by Peter H. Zindler (Author)
Fortified with their overwhelming verbal support, Megog dipped his muscled shoulder and shot forward. Quickly I dodged to the right, but he had anticipated my very move and crashed straight into my chest. He had guessed my path of escape. With a loud thud, my back slammed the mat and my head bounced off the hard rubber surface. Starbursts of pain rocketed through my brain like a meteor shower. I lay there dazed, unable to move.
The crowd jumped to their feet and cheered Megog had executed a brilliant combination move. This society's love of violence in sport was particularly keen.
Pulling myself to my knees, I couldn't breathe. My eyes refused to focus and all I could see was a colorful kaleidoscope of fuzzy objects. My head felt like it was in a hot steel vice that someone was tightening. Again, I gasped for air, but none came. I knew what would happen next and tried to raise my arms to defend myself, but my body rebelled. My brain couldn't activate my muscles. "Dear Jesus," was all I could say before I fell to the mat in an unconscious heap.