How I fought in a cage

Dmitry Yanysh, director of the department and the head of our store, is a man of amazing fate. The former special investigator, and now the theater actor, Dmitry talks about how he fought in a cage and received money for it.

Tomorrow fight. Today is weighing and meeting with an opponent. I am not worried, my calm borders on indifference. It happens if you know that you are not ready for battle.

To earn this sweet jolly before the fight, there should be months of persistent training and liters of sweat spilled in the hall. I have not training and have not been speaking for several years now. But neither physical training nor even nuclear war could make me abandon the possibility of getting into the cage.

I and a few more fighters stand at the casino in which fights will be held. The children-cheat in knitted headphones, having learned that we came to fight, boast of his photographs from the cage-in the past he took part in the local tournament. The casino guarding a few meters away from us is trying to tear off a roaring young girl in a luxurious dress and without shoes from the ground. The children-seeker, shining with his teeth, makes it clear that this is a common thing here. I would also love to go broke with at least a couple of dollars, but let out the last money at a meeting with Mickey Mouse.

In the States, we are a little over a week, and I saw them as I knew from the cassettes with blockbusters of the video for the house closest to the house: with burgers, huge pickups and blacks selling all sorts of rubbish on the street. On the same shelves, I first met the screaming letters of the UFC, and the fairy -tale world of childhood with the dancing in the Bloody Sport Van Damme went into the past. The real bloody sport was here - a fight in a cage. Like gladiators, the best representatives of different schools and directions enter the cage to gain immortality or turn into minced meat. Ken Shemrok and Mark Coleman, Roice Graisi and Randy Couture became for me then something like celestials, some super-universes that embodied true courage and will. Of course, I did not hesitate to agree to a proposal to take part in such an attraction where for the evening I could imagine myself one of my idols. Moreover, for me it was more than just a game. It was a test, the opportunity to know yourself.

The cage breaks the philistine raid, shakes off a everyday nap. She does not know pity, she can’t do it - she itself is penetrated into the depths of the subconscious and, showering with a hail of flashes, turning the joints, imprints you with your head in the floor. Sight, you, as in the mirror, see all your fears, doubts, all the strengths and weaknesses. In the world of the onset of the end, hopeless darkness and ruling chaos, it is important to remember yourself, to know what you are capable of and where your limit is. The main thing is not to be afraid to see yourself in all nudity, as you really are. The one who has enough courage will discover the absolute truth.

To this night, the most unusual that I had to fight with were hot mountaineers who descended from the southern republics, tireless seekers of the highest truths. Here, something really exotic, some kind of pedro or Juan, squat, uncleaning, like General Sherman, with a huge, inquisitive forehead awaits me. Judging by the scope of the wings of the back, low hands lowered and appetizing, like Georgian khinkali, ears, he is a fighter, which means he will pull in the ground. I'm not afraid of the stalls, below I always felt more confident than on my feet. But the stall requires the endurance of the Plug horse, and after a ten -minute walk, shortness of breath, like an asthmatist. I think: I have to work in a rack and not let go to your feet, and smile at Pedro's decisive and insightful forehead. I like to smile, I like to stand under the outbreaks of cameras opposite Pedro, with a naked torso and a hat, like Rocky from Rocky, which I bought on Hollywood Boulevard.

There are several hours left before the battle. With me in the locker room there are still a couple of fighters and a group of seconds. I go from one corner to another, randomly waving my hands, fragmenting without that warm -up muscles - this is nervous. I'm starting to burn. The feeling is that you, like a barrel, were pulled together with brackets, but they didn’t fill it with anything - inside, in the dry mouth, the disgusting taste of the metal and all the time you run to the toilet, as if a faucet has broken. Rather, it would be already! This is the most unbearable time when a matter of hours remain. You can’t change anything, there is no plan (except not to let go to your feet), and time is in no hurry, he is curious to see how you wander. The doctor comes, asks how I feel - luxurious! He bandages his hands-something else in English-I don’t understand a damn thing-they translate-I’m joking that an iron person does not know pain-the doctor hums Black sabbath-I gigg nervously-I still agree with everything.

Come on finally.

