Ghost powder — an untested and unpredictable proprietary blend — was forced into the fighter’s mouth by the referee. The fighter was on her back, having just broken free from the corner and tumbled, unbalanced from considerable blood loss, to the floor.
The ghost powder laughed. Caffeine kicked in, or was it the b-vitamins, or the sugar, or the goji, or adrenaline, and she was up and at ‘em, for the next ten minutes or so, a duration of time long enough to finish out the match. Aside from the occasional stunt, it was all tactile — in the ring and in the bleachers.
Some of that ghost powder wafted up into the bleachers, see, and some of the spectators started seeing giant skulls floating in front of their eyes. These were saturday morning cartoon skulls, but more demented.
When the spectators got home, the skulls were still there, right before their very eyes. This wasn’t a problem that was going to solve itself anytime soon. One spectator pounded his fist on the counter, “Where’s that ref? I’m gonna fucking kill him.”
The ref faced retribution. It was, after all, the referee who introduced the untested and unpredictable ghost powder “into the ether,” diminishing the line between the real and unreal not only for the fighter and the spectators, but anyone they came into contact with.
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