Free Fight Song by Joshua Mohr

Schumann’s already outside the vehicle.
    Schumann rolls his sleeves up to his elbows.
    He ambles toward the magician, who’s still standing at his trunk, and asks him, “Have you ever seen a fourth-quarter comeback in which the underdog snatches victory from the rabid jaws of defeat?”
    “What are you talking about?” Björn asks, wiping some tears from his cheeks.

Dip his haunches in honey mustard
    All Bob Coffen can think is this: Life coaches are not supposed to kidnap magicians . It must be some kind of unwritten life-coach rule—do not creep up and head-butt the magician. Do not give him the fireman carry and toss him in the backseat of your SUV.
    Psycho Schumann’s not interested in any industry standards; he makes up his own rules as the night goes on. While they drive away, Coffen’s eyeballs Ping-Pong between Schumann and Björn, who’s starting to come to.
    “I see you’re taking a very literal interpretation of capturing the magic,” Björn says in the SUV, mindlessly scratching at his moustache. “It’s a metaphor, you retards.”
    “Is that any way to ingratiate yourself to your captors?” says Schumann. “You come into our stadium and start calling us retarded?”
    “What stadium?” Björn says.
    “We have to let him out of the car,” Bob says.
    “We’ll all get out together at your house,” Schumann says.
    “Schumann, let’s be reasonable,” Bob says.
    “I’d drink the blood of a Notre Dame lineman right now,” Schumann says.
    “I will put a curse something fierce on your asses if you don’t let me out right now,” says Björn.
    Bob giggles and says, “A curse? Really?”
    “I’d dip that lineman’s haunches in honey mustard and gorge like a king.”
    “You saw what I did in the ballroom,” Björn says to Bob. “I’m assuming your soaked bib and wet head means you went in the water tank. Sorry about that. But what you’re doing right now, you’re going to regret forever.”
    “This isn’t my idea,” Coffen says. “He’s acting on his own accord.”
    “Tell that to the police,” Björn says.
    “I feel totally alive again, Coffen,” Schumann says. “Our kidnapping has awoken the sleeping gladiator in me. All I see around me are football games.”
    “I’m talking the kind of curse that ancient civilizations wrote about,” Björn says. “You two retards will be immortalized in an allegory about what happens when you tempt fate and have to suffer the dire consequences of the dark arts.”
    “If it were up to me, I’d let you go right now,” Coffen says.
    “You’re on the hook for this, too. Are you sure you want to mess with me?” Björn says.
    “He doesn’t listen to me,” Coffen says, pointing at Schumann.
    “Try harder to convince him.”
    “He wants to take you to my house, so you can help me and my wife. I think she’s going to divorce me.”
    “I’ve been there. You heard my story from the show. But think, man: You’re going to get arrested,” Björn says. “You’ll go to prison. But if you let me out now, I won’t call the cops or anything. Honest. I promise. A magician’s word is a two-ton brick of gold.”
    “Hike the ball!” Schumann yells in the driver’s seat.“Hike the ball and let the fur fly! Let’s scrap like junkyard dogs!”
    “Think about it,” Björn says. “You’re doing this for your wife? Do you have children, too?”
    “Yes.”
    “Well, what good will you do them once you’re in the clink?”
    Reflexively, Bob begins to answer—begins a fumbling phrase, a polluted cluster of nonsense—because the truth is he can’t defend himself, or Schumann, or any of this. It’s wrong. He’s wrong. And even if this whole ordeal is Schumann’s idea, won’t the police assume Coffen is guilty by association?
    Bob feels a throb in his guts and barely rolls the SUV’s window down in time before he throws up everywhere.
    “Don’t worry about that,” says Schumann. “I tossed my cookies before we went for the