I am walking in the city at night. Stone townhouses line the drive, all dark, all still. Then I see a light smearing the dark, a neon sign incongruously affixed to one of the townhouses. It's an arrow pointing down, and beneath the arrow, a stairwell descending.
       Once, I might not have considered such an obscure directive. But in these days of pestilence and disease, wars and rumors of wars, disaster and climate change, false leaders and their deceptions, everything has dissolved into gray inertia. God has abandoned us. We are directionless, spinning upon a blue and green marble through the bedlam of an ever-expanding universe.
       Or so I had thought.
       Within this chaos, the neon arrow points.
       Wind begins to blow. Rain spatters on the asphalt.
       I follow the sign.
       At the bottom of the low-ceilinged stairwell is a metal door. Upon it is a faded insignia reminiscent of old circus caravans. In spangled letters, it reads:

       I am drawn by a growing sense of fate, a surety that, though I have never heard of this Ring, it was always my destination.
       Inside, it is dim. There are round tables about which groups of people stand, arguing, gesturing. The air smells of stale beer, peanuts, concrete, but it does not seem to be a nightclub. No music plays.
       There is light further in. I venture toward it across the lobby-like space. No one stops me. I reach a metal guardrail. Below is a wrestling ring lit up with powerful overheads and spots. It is empty, surrounded by amphitheater-style seating. A scattered few sit on metal benches. Above is a single box seat, closed off in tinted glass and shadow.
       From the dark recesses of the ceiling, an electric sign blazes:

       A voice cries from the dark, "Bets are closed!"
       Somewhere, a bell chimes.
       Two figures leap into the Ring. Their features are hidden by fantastic costumes. The first is encased in a shining white-and-blue oval sphere; only their arms and legs protrude, clad in white sleeves and leggings that cover their fingers and toes. The second is dressed as a green-and-rainbow-feathered rooster, with an elaborate headdress, beak, and tail plumage rivaling a peacock.
       A second time, the bell sounds. The figures in the Ring begin to fight with a theatrical flair.
       I stare at the unfolding match. This is Chicken versus Egg. As in, which came first? I nearly laugh aloud. I seem to have stumbled into an off-brand philosophical wrestling league. Surely, this is an elaborate joke, a bizarre embodiment of the ages-old paradox. Is this illegal? Should I leave?
       Egg leaps from the ropes and body slams Chicken, who howls.
       Deftly, Chicken catches Egg's ankles, twists, and down goes Egg. Then, a headlock, pulling the top of Egg (their head?) up, up, until Egg smashes their hand against the floor.
       The bell rings three times.
       Chicken struts out to the applause and shouts of those who are paying attention. Then, as Egg limps away, something shifts in my brain. It makes sense. It has all the logic in the world. Of course, a chicken must come first, before an egg...
       But that is not what I thought before. I remember learning that chickens descended from dinosaurs, who were egg-layers, and so an egg must come first. Now, though, that seems wrong. Has my mind been changed by a wrestling match?
       Impossible. One arguably choreographed match cannot have any impact on people's minds.
       Can it?
       "Place your bets! Match two about to start! Place your bets!"
       People clamber to the stadium, and the benches fill. This matchup--whatever it might be--is clearly more popular than Chicken versus Egg.
       "Bets are closed!"
       The sign lights up:

