“Why The Rock IsBeyoncé for Boys” by Dan Evans

How hard do you think The Rock could
punch me? Obviously: to death. I feel The
Rock could punch me on most of the parts
of my body and I would immediately die.
Would I die if The Rock punched me in the
head? Yes, I would die. Would I die if The
Rock punched me somewhere less vital, the
back of a thigh, maybe, a lower rib? Yes, I
would also die off being punched by The
Rock.
The force of The Rock punching me
would work its way up my body and
explode my heart. Agony would hum up
my body like a tuning stick until my brain
just up and stops. I feel, sometimes, like
The Rock could punch me so hard (to
death) that he wouldn’t necessarily need to
make bodily contact with me for the punch
to kill, The Rock just punching the air I
was about to inhale and it somehow killing
me, the oxygen imbued suddenly with a
force too powerful for my weak human
lungs, my weak human lungs breathing
punched Rock air and just exploding. But
my favourite, when I think about The Rock
punching me a single time to death, my
favourite is imagining him punching me
directly above the heart: a single solid
thwump, and my chest blooms purple and
I die instantly, my heart cleaving neatly
into four like a fresh coconut dropped
from a height, and The Rock delivers a line
– leans over my newly wilted corpse and
murmurs, “It doesn’t matter,” something
like that – but, look closer now, look at my
face: my eyes are glassy and my skin is
cold but my mouth is formed into a
perfect, long rictus grin—

The only way I will die happy is if The
Rock punches me horribly to death.

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