On a Saturday night in early May, a grown man, known as “Pink Pony Clubber,” descends into the basement of Common Market, brushes past the backstage curtains, and makes himself busy preparing for this evening’s match.
Not long afterward, Pink Pony Clubber—whose alter ego is Jeffrey Crews—steps into the ring and reveals himself to the audience: pink kilt, silver-painted cardboard armor, and a pony mask with a hot pink mane. He struts across the ring in pink Doc Martens.
“This is the first sport that is so random and stupid that I wanna do it,” he says later in an interview.
Since December 2024, the restaurant on Green Street has hosted “Giant Robot Fight Club” on the second Saturday of each month. On these evenings, Common Market transforms from a deli into a venue where adults fight in cardboard costumes. It’s a kids show for adults, but a little more bizarre than your regular Peppa Pig episode.
It’s a Durham phenomenon. Last month, Fight Club went on the road and took over Raleigh’s Tap Yard for the evening. The attendance was solid, but the atmosphere wasn’t the same. “Durham has all the weirdness that Raleigh doesn’t,” says Joe Striks, one of the organizers.
Back in the Fight Club, Griffin “Hot Dog” Hennelly bursts into the ring at the sound of confetti guns, with a microphone and an outfit that makes you look twice: gold booty shorts, red tights, and nothing on the torso but a bare belly and crisscrossing bandoliers. His co-host, Zeppo Shemp (a.k.a. the aforementioned Joe), sports a black-and-white striped referee’s jersey that’s comedically tight. The whole spectacle is a sight you’ve never seen before—and might hope never to see again.
The sound cuts out in the sold-out venue, and the quality of the background music is poor. But it’s all endearing and awkwardly charming.
After warming up the crowd, Hot Dog and Zeppo invite their first competitors to the makeshift ring. Common Market’s unique interior makes for a theatrical watch, with what the restaurant’s owner describes as a “colosseum” that allows spectators an overhead view of the action in the basement below. The ring consists of two red, yellow, and blue mats, decorated by the earlier rain of confetti. And although the fighters sign waivers, the organizers have babyproofed the hard edges of the nearby staircase with chopped up pool noodles.
Tonight features four matches of three rounds each. The main rule: Don’t strike where there’s no cardboard. Beyond that, everything is fair game. This allows robots to get creative with their moves in the ring. There’s plenty of shoving, slamming, and clunky punches, which may be punctuated by a dance battle or even a round of rock, paper, scissors.
Judges (who are usually random spectators) award robots points for their costume and performance during the fight, but no one is counting. If spectators think the scoring seems fuzzy, that’s because it is. Like all other aspects of Fight Club, it’s strange and messy, less about math and more about the vibe. Crews’ son, Grey, says, “It’s a bunch of dorks having fun.”
With duct tape, foam, cardboard, and paint, fighters are allowed to invent any robot they want.
Tonight’s robots? Catholic Converter, Pink Pony Clubber, Dread Bender, and Looking for Sarah Connor. First up are Bender, the Futurama character and the (apparent) Catholic enthusiast. They size each other up before the whistle goes and the blows follow. It’s a jumble of cardboard arms and legs—all sorts of flips and flops and falls.
In the midst of the madness, the hosts pause for a recess between the first and second matches. But don’t be fooled: it’s a break from the fighting, not from the oddness of the night. The regulars know the routine, and line up for “communion”: a few Doritos and some Mountain Dew waterfalled into their gaping mouths from Hot Dog’s supply of the vibrant green soda.
Watching from above is Kadia Kaloko, 44, and owner of a new small business. She initially began attending because her old colleague, Crews, was fighting and she wanted to come in support. Now she’s there almost every month. Why? “Because it’s just goofy fun,” she says.
The next short break features a dance performance from one of the robots that segues into a conga line of several fans. The third and final interval calls on the crowd on the balcony to open their wallets, crumple some one-dollar bills, and aim for a bucket on the floor below. (You’d be surprised how many are successful.)
If you’re wondering what sort of people participate in Fight Club, Hennelly has an answer for you: “Wakadoodle lunatic weirdos and beef cakes.”
One of these characters is Crews, a 59-year-old research scientist with a flair for costume making and a background in martial arts. He describes himself as a tinkerer who loves to build elaborate Halloween costumes for his two sons. But the athletic side attracts him to the show, too. He says, “It’s nerd pro wrestling.”
Crews has been part of Fight Club since the first event, but his costumes have changed almost every time. Pink Pony Clubber was not his first, and certainly not his last; next month, he’ll morph into “Metalbeast: CHROME”—which he says will “push the limits of what cardboard, foam, and tape can do.”
Vinny Faso, 36, has constructed a cardboard costume resembling Bender: a shiny metal robot with menacing teeth and piercing eyes. He always fights in this character because of his late brother’s love for the show. Faso attended one of the earlier Fight Club nights and was so keen to get involved that he emailed the organizers before the show had even ended.
The idea for Fight Club came to Hennelly when he moved to Durham in September. He understood that people in Durham liked three things: sports, drinking, and arts. By combining the trio and relying on his experience in New York City’s stand-up comedy scene, Hennelly created something unusual.
(Hennelly—33, and a bartender—has a knack for the bizarre. He has no clerical experience, but he once dressed as a priest and sat himself in a New York City park, eating a raw red onion and reading Playboy. “I love making people stop and go, ‘What?’” he says.)
He roped in Striks (34, and a teacher in training), his buddy from their comedy days in New York. In November, an ad appeared on Bull City Reddit for the first Giant Robot Fight Club night.
The Giant Robot Fight Club is popular with Durhamites. On every occasion, attendance has reached Common Market’s capacity of 90. The credit belongs to Hennelly and Striks, who are willing to dress up in shiny spandex and referee jerseys bursting at the seams.
When the final match ends, the hosts announce this evening’s winner: Catholic Converter. But in a sudden turn of events, a dinosaur robot, Tri-servo-tops, storms into the ring and challenges him for the belt. With horns and a large stiff frill like the extinct reptile, Tri-servo-tops is a formidable fighter. Glowing blue eyes focused on his target, Tri-servo-tops punches Catholic Converter in the chest with his three-pronged hand until his opponent falls to his knees and the whistle blows furiously. “The belt goes to Tri-servo-tops,” Hot Dog says. The show’s gatecrasher takes home the cardboard prize.
CAPTION (photo above): Zeppo Shemp (a.k.a. Joe Striks, one of the organizers of Giant Robot Fight Club) acts as referee during one of its event at Common Market in Durham earlier this month. It wasn’t at all clear why he was holding up a sign that read, “MOO.”
