Rayne & Delilah's Midnite Matinee(41)

“I ain’t ever heard of that,” Corncob says.

“Also we have to do some production work for our TV show after,” Delia says with a delicious air of casual haughtiness.

“Y’all are on TV,” Corncob says like he’s the one telling us.

“Yep,” Delia says.

“What’s your show called?”

“Midnite Matinee.”

“What’s it about?”

“We show old horror and sci-fi movies.”

Corncob shakes his head. “I don’t believe you.”

“Well, guess what?” Delia says. “We don’t believe that you’re really going to Buffalo Wild Wings.”

“Yeah, you’re not allowed in because the last time you were there you both got chicken bones stuck up your noses and they had to call nine-one-one because you kept blacking out from lack of oxygen,” I say.

“One of you passed out from wing poisoning and your face landed in the ranch dressing trough and you almost died by ranch drowning,” Delia says.

“No,” Corncob says.

“Never happened,” Hairy Sandwich says.

“Oh yeah? Prove it right now,” I say.

“Right now. Do it, prove it,” Delia says. “Photographic evidence.”

“We go to Buffalo Wild Wings all the time. We ain’t lying,” Hairy Sandwich says.

“And yet you can’t prove it,” Delia says.

I can see her scanning the room for new seats. But it’s pretty full. That’s also the upside to this situation. There are so many people around, we don’t even have to pretend to be nice to these two clowns.

“Also, FYI, both of you guys’ tattoos look like they were done while you were sitting in a canoe,” I say, praying in my heart for some deliverance from these thirsty idiots. And just like that, as if my will caused the universe to turn on its axis, a tuxedoed announcer makes his way to the middle of the octagon with a microphone. The lights go out, except for inside the cage. Spotlights sweep the room chaotically.

“Laaaaaaaaaaadies aaaaaaaaaand uhhhhh gentlemen. Welcome to Ahhhhhhctagon uhhh Valorrrrrrrrrrr Sixteeeeeeeeeen.” The crowd goes bonkers, hooting and hollering for blood.

“Toniiiiiiiight’s fights will consist of three five-minute rounds, which will be scored by our judges. And now, without further ado, lehhhhhhhhhhhhhhht’s ruhhhhhhhhhhhmble!”

Delia winces as Corncob and Hairy Sandwich stick pinkie fingers in their mouths and give piercing whistles and make what sound like hog calls.

The fights begin. We’re into it ironically at first, but then start genuinely having fun trying to top each other yelling stuff. We get looks, but so what?

“Make him feel like every day is Monday!” Delia shouts.

“Embarrass him in front of everyone he’s ever loved!” I shout.

“Dip your hands in his blood!” Delia shouts.

“Send him back to school to get his degree in computer science!” I shout.

“Show him how angry you are that stuff that’s supposed to smell like green tea doesn’t smell like green tea!” Delia shouts.

“Okay, that one was a stretch,” I say.

Corncob and Sandwich, meanwhile, really bring the creativity with “Whup his ass!” “Beat his ass!” and to change things up, “Kick his butt!” And occasionally, “Git some! Hoo-whee!”

“Being here is making me realize that I like almost everything,” Delia says.

I test her assertion in my mind. “Is that true? I’m trying to think of a thing you don’t like, and I’m coming up empty. Hallmark movies?”

“Love them.”

“Malls.”

“Love. It’s weird to me to be super resistant to things that are designed specifically to be liked. There are so many other ways to use your energy. Just enjoy stuff that’s fun. And the mall is fun.”

“Outlet malls.”

“Love even more than normal malls.”

“Okay, I give up. Wait!” I cast Corncob and Hairy Sandwich an obvious side-eye.

“Got me there.”

There’s a bizarrely exciting monotony to the fights. Plenty of circling each other, testing for openings, lots of what looks like cuddling on the ground, punctuated with jackhammer explosions of action. Delia’s and my tolerance for sitting through badly plotted movies—which is what we’d otherwise be doing at this time on a Saturday night—serves us well.

Finally, the fight immediately before Lawson’s ends with a submission.

“Lawson’s up!” Delia says, as if I forgot.

I nod, watching the entrances where the fighters have been coming and leaving. My nerves are suddenly alive with jitters. I don’t want to see him get hurt. I somehow put out of my mind that that was a possibility.

“What?” Delia asks.

“Nothing.”

“You had a weird expression.”

“No, I—Hey!”

The announcer has made his way to the middle of the octagon with his microphone. “Laaaaaaaadies and gentlemuhhhhhhn, we have come to our welterweight bout. In the red corner, at one hundred seventy pounds, with a record of nine and oh, fighting out of Memphis, Tennesseeeeeeeeee, Noooooooooooooah ‘Niiiiiiiightmaaaaare’ Puuuuuuuurdue.”