The Male Slapping Championship

It is early, but he’s depressed, so he makes for the fridge, and pops open a Yuengling.

On TV: The Siberian Power Show.

Specifically:

“The Male Slapping Championship.”

A huge man named Apple Dumpling stands at a white table. He wears a wool sweater, in color the walnut of back hair. Across the table his opponent, a Croatian college student, stands confidently – possibly arrogantly? – waiting to be slapped. They are in some sort of glass atrium. There are dozens of people in the audience. They stand on steel risers. Simon cannot understand what the announcers are saying; he cannot decipher the strange marks closed captioned, symbols that he associates with terrorism.

This is an ancient form of television. Of sport. There is not some big-chested reporter positioned beside the men, and everyone is white. This is both mesmerizing and unsettling. Those watching, like Simon (sort of) do so because they love the game.

A real-life David versus Goliath, Simon is certain the Croat is going to win the contest. Apple Dumpling slowly draws back his arm and swings with measured fury, slapping his young opponent unconscious; the man drops to the floor like a wet blanket. The crowd politely claps. Simon is stunned. When he watches the slap in slow motion—the Croat’s head jerks so violently backward, before returning to its original, set position, that, even when slowed, it is like he has not been struck—he remembers why he cannot stomach actual, real-life, violence.

Simon reaches for his phone, he drinks deeply from his beer.