Author: Bob DeRosa

The aliens landed and spoke to humanity in a language we all could understand. They had the power to conquer us in a day, take all of our natural resources, and leave before the sun brightened the blackness of night. But there was a unique word in their language, one we came to understand as “fair fight”.
There were rules. Every person on Earth would have a chance to fight for our survival. If even one of us prevailed, the aliens would leave peacefully. Arenas were constructed in every country. We were encouraged to send our strongest. In the spirit of a fair fight, they would send their weakest.
The weakest of their species was still ten feet tall with bulging muscles, armored skin, and razor sharp fingers. The United States sent a Navy SEAL. The alien knocked his head off.
So we strategized. We sent heavyweight boxers. Pulverized. Karate experts never drew a drop of alien blood. The aliens said to keep trying. Maybe we’d get lucky. We wondered if mercy was the key. We sent a grandmother. The alien kicked her so hard she bent in half.
The rest of the world fared just as well. It took months, but eventually we understood. There was no winning. Maybe they didn’t understand the word “fair” as we understood it. Perhaps giving humanity any chance at all was enough for them. But we saw the writing on the wall. We would never win.
Still we lined up. We went in costumes. We played theme songs. Clowns did okay at first, lasting longer than a minute. Something about the way they moved confused the aliens. But they learn fast. Now clowns are smushed like the rest of us.
Our population is dwindling. We tried saving the children for last but worried about who’d take care of them when all the adults were dead. Now the youngest fight, too. The rich don’t fight. They hide. We know if they don’t show up, the aliens will simply decimate the planet. So now we hunt the rich, force them to do their duty. They hide in bunkers and submarines. If they spent as much time and money learning how to fight as they spent learning how to hide, they might have a sporting chance in the arena.
Just kidding, they’d have no chance.
My father had cancer, and I spent the last year taking care of him. I asked if he wanted to fight and he said no, he wanted to listen to record albums and go the old fashioned way. Now that he’s gone, there’s nothing keeping me here.
I reserve a time slot and show up early. My last meal is a cheeseburger. I don’t bring a weapon. I don’t cry or beg for mercy. I haven’t been in a fight since I was a kid. I look at the ten-foot monstrosity and prepare to battle for humanity’s right to exist.
Who knows? Maybe I’ll get lucky.