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" Sophocles held up a tablet and issued a stern warning to his people. The times were harsh and of chaos, and something needed to be done. He spoke loudly and bravely, yelling over a crowd of his colleagues and allies. 'To concoct a giant machine, a machine of slavery, and call it the world. This was their dream. To refuse nature, and the man within it, in favor of a world of wires, and steel, and beams, and machines. A world from which no man could escape. This was their dream.   And why, God knows, no one knows. They will not find principality in elitism; they will find it only through obedience. To become a part of this machine, and mind its gears, and let its cogs betray their purpose. There will be no trees, no rivers, no unclogged skies. Nothing will rest. There will be no peace. Peace will not be allowed. They will stare and tell others to. They will buy and sell and make it a law for all mankind. They will forsake all their purpose for greed and control through this massive machine. They will don their suits, and their habits, and make these things mandatory for all society. And nowhere, in all of this, will the laws of nature or reality be found. For it is a machine of destruction. For it is a machine of insanity. For all who whither to it will share in its infinite doom. Why would one betroth oneself to such a megalith of mania and death? To not know the nature of this machine, and to blindly follow its purposes as you become a bloody cog in its engine, is the culprit. Know it.   To become fascinated with such evil, as anything but an enemy, is to become it. The gimmicks they create, who blindly obey and follow, those with no souls or minds left. Evil gimmicks, who sit and stare at flickering screens with no purpose other than to imitate and obey. Gimmicks who cannot question, but challenge others fearsomely who do. Blinking and whirring, inane automatons of self-destruction and obedience to a massive greedy conglomerate regime that defies nature, reality, and masculinity. Who is in control, and what needs to be done?'"

"The baring of a soul, the exchanging of blows, that makes a man himself in the first place. The right to be dominant by might, and not by virtue, and not by the tabloids of other men. To win upon himself, through strength and ferocity, over another weaker prey. All things do not fight, but all things do not exist, either. The world is of fighting, and those who do not know this meaning are decaying into nothingness, in truth. Through idleness, through mischief, through denigration, there are no such things to define a man. For his ability to fight is the measure of a man..."

"David Mirokin put his toe up to the line. 'Forty love.' The chair umpire called out the score in monotone, the crowd growing silent as Mirokin prepared to serve. The U.S. Open second round was underway, and this was the third set in a five-set match. David came in seeded eighth in the tournament, and was favored to win the match, especially after taking the first two sets 6-2, 6-2. Standing six-foot-eight with an athlete's build, David Mirokin was no slouch to look at. His impressive German Irish features came through on the court, and his ripped abdominals led up to a powerful chest and stern, handsome features. He had many female fans, and a few were in the light crowd cheering him on. With a loud Thwok, his opponent groaned and slouched as an ace went by him. That was five games to three. The girls in the crowd cheered loudly as David batted the tennis balls to the nearest ballboy. That was a thing he couldn't quite wrap his head around. The crowd. It had been a tough set, though he had gotten the break rather early on and held his serve comfortably. But there was a group of hecklers in the stands nearby the midcourt line, and David's bristles were hackling. Booing, comical gestures, and hurled insults flew from the crowd constantly, almost every time Mirokin made a mistake. A group of ornery young men, they seemed very threatening and passive aggressive. David Mirokin was a fighter, but he knew better. This was his job, and he had to be a professional. His opponent, Justin Ruffin, ranked somewhere around fifty in the world, was preparing to serve. David glanced over at the heckler's section, sneers, branded logo shirts, and pointed fingers meeting him in return. It was like these young men had no identity. Just shit talk and mocking behaviors . It was like they were clowns or something, instead of people, who couldn't take themselves seriously at all .  No confidence .    No seriousness... David rolled his eyes and wiped his brow on his wristband, ignoring the annoyance and preparing to receive. A rally ensued as Ruffin served hard down the middle, Mirokin batting the ball back in return. The game went on, Mirokin taking advantage of a couple of weak second serves to gain a forty to thirty lead in the game. The heckling grew to a new outrageous momentum, as several curse words escaped the hecklers mouths. It was match point. Prize money, and advancing further into the tournament, was on the line. Mirokin complained to the umpire as the umpire obliged with a few commands to the rowdy fans. Casting his fierce eyes once again at the rude crowd members, Mirokin refocused and pounced on a high kick first serve. Receiving a weak reply, Mirokin ran around a cross court forehand and smashed the ball for a winner. The hecklers' faces fell, as David fist pumped and approached the net. His eyes glinting, a moment occurred David Mirokin could not explain. Ruffin trotted to the net, removing his sweaty head scarf, and offered a humble congratulations. The light crowd cheered him loudly with a wave of energy. They could sense it too. He had beaten something else that day.   The wave of energy burst through the whole stadium, as David glanced up at the night sky in New York City after the handshake. He thought to himself, with the only word that made sense of it clearing in his mind. Victory. The chair umpire's voice rumbled in monotone again over the microphone. Game. Set. Match. Mirokin..."

"Though he does not know, he seeks to. For the world around him is bare and knows not his scruples. None shall revive him, for none could, as they see not the ways of the mountain lion. If thinking is being, then a man who knows the world shall become it, truly. The conquest of a peak, the domination of a skill, the hierarchies of life therein are essential calamities in a world that denies such things. Regardless of his barbarism, his look, his loves, his astuteness, none of this shall matter. For his knowing of the world is the measure of a man."