His Dark Sutra: I Fight, Oceans
Having driven to the outer reaches of this land-mass brothers, I stood titular, eyes blazing under the imagined heat of a non-existent sun, which failed to beam the ripples of the white wash as it alighted shore.
The ocean waved before me, a behemoth, I faced. No hubris. My weapon of choice for this biblical battle, a red skip rope, metallic handles. I stepped in, shoes and all, water waist high. I cannot swim. But I can skip, brothers.
The rope was symbolic.
You see brothers, that as I prepared myself for the cascading maelstrom, churning, gurgling before me, the rope informed the tides, that I am a fighter.
At some point I became a fighter. A very, very good one.
The first lashes of brewing oceanic froth simmered unto my lips and withdrew, recoiling, as a hand darts from flame.
I smiled. And brothers, I tell you that the tumultuous waters grew steady, withdrawing further from my face.
The ocean stared deep, its simmering diamond encrusted eyes measuring the man.
Brimming with fury, I saw the telegraph of a tidal rise, as the ocean prepared its onslaught.
“Come, fight me”, I whispered.