Being buried alive terrifies people. That nervous twitch of the calf when you imagine being unable to move, thousands of pounds of dirt having sentenced you to a death everyone thinks has already happened. Alone with nothing to do but think about your own suddenly very real mortality.
Michael Johnson went stiff on the way down. Josh Emmett’s right hand pulled away, leaving knuckle shape dents in Johnson’s jaw, and the crowd was a collective quiet, stunned for a second that was an eternity, before coming to life in an appreciative roar.
Johnson’s eye’s flickered life, he focused his attention on the celebrating Emmett, then back to the referee rushing to verbalize what was obvious, waiving his hands in a desperate call to others to stop the violence. Johnson could not move, his body was going through premature rigor mortis. His arms stiff like erector set pieces. Toes curled. Neck tightened into a brace. Except his eyes, bulging as if to scream, “What the fuck was that?”
That was one hell of a knock out.
