"What? Are you serious? A ROOM FULL OF TRAINED ATHLETES PREPARED
TO PERFORM AT THEIR OPTIMAL LEVEL,
READY TO LET LOOSE ALL THE PRESSURES OF PRE-SEASON AGGRESSION.
PRACTICE AFTER PRACTICE AFTER PRACTICE,
TRAINING FOR MONTHS TO SUSTAIN ENDURANCE
IN THE FACE OF DEFEAT,
AND STILL RISING BEFORE THE WORLD
HAD TIME TO TAKE A NAP,
JUST TO GIVE THE CROWD
WHAT THEY'VE COME TO SEE-
AND YOU HAVE THE...THE...INFIDEL. THAT'S WHAT YOU ARE." I was so pissed that I threw my gum hard enough to crack a window. People began to back away from me.
   Pinhead wiped the sweat from his pulsating brow, "Warning: Edward Scissor Hairs is coming."
   "Don't sweat this now, eh." The slacker-speak signaled the Foghorn Leghorn, Spudgun.
   "What do you want hoser? Why don't you take your Mohawk-propellers and fly to your area." I stomped into Spudgun's face. Right then, as I stared into his eyes, I remembered when him and I were serving the Government together.
   "My, aren't we the contender. You can't really take this that serious now. It's only a game. Besides, I forgot to eat my Wheaties anyway." Spudgun rubbed his stomach through his torn camouflage shirt, probably remembering when it got torn… at the last competition.
   "A GAME? You call this a GAME? Why you even here? THIS...THIS...THIS IS ROME. AND I'M A LION!" I envisioned the crowd cheering D-A-N-N-Y D-A-N-N-Y D-A-N-N-Y before I was crowned with the wreath of victory.
   "Rome…give me a…you're joking right? Rome?" Spudgun squinted sarcastically toward the windows facing the barricade-ridge of mountains.
    "Tell him Pinhead. Isn't this the Arena that prizes the athletes of today's Roman events?" I saw that Pinhead had his blank 'I was thinking about how big my biceps are' look. "Nevermind."
    "Listen: if this is Rome and this is a 'Roman event' then what do you call sports?" Spudgun asked me.

  "I call this sport." The veins in my eyes were pulsating with aggression.
   "IT'S A SPORT OF DECISION AND DEATH THAT WILL PROVE WHO'LL PREVAIL IN
THE END OF OUR DYING AGE." I could feel the wreath of victory crowning my head as I bowed to the cheering crowd. I would walk away from the Arena having proven myself worthy to die for Caesar in future combat against the rebels of the Cause, those of Spudgun's race.     Those different from the Romans."We're going to take our SATs. We're not chargin' each other ridin' in chariots and waiting for Caesar to give the executioner a thumb up or thumb down." Spudgun stared at me for what seemed to be ten-seconds, then walked away to his side of the Arena to wait for Caesar's trumpet.
   We were both dreading the lions being let loose. I remember Caesar giving a thumb down to thegladiator before me, what a warrior he was too. (I don't have to explain the rest of the scene. The graphic content and the nature of the violence is unsuitable for some audiences.)
   That is how I met Spudgun Rocket Ship. It took a war-like first encounter for me to figure out that punk is an attitude in my thinking, not a marketed image. And race is a commonplace, not stadium competition.The Arena was full of battles that day-all succumming to nothing but perpetuating ignorance. Mars Hill* had a lot of murmuring after that."