That's Not How You Do A Knife Fight

I thought we had to light candles,
shake hands and say the magic words;
then drink the blood of a recently deflowered
high-school dropout, spitting the last drops over
each others shoulders simultaneously to ward away
hurt feelings. Then the crowd would cheer and sing
the chorus of some ancient opera while we stare into the depths
of our opponent's blades, savoring the moment like the fine scotch.

There should have been music: heavy on the brass and violins like murder;
a crescendo as I nearly missed his jugular, leaving my soft body unprotected.
There should have been a crowd, spaced evenly in a circle, all holding hands
and thirsty for blood,

but instead there were two people circling each other;
one with a gun, the other with a roll of quarters clenched between his teeth,
carrying a motorized scooter that runs on honeycomb runoff with a belt
and one of those things you shouldn't handle without gloves and they just
circled each other, knifing the air, knifing the air without a care in the world.