What sort of bunch would relish Ultimate Fighting?
The bare-fisted, no-rules, face-wrecking phenomenon? Marquess of Queensberry laughed out of the ring. Where quicksilver choreography turns brutish, and symmetry of form blurs into hands, feet, forehead and final bell.
Probably the same kind who, earlier on, roamed the watercourses seeking small, striped frogs; crushing the limbs one at a time in excruciating silence.
Or laughing when another tells the story.
*Occasionally, a devotee bursts upon some public theatre with SWAT attire, heavy ordnance, smoke canisters and slaughter seeking a slightly different “win”.
And we cry, “What happened?”
The frogs are keeping score.
(*Aurora, Colorado, July 20, 2012)