Arena

Arena

The street remains deserted and the heat is pervasive. As always transpires in late afternoon, the unwashed masses gather at arenas. I am walking indolently outside the original Arena, the one I helped develop less than five years ago. The grass is overgrown and weeds grow rampant, heedless; no one tends the outside. Inside, ten thousand sweltering and impatient people wait in line for their remedy while twenty thousand others get their weekly escape from reality.

From Day One of its inception, the Arena was meant to relieve tension; take the edge off. Like its ancestors—Roman and Greek, and the like—the Arena houses events of strength and prowess for others’ amusement. It boasts only one significant difference: the events are not physical, they’re mental, taking place within the minds of opponents. We accept as truth that Arena events are helpful to our race; we have seldom been this wrong before. The only true thing one can count on in this brief, fleeting life is that lies are infinitely preferable to reality. Conflicts enabled by the arena are unflinchingly real; the audience can see and feel them as deeply as the competitors. The only prevailing factor among the competitors is that all sense they’re engaged in mortal combat with an entity, never completely aware of the essence of the struggle. Little do they realize the nature of these conflicts is based upon a lie.

As I ponder the true nature of what I’ve done, I ramble disconsolately around the complex, my ragged shoes immersed in grass, weeds, and thorns. In hindsight, I could have stayed home today in the relative safety of my bed, but at this point it’s too late to walk back. Cars don’t arrive from the pipeline for three more hours; it is a government petroleum regulation year. No vehicles operate after 6:00 PM. That suited the people in the Arena just fine. For me, though. . .

I plop resignedly in the grass and dig yet another thorn from my shoe. I’d be waiting awhile to complete the task I’d set for myself. I don’t condemn the people inside, or even the government, for that matter, for cutting off my transportation. The fault lies with me; after all, I unwittingly assisted the insane S.O.B., thus bringing his machine to fruition. The wretched machine continues to be, for all involved, the only legal, emotional outlet.

Since the government, now called archaically and ambiguously “the Law”, outlawed wrestling and violence in all forms, the stress of the everyday started gnawing at the populace. That’s when my good friend the scientist obtained a grant from the government. Fourteen billion dollars well spent—to psychologically shift us out of the way.

Previously, people created their own solutions: they visited Mexico or other foreign places where violence and drug abuse were still legal. I was born in Querétaro, though I am not Hispanic, because paying for delivery there was cheaper than in the United States, whose policy indicates that even childbirth is an outlawed form of violence toward the mother. Mexico was the freest place on earth until the government stepped in.

The Lawmakers in their infinite wisdom made the Mexicans a deal; unrestricted access to the United States to all of its citizens, in exchange for the Mexicans not granting safety to American refugees. Of course, crowding only made the natives angrier and even more in need of emotional relief. War broke out over the slightest provocation. That’s when I moved here, during the riots and the shootings. I, the most promising student in Mexico—or so they told me—was transported here to assist the desperate scientist with the completion of his mind-bending machine. “The Law” had realized their mistake and brought me here to rectify it.

I adjust the sleeve of my shirt; find a spider crawling on it. I transfer it to my hand; it crawls up and down to my wrist. I hurriedly make for the Arena’s entrance, remembering, glazed.

By the time we invented the subconscious attitudinal emitter (SAE) which allowed minds to link simultaneously to one another, releasing anxiety and aggression, the country and most of the world was in an uproar. Human nature encourages and nurtures violence, and violence requires a means to vent.

SAE changed everything. Since “linking” (odious term) minds was theoretically impossible, there were no existing laws against it. The scientist, at this point, would quite irritably inform me that SAE did not “link” minds, rather, it put on the same plane two sets of emotions, and because two objects cannot occupy the same place at the same time (rudimentary physics), the two sets clash.

Though there is no physical “violence” involved, one leaves an encounter wearied, exhausted, and relieved. While in the throes of an encounter people cry, shake or scream uncontrollably. Nevertheless, within months of its invention people were lining up like so much cattle to try it, because of the mental respite provided. Hence, arenas, and my presence here: SAE had become so widespread that people needed to gather in concentrated masses to “play” it.

I ambled to the door, spider still in hand, now gently cupped over it. It was certainly not my fault that the young scientist went mad.

Arenas had become more powerful than places of worship, places where one can have a weight lifted from the soul. Hundreds of people competed at the same time, though it never became a sport in the usual sense: there wasn’t any merchandising, franchising or champions.

Why? I smiled, and the spider nearly scuttled from my hand. Why, indeed? The creator had asked much the same question. I bypass the thousands waiting with my clearance pass. I meander slowly to a chair; begin to assemble the apparatus necessary for the outlet SAE offers.

The young inventor literally tore out his hair when he realized SAE didn’t do what he intended. What remained of his mind fell into despair when he realized the government’s manipulation of the public; when he understood that his idea was erroneous from the beginning.

For reasons of discretion, no one is allowed to know the identity of their opponent. This is meant to prevent lawsuits and other events possibly damaging to the state. Those who participate in the arena never realize that in a battle of emotions, especially destructive ones, the emotions themselves affect their own ends. They never realize that in the arena, the only enemy you ever combat is yourself, because the most powerful, lethal emotions in the world come from within.

I am resigned to my fate; there’s only one missing element. I place the spider onto one of the translucent, shimmering fields of light, and flip the switch to “on”.

A minor delay ensues. A thorn from outside is still lodged in my shoe, but strapped in as I am, there’s nothing I can do about it. Patiently, I appear to relax in my chair, grinning like an idiot. The creator/madman of SAE realized he was fighting himself, right at the end; trying to fix his mistake. He failed to realize that a purpose can’t be “fixed”. Our driven young scientist was not about to let the matter rest there; he performed one final control experiment. He attempted to impose another set of emotions—specifically, an ant’s—against his own. . .I laugh, quietly, and shift in the chair so the cameras can’t see me. No point in ruining it.

He fried his brain.

When you fight yourself, you always lose. My hands are as steady as they’ve ever been as I push the button that will take my mind away. I know the others around me will not notice. Perhaps, in this way, I can relieve the debt of lies on my shoulders.

People believe what they want to believe. I told the poor madman who he was fighting, and this is my punishment. Beating yourself is impossible.

Killing yourself isn’t. . .