Tales from the Mat: The Zombie Toenails

As we dive into the spookiest month of the year, it’s only right that we tell some scary stories of our own.

In general, the Brazilian Jiu-Jitsu academy is a warm, safe place to be… most times. But there are those rare few times that transform the BJJ mat into a veritable house of horrors. Many have tried to forget, have tried to pick up the pieces of their lives, but their experiences lend themselves as cautionary tales for the rest of us.

This month, we’ll be sharing a few of these stories. Read on, if you dare…. Muahahahahhahahah.... [*read as evil laugh*]

An Average, Everyday Joe 

It was an average fall day, the air crisp and clean, the leaves beginning to change colors and the smell of pumpkin spice following all the basic white girls down the street. Joe – an average, everyday guy, with his average, everyday name and an average, everyday job – clocks out of work, his gym bag slung over his shoulder. He’s on his way to jiu-jitsu.

Flash forward to the BJJ academy. Everyone watches the instructor show the first move of the night: a berimbolo. How exciting. Joe has always wanted to learn the berimbolo (though he mispronounces it every single time). The instructor counts 1, 2, 3 and the room vibrates with the clap. But this time, unlike all the other times, the sound was somehow ominous… [*cue dun, dun, dun sound*]

Joe shakes off the feeling of foreboding and looks around for a partner as everyone pairs up to drill. Oh no. Ohhhh nooooo, he thinks. He was too late. The only unmatched partner was “that guy.”

“That Guy” 

Greg. The twenty-five year old "still-finishing-my-degree" college student who had just been kicked out of his mom’s basement and had not yet figured out how to wash his own clothes properly. But that’s not what scares Joe the most. No, not by a long shot. As disgusting as someone else’s funk is – a funk that seeps into your own gi within minutes of the briefest of contact – that took second seat to what was most troubling about Greg.

Joe’s pupils dilate as he stared in horror at Greg’s feet.

Long, jagged, yellowed, toenails curve out from the beds of Greg’s toes. Did Joe imagine it, or did they seem to be reaching toward him?

But what could Joe say? He was a lowly white belt, while Greg had just been promoted to blue… could he say something? Oh no, he didn’t want to cause a scene. He didn’t want Greg to be insulted and take it out on him during rolls. It’s one thing to have to roll with “that guy”; it’s another thing altogether when “that guy” decides to keep you in his triangle for the entire round.

No, he couldn’t say anything. It’s fine. It’ll be fine. It’s just a few drills. He’ll be fine.

Joe slowly, reluctantly walks over Greg. Greg, oblivious to his “that guy”ness, wipes his dripping nose with his gi sleeve and fist bumps Joe before plopping on his butt to go first.

It’s fine. It’ll be fine. It’s a mantra in Joe’s head. Greg enters into de la riva and grabs a hold of Joe’s pant leg to begin. 

The Incident

The next few seconds pass as if in slow motion. Joe’s eyes fixate on Greg’s toenails as he lands on his butt. Then they widen in horror as, instead of Greg’s foot curling around his hip as was shown, it instead arches toward his face. 

No, he wasn’t imagining it. Greg’s toenails WERE reaching for him. The jagged edges growing longer, as if the deadened cells were like fingers reaching for him. 

Noooooooooooooo... [*in slow motion, very cinematic like*].

The squelch of toenails ripping into his cheek reverberates in Joe’s head and he lets out an inhuman scream of disgust, pain and horror. Everyone stops what they’re doing and looks.

“Uh. Sorry man,” Greg says. He doesn’t sound sorry. He sounds exactly like the kind of guy who would mooch off his parents as long as possible. He sounds exactly like the kind of guy who spends hours playing video games but couldn’t be bothered to Google “how to wash your gi.” He sounds exactly like the kind of guy who wouldn’t care enough about his training partners to bother cutting his toenails in the first place.

Joe slowly rises, his eyes fixed on nothing at all, walks to the locker room, washes the raw, jagged cuts with soap and water, grabs his pack and leaves without a word.

The Transformation

That night, Joe is restless. He had showered several times, scouring his face with every antibacterial soap he could find. He had huddled under the streaming water, shaken by his memory of the incident. Those toenails. Those putrid, horrifying toenails. They had REACHED for him.

Sleep. That’s what he needed. Yes, sleep, he thinks.

But it would not come.

He feels hot. Then cold. He starts to sweat, then shivers uncontrollably. The gashes on his face itch. He can’t keep his own fingernails from relieving the unrelenting itch. So itchy. So, so itchy! It won’t stop! Why wouldn’t it stop?! He lets out a tortured wail… and then there is darkness. 

The Next Morning

The next morning Joe awakes. He feels… fine. Actually. Not too bad at all.

He rises, looks back at his bed, the sheets twisted and soiled with sweat, his pillow covered with red splotched, crusty pus.

Eh, he’ll wash them later.

He lumbers to the bathroom to take his morning piss, closing his eyes as the stream splashes and splatters all over the seat and floor.

Eh, he’ll clean that up later.

He looks at his reflection in the mirror. The gashes are still angry and red, oozing a bit and with fresh red crosshatches where he’d itched them. His hair is plastered to his head and greasy. He glances at the shower.

Eh, he’ll shower later.

He rifles through the dirty clothes hamper to find yesterday’s work clothes. His gi is lying on the floor where he’d dropped it after returning home. He gives it a whiff.

Eh, still good. 

He looks at the clock before he walks out the door to begin his day. It was 11:30am. He usually starts work at 9.

Eh, it’ll be fine.

Epilogue

It was not fine.

Weeks later, we find Joe living in his parents’ basement after losing his job. The gashes on his face are now just a pink lines across his cheek. He’d picked up playing video games until late into the night. A couple times a week, he puts his unwashed gi in his gym bag and heads to his local jiu-jitsu academy to train. He is now “that guy,” and his toenails have grown out… long, jagged, yellowed… searching for their next victim.

Let Joe's story be a word of caution to all my readers out there… cut your toenails. And stay tuned for the next spooky installment of Tales from the Mat…