       The bell chimes.
       And up from the mysterious dark come the fighters.
       Night enters first. Their costume is dominated by a huge mask that spans from above their head down nearly to their waist. The mask is painted with fangs, geometric eyes, and flared nostrils. Horns curve up from the mask's forehead. Night's body is covered in a black fabric that blurs at the edges, drawing shadows through the air in their wake. They dart about the Ring, mask leering. The audience boos, jeers, throws trash.
       In the center of the Ring, Night spreads their arms. The mask moves, the mouth stretches, and a horrible laugh spills forth, a howling north-wind shriek. This is not a mask. It is the very Face of Night, that which plagued our ancestors since the dawn of consciousness, that which lives in our nightmares. Fear overcomes me; I despair.
       But a cheer goes up, for Day takes the Ring.
       Day wears a shining silver and white suit, mirror-bright. The fabric catches the spotlights and reflects streams of radiance so that the figure seems to be the source of light. Day's costume is so blinding that it is impossible to make out any of their features, let alone look directly at them.
       Night gnashes their teeth, enraged.
       The bell rings.
       They are at each other instantly. Compared to Chicken versus Egg, this match is far more brutal and more realistic. I am captivated by the struggle of these ancient enemies, and the audience stands and shouts, fire in their eyes. I shout with them. Day must triumph. If Night wins, what will become of us? I remember the old story when a Night That Could Be Felt covered the land for three days and three nights, and no one could see or move. I remember the prophecy yet to be fulfilled, in which a third of the Day will be darkened. I shout all the louder, lending Day my strength.
       Finally, Day wraps Night in a headlock. Light pours forth from Day, engulfing and all but erasing Night. The bell rings. Day wins.
       The audience roars, cheers, laughs, hugs, and high-fives. All around, the air lightens--in pressure but also in brightness. The overhead lights shine down upon the Ring with renewed vigor. Where there were shadows, now they are lessened.
       I lean upon the railing, exhausted, elated. Night will always surrender to Day, for even the longest Night must end.
       "Ha!" exclaims someone nearby. "I told you Day would take it."
       "Night's only won the last two in a row," their companion grumbles.
       "Come on. Let's settle up."
       They head toward the voice, calling out for bets.
       I gather, then, that these matches are ongoing feuds that lean one way then the other. Whether or not the results are not final, the outcomes have influence beyond the ropes. The Ring of Contradictions' power is real. I have experienced it. My mind races, for the possibilities are endless.
       Global Warming versus The Earth.
       War versus Peace.
       Love versus Suffering.
       Life versus Death.
       The wrestlers could even take on new nemeses, the familiar dichotomies shuffle. Perhaps Egg will battle War, Chicken take on Death. Some might even make more sense.
       With my hopes are questions. How does this work? Who are the fighters? Who schedules the bouts? Who is the patron, high in the box seat? And, most pressing, what is the next match?
       I have not long to wait for the sign lights up:

       I catch my breath--God is here? In what form? And who will be His challenger? None is given in the sign. Who would oppose God?
        The Ring remains empty. None enter.
       A paralytic silence holds us in thrall. The challenger must come first. Otherwise, there is no need for God to appear. There is nothing for Him to defend.
       This is God's Ring; who would dare to challenge Him? God--who created chicken and egg, day and night. God--omnipotent, omniscient, omnipresent. God--who, through absence and inaction, has allowed us to descend into bedlam and suffering, who did nothing to oppose genocides. The nuclear bomb. Weaponized viruses. Hatred. Death.
       Fear-thrill races along the roots of my nervous system. My heart pounds, and I begin to sweat.
       It is God who sets us against one another. God who instigated these never-ending fights. God who gives and who takes, whose ways are mysterious, unknowable, and cruel. God who demands worship.
       Rage blossoms within me. In the silence, I rise.
       All heads turn to me, all eyes upon me.
       I walk down the concrete steps and hoist myself up, sliding beneath the massive ropes. I stand. The Ring spreads out like a desert. The lights are blinding. Somewhere, from the mat, beneath the mat, there is a vibration. A potential energy pours through my being: the outcome of the match, preparing to change the very fabric of reality. It strengthens my muscles, sharpens my reflexes, and heightens instincts latent in my amygdala. I am ready.
       But God does not appear.
       From the center of the Ring, I shout, "I am the miracle of humanity. I am consciousness. I am mortality. I am finite. And I hold you, God, to account."
       The audience stares. Some whisper to each other.
       I point at the box seat. "Is this where you have been, all this time, pitting your creation one against the other for your own entertainment? Is our existence a game, our suffering an amusement? Account for yourself! Come down and fight."
       The crowd looks to the box seat. There is no movement from within.
       Perhaps He will not come. He has been gone too long and has caused too much harm. He cannot explain it away.
       Perhaps God is a coward.
       I leap down from the Ring and run up the steps beyond the place I had been sitting, past all the spectators, whose heads turn to follow me, to the door of the box seat. It is entirely enclosed, and smoked glass obscures the interior.
       I burst through the door easily--it is not locked. No one tries to stop me.
       Inside, it is dark. I am disoriented.
       I expected comfortable chairs, lavish carpeting, refreshments, and a private washroom. Instead, there are metal shelves stacked with bundles of cables, strange electronic devices. There is a distinct smell of cheap coffee and cigarettes. A desk stretches beneath the window, and upon it is a board full of switches and buttons, slides and toggles, keyboards and number pads.
       At the desk sits a man on a stool. He is short. He wears headphones with a microphone that nearly touches his mouth. Gray stubble covers his chin and cheeks. An overgrown mustache conceals his top lip.
       I stare into his face, trying to perceive divinity.
       He stares back at me, wide-eyed, through smudged glasses.
       Finally, I ask, "Who are you?"
       "The stage manager."
       "I thought... you're not God?"
       Thick eyebrows lift over the rims of his glasses. "Do I look like God?"
       "I don't know what God looks like."
       He pushes the microphone away from his mouth. "Look, I've got a show going here. Do you need something?"
       "Is He here? God?"
       "No idea. Keeping track of God's location isn't in my job description."
       "But the sign said God versus--"
       "It was a mistake, okay? I typed it in wrong. Fucking typo. And I hit delete instead of backspace like a moron, which jammed the whole system, and now everything's out of sync. Light sequence, audio cues, everything."
       There do seem to be a lot of red lights flashing on his board.
       "And, of course, the numbskull actors won't come out until they get their cues--"
       Actors?
       "--which apparently means audience members think they can go play in the Ring."
       "I'm sorry. I-I didn't mean to interrupt."
       "You at least bought some time with whatever the hell that stunt was. Not that it matters." He pounds the console with his fist, with no apparent change. He pauses. "You know. God versus whatever isn't a bad idea."
       "What?"
       "For a match. God in a matchup would be pretty fucking epic." He folds his arms and leans against the desk. "But who would he fight? The devil is the obvious choice. Course, that might piss off certain folks, saying the devil is equal to God. Maybe there's a better option..."
       The stage manager scribbles on the back of a napkin.
       I am overcome with a sensation that I am dreaming.
       He points his pen at me. "An audience plant is good, too. Some decent opportunity for drama there."
       "You plan the matches?"
       "I do a lot of shit. Write, direct, stage manage. Lots of hats."
       "So, this... is a production. Like a play."
       He looks at me over his glasses. "It's a wrestling league, buddy. You didn't think any of this was real, did you?"
       I force a laugh. "Of course not."
       The stage manager snaps his fingers. "Ah, I haven't tried--" He spins back to the control board, flips a switch, waits, flips it back. Several red lights turn green. "There we go." A new sign lights up over the Ring:

