[ WP ] You are a brilliant Med School student who uses extensive knowledge on the human body to win street fights for money to pay for tuition . One night you face your most difficult opponent : a Physics major

The basement was the same. Concrete floors. Solitary lightbulbs hanging from light sockets attached to skinny electrical wires. The scent was the same - a cocktail of dried blood, sweat, cheap beer, cigarette smoke, and antiseptic. The usual punters were there, throwing hundreds of dollars around nervously. 
 
 I knew the odds. I was the favorite. Undefeated. Every single opponent, large or small, trained or untrained, fell to me. The money was good, and Johns Hopkins was expensive. 
 
 I ventured into the world of the underground fight scene to stave off boredom. The stuff I was learning in both the lecture hall and the clinicals was a cakewalk. It took me blundering through a door in a local bar and down the stairs to find two very hypermacho meatheads beating the ever-living shit out of each other in a ring of jabbering gamblers. And the rest was history. 
 
 The Scalpel, they called me. Appropriate. 
 
 The first few bouts were pretty straightforward. A cocky brawler with more tattoos than an Ink Master judge who thought he had the 52 Blocks down cried like a baby when I spotted an opening, smashed a fist into his radial nerve, and put him into a hyperflexing wristlock. A faint snap from his wrist, a muted pop from his knee after a well-placed kick, and a ear-piercing scream of pain heralded the end of that fight. 
 
 Bout two was with an exchange student from Russia. Monster of a guy. Trained in Combat SAMBO since he was able to walk. Fists the size of basketballs. He did catch me off guard, but he forgot his ground fighting. He did n't seem so tough after I popped his shoulder out of its socket. I felt bad afterward and reset it myself. Nice guy. Wanted to become a crisis counselor. I took it upon myself to buy him a drink if ever I saw him outside of the ring. 
 
 Then the crowd dynamic changed. There was a noticeable pause from the usual bets, swearing, and hoots of primal excitement. The sort of pause that heralded the arrival of a new challenger. Good. 
 
 The guy was nothing special. Almost looked a guy who owned a slide rule. Easy. 
 
 We squared off. *Radial nerve to floating rib to brachial plexus. * 
 
 I moved in - but he was n't there. I felt my feet leave the concrete temporarily, as if trying to navigate an invisible obstacle. He just stood there, waiting. 
 
 *Okay, that did n't work. Tibial nerve, solar plexus, throat, and then to the floor with him. * 
 
 I lashed out with a kick. He simply knocked it aside with his own foot. I did the splits and fell to the floor, pulling my groin. That was it. The Scalpel had fallen. 
 
 I asked him as I was recovering from the bout what he was known as. 
 
 `` The Fulcrum.'' Appropriate.
