Technical Knockout in Testosterone Hell
by Marc Shapiro
She walked into the Mexican bar. Ample chest straining the thin, silky cloth of her top. Hips doing the jump shake.
The woman wore way too much foundation and peroxide. She was not real easy on the eyes and she had been around the block a few times. She knew the score. Any man with a smile, a line and the price of a drink could have her any night of the week. Except this one. Because this night was fight night.
And the men fresh off their dead end jobs, dead end pay and just plain rotten lives were directing their testosterone toward television screens that glowered down on them with the images of two middleweights.
They threw punches. They drew blood. The men sat at hypnotic attention, beers gripped tightly in deeply tanned hands as ribs were broken and nose cartilage cracked.
The woman sighed. She knew this night she could not give it away. She downed the last of the drink she had bought herself, shook her ass one more time at the disinterested crowd and wandered out into the night.
As the men cheered a fifth round TKO.
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Marc Shapiro actually makes a living doing this. Don’t tell the authorities.