       The stage manager pushes a button, and the bell sounds. Out come the fighters, dressed as such. A cheer goes up from the crowd, muffled through the walls of the tech booth. Again, the bell sounds, and the fight begins.
       I feel sick. I need to get out of this place. But I can't imagine walking through the crowd of people, all of whom saw my ridiculous speech. Perhaps they think it was part of the entertainment, that I am one of the actors. I am too embarrassed to find out.
       "Is there a back door out of here?" I ask.
       The stage manager points vaguely over his shoulder without answering.
       I see, then, in the shadow of a shelf, another door. I go through without any parting words. The stage manager does not care. He is focused entirely upon the spectacle he is orchestrating.
       I am outside, in an alley, in the night. It's raining. Somewhere nearby, traffic rumbles. I breathe in the petrichor and exhaust.
       I'm confused. Ashamed of my naivety. Embarrassment burns hot in me as I remember the words I spoke so boldly from the center of the Ring. But as the rain cools my forehead, my emotions settle. My head clears. I replay the events of the evening in my mind. I test my memories for delusion, for any sign I had manufactured my experiences. I find none.
       The Ring of Contradictions was real. I'd felt the shift from Egg to Chicken, from Night to Day. And within the Ring, I'd felt the power of God.
       Epiphany follows like lightning in slow motion, creeping across the landscape of my mind. What is God but a glorified stage manager? Why wouldn't he be an unkempt, middle-aged, sleep-deprived man lighting a cigarette? If confronted by an equal foe, would God take responsibility for the harm He has caused? Or would He hide, like the pagan trickster spirits of old?
       Oh, no. He mustn't get away so easily.
       I turn back, but there is no handle on the door. I bang on it, but God doesn't open.
       I jog around the building, looking for the neon arrow sign that had guided me to the entrance. But I find myself running along brick walls, unbroken by windows or doors. No matter which way I go, I pass no arrow. No stairwell. Just walls of brick.
       I stop to catch my breath. I'm drenched with rain on a street I have never seen before. I am lost. I have been shut out.
       Righteous anger takes hold of me, and I vow to search for the Ring of Contradictions until I find it, no matter if it takes all my life. Then, I will face God and demand answers for all His wrongs.
       Thunder rumbles across the city. I wait for lightning to split the dark. And in that moment, I wonder.
       Is there any answer God could give that would be good enough?