, pulling myself back up to my feet.

I limp up the stairs shouting, “A win without a fight is not a win!”

THERE WILL BE A FIGHT

I’LL HOLD THE FIRST TWO ROUNDS AGAINST YOU

BETTER HOPE YOU GOT SOMETHING MORE THAN IDENTITY ANOMIE

Disclaimer : I am not going to apologize.

The nonsense forms its own sort of identity.

In a world where everything is worth only a moment’s notice, I care most about the favor and the future of Willem Floures.

It might sound indulgent but it’s true:

We all fight to be recognized.

My ability to understand who I am has been slaughtered, the gore and blood smeared across national media. Every single article, be it a picture or a long blog post, an article for the Times or a video interview uploaded, I say what I say and I deny it in the next. I say one thing only to sever any understanding with a follow-up series of episodes.

The media thinks it’s all an act.

The media thinks of me as a nutcase. But they like enigmatic undertones; they love an eccentric personality.

They’d take tumor minds over yet another brandless tool.

And you know what?

I’ll take it.

I’ll take whatever I can get.

DID YOU HEAR SOMETHING?

I sigh, “Just tell me.”

YOU ALREADY KNOW

A moment later I did. I should be happy, thrilled.

It was going to happen.

Everything I had aligned made true.

Maybe I didn’t have it all figured out.

Maybe it wasn’t supposed to be this way.

But it was going to happen. Despite what it took to get there, for a brief moment, I would take the spotlight.

One last time.

Maybe you don’t trust me. I don’t trust me. Okay, fine. You don’t trust me. Well at least trust in the fact that I have this fight won. I am as prepared as I could ever be. Black Mamba hasn’t a clue what I’ll use, how I’ll fight, or how this will go down. It’s why he keeps asking me if I hear something.

I hear all.

So let’s stick to the basics, okay?

I want to explain something to you; I want to talk about the basics of the perfect boxing match. What can and will go wrong versus what can and will go right: the anatomy of a twelve round fight for the title.

So let’s have at it, but keep in mind that I didn’t get to the arena in time. Rounds one and two were withheld, via judge bribery, the match wasn’t thrown out but the first two rounds were certainly given to Mamba.

Foolish of me to think that it was Spencer that paid off the judges. Never would have thought it was Black Mamba’s camp that made it so.

But I guess they need this fight to happen.

They want the fight because they want the spotlight.

Spencer, he sits in the corner barking orders that don’t make any sense. And I mean that literally—

He shouts incoherent commands, a great frown on his face, followed by the only thing I can make out:

ARE YOU LISTENING?

I guess not. But I got this covered. Again, this is about trust.

Trust me more than I can trust myself.

Who else am I going to trust? I can’t trust Spencer, who systematically unwrites the entire league by capturing every single potential fighter before they’ve reached their fifteenth fight. I can’t trust someone I trusted for almost two decades. I can’t… even begin to finish that sentence.

TWO DECADES

More or less — all that time, my career being equally his career. I’m speechless just thinking about how much went into our professional relationship only to have this happen. He says I’m the one that’s changed. Everyone changes as they age. I think he’s changed for the worse.

I can’t listen to his lectures anymore.