One night, one fighter, and a full menu of how to render a human unconscious. All of these are happening as we speak, and one might be happening to you right now. 

Let's start with the classics.

Punched in the face — Classic 

A) He's undefeated in boxing, and he's never won on points.

The bell rings, “Ding ding!” Flowing like water, floating like water's shadow, he finds his timing and surgically touches a point just off center of the other man's chin. The chin acts as a lever, it snaps the head, rattles the brain, and shears the nerves — serving as an off button. Turning a powerful opponent into either a wadded up pile of "skin-laundry" on the floor or he stiffens and falls like a mop with no wall to lean on.

Unconscious.

B) After the fight, the champ and his entourage go to the after-party. As they walk through the crowded club, there are always a few macho critics who can’t stand to see a potential challenge to their inebriated self-imposed alpha status. Thus, they need to say something.

“That shit would never work on me, I street fight.”  “Give me a couple of million, I’ll get in the ring.” “You never fight real fighters.”

Then, one drunk man grabs his bottle and goes to swing at the champ. A bodyguard sees the bad intentions from a mile away.

The bodyguard’s face-punch flavor is different from the champ’s, since his sober fist weighs about as much as an adult’s leg.

If the head were a door, the champ would be a precision key or a locksmith, but his bodyguard is more like a minivan being driven by a bored wrecking ball. It whacks the head of the bottle-wielding man-child. His brain bangs around his skull like a bowling ball in the back of a pickup truck, and the receiving party does their best Bambi-on-Ice routine before powering down, and the mind’s curtains close. It’s messier, a bit worrying, and really uses a lot of the dance floor, but either way…

Unconscious.

Cutting off vitals. 

A) Fast

The after-party is not the bodyguards’ jurisdiction, and the club has its own security. When one small and slick bouncer sees the champ’s bodyguard starting to manage the crowd and using excessive force, he tries to signal to the bodyguard that it’s time to stop bodyguarding. The music is loud, and the club bouncer tries to get the bodyguard’s attention. He’s not noticing. He stands between him and the other partiers, trying to make peace, but the bodyguard shows no signs of stopping. He puts his hands on the bouncer, and that's a "no no." So the bouncer slips under the bodyguard's tree-like arms and gets behind him, wrapping his "normal" sized arms around his neck like a python in cargo pants.

The choke is deep, blood and oxygen to the brain are cut off, and within seconds, the bodyguard is sleeping peacefully on the club floor. No drama, no impact, just the simple strategy of cutting off vital resources.

Unconscious.

B) Slow

The rest of the entourage takes off outside to safety. This champion gets paid millions to punch faces; he’s not doing it for free at a bar brawl. Off to the side, the fighter’s manager is hunched over, wheezing. Asthma attack. His lungs are acting like a bouncer as he frantically digs through his pockets for his inhaler.

The champ and his team safely reach the Suburban and drive off. He’s looking out the window and sees slower versions of vitals being cut off. Addicts slumped over, and a homeless encampment under a billboard of a charity he started for his home country, where there was drought and starvation. Vital resources quietly evaporating over time.

Unconscious.

Too Much Information.

A) Overexplaining

First, let me take the next 60 pages to explain to you this new concept I have that thoroughly explains how vaccines work a lot like crypto. You'll just have to, real quick, assemble this sewing machine while five kids surround you asking, “What is that?” and “Why?" Oh, have you ever heard of the Quantum Realm? You're gonna love it, I promise. Just kidding, back to the fighter.

B) Brainular Overwhelm

He finally makes it home. Showers to wash off the after-party. He knew better than to go to it, but anything for the fans, even though some fans try to hit you with bottles.

He sits on the edge of the bed and takes a long breath, then lies down victorious, but then his iPad makes a “ding” sound.

2 hours later, he’s still scrolling, glassy-eyed and hypnotized. The perfect weapon. Completely unnoticed and self-inflicted. A flood of information lands on his consciousness like a truckload of wood being dumped onto a match. TMI didn’t have to time his chin or climb on his back; he simply drifts into the programmed state like a fish toward the lure of an anglerfish. His belly is full, he’s hydrated, his record is undefeated, but…

“Ding.”