KYM3RA

     The cold, hard tiles of the locker room floor stare up at me, as a reminder of an even colder, harder reality. In a sound booth somewhere in the arena, a tech geek hits a switch to play the music; some loud, thumping rap anthem with bass that could blow you right out of your socks. I've never cared too much for rap myself, but it's not meant for me. It's for them. It's the promoters attempt to get their blood pumping, adrenaline flowing, and ready them to watch us mercilessly beat each other's faces in, for no greater purpose than their own amusement, and it's doing its job.     To call them animals would be a great injustice to the fa