One. I stand and wait in some dark room in front of the last door, behind it is a cage.

From there comes the audience rumble, but I don’t hear him, I am no longer here - insight has begun. A feeling of lightness and purity, there is nothing, no thoughts. The door opens-a bright light beats into the eyes-some other flashes and music, something black-the rumble of the audience-I recognized the music! -This is Tiger Style Wu-Tang Clan. The road to the cage is a delight, you are the center of the universe, all attention to you. Behind the wings, a wave of music picks up and leads to the ceiling, I see everyone sitting in the hall, and in the middle, he, a black octagon sewn from a metal mesh, like a pagan altar, an artifact from Ridley Scott films. I cross the threshold, the door is slammed. I'm inside the cage, Pedro is already here.

We are brought to each other, the last parting words sound. I smile, the determination overflows me. The gong blow descends from the ears somewhere down the abdomen and in the heels. With a sharp movement forward, I throw a couple with my straight hands, it seems that one reaches to a tortured forehead.

But he is already in his feet, pulls the ground from under me, the ceiling lamps are carried before my eyes, and I jump from a collision with the floor. Several quarrels with bright flashes immediately come to my mind. First thought, do not let's go behind. A few more outbreaks are shot in the eyes. I’m trying to knit his hands - they are unbending, he is all like a stone, he crushes my chest with a heavy stove, preventing me from breathing. I push him away and, clasping my right hand with my feet, hanging upside down on it, squeezing with all my might, like over the abyss. I extend my back, and the heat of its stretched ligaments burn my legs - a sharp movement of the hand, and he slipped out. We are lifted into the rack.

Pedro is back, invites me to go to him, but I am no longer in a hurry, I try to work at a distance. Small exchange with blows. I throw my leg, the bereta bone crashes into his thigh, hitting again - and Pedro leads to the side.

Here it is!

I throw my hands after, I miss, he dives down, and strong arms press me into the cage, more movements - and we are in the ground. I suffocate, frantically grab the air with my mouth, but the lungs crushed by the stone slab erupt it back. The muscles seemed to be poured with lead, the hands do not obey, there is only enough strength to cover the face from those who come from above one after another.

The charm of strokes passed in the stalls, unlike the rack, is that the hammer is imprinted in your head, like a barrel, and you are in no hurry to turn off, and only blink, like from an explosion of a cracker or flash of a camera. Something acute, like scrap, crashes into my forehead with sparks, warm moisture flows down the face, filling his eyes, nostrils, penetrates into the throat-my stifled wheezing bursts out with a red fountain.

I swam. The waves cut into the face one after another.

A dark silhouette appears through the red damp, I pull my hands to it, I am frantically trying to grab it - it repels, does not let you come up. Trying to remember how long it lasts - ten minutes? Maybe an hour? How far I swam and are there enough strength to sail back?

I have a voice, well familiar to me, a soft and insinuating tone of cowardice, I immediately recognized him. It’s only nothing to knock, and everything will end, it will immediately become easy. I really want this, there is no strength to fight - it's time.

Something heavy falls off my chest, galls me up with coolness. A deep breath and with it the lightness in the arms and legs. Some people run up, shine in the eyes, the pungent smell burns the nostrils, they feel me and do not let me go up. I pushed my head positively on all their incomprehensible questions, I convince them that everything is in order with me and nothing to worry about - I’m not sure who these people are and what they can worry about. I like here.

The condition after a hard knockout is similar to poisoning with severe drugs. The first ten minutes you do not cut at all what is happening, and after the long, in a few days, the period of the hangover comes. I am in the locker room, bending over the toilet, I put red liquid out of myself, I put ice to the numb face and, as if bats with bees, look like the hero of the film “Man-Slon”. The head suppressed by a vice is split into small pieces, but clarity has already returned to me: I lost, the battle is merged, the cage showed what I was standing - and, I must say, I did not like this knowledge.

I am sitting in a dining room for staff and jamming with a pear. How do I feel? Nothing! Only a light burning sensation, and the words of Mr. Marselas Wallace are buzzing in my head: “That's Pride Fucking with You”.

Yeah.

Read the sixth episode of Longrid in the footsteps of the expedition "Black Devil's Office"