2104. IMBROGLIO AT MCFADDEN'S

IMBROGLIO AT MCFADDENS
The fat-waisted middle-man held me down for the
count while the champ went on pounding my head.
I screamed for his mercy. He laughed louder than
that: 'you old fart!' I thought he said; something
like that. Why I had come here? I'd already
forgotten. The blood tasted better than the
chilly food, and the drinks were no better than
the rotten girls who served them. I thought, for
just merely a moment, I'd rather be down for the
cunt, but figured not to say for it wouldn't work
and he'd probably pound my head all the harder.
I was not, decidedly, here, any champ of my own,
nor material to be one now. A few missing teeth.
A swell where my nose might have been. That arm,
now twisted and pinned like wire behind an old TV's
back, would - I was certain - never hammer a nail
again. Were I to roll over, he'd probably just kick my
butt anew. Pound my kidney down, browbeat the
back of my - already well-beaten - brow. Do you
see the conundrum this causes? I'm in trouble at
McFaddens, for no ostensible reason at all.