The Paper 05-03-18

Page 1

May 3, 2018

Volume 48 - No. 18

By Pete Peterson

It’s fight night and my friend Ryman Call is bein’ clobbered to a bloody mess by young Bob Cleary. Blood drips from Ryman’s chin, his right eye swole big as a persimmon. Bob Cleary circles him, a hungry wolf after a crippled sheep. Cleary sends a hard left to Ryman’s forehead. Ryman staggers like a toddler tryin’ to walk. Cleary fires a right to Ryman’s belly. Ryman sprawls to the sawdust. Cleary throws his fists in the air, like he’s the new champ. The crowd The The Paper Paper -- 760.747.7119 760.747.7119

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screams and stomps, glad Ryman Call is finally gettin’ his due, plum happy the local boy they’ve watched trot off to school holdin’ big sister’s hand, is doin’ the smashin’. They yell for Ryman to get up, they want him beat on more. I’m Hamas Zanderhook. I cook for Ryman and his three daughters and ride herd on Winder, his eight-yearold boy. I seen ere one of his slugfests from his first barroom brawl to tonight’s donnybrook. This is the onlyist time he’s ever ate sawdust. Usually, it’s the other feller who’s covered with blood and snot and will mebbe cripple through life

the rest of his days.

Ryman’s shellackin’ pains me terrible. If I had my druthers I’d grab Lon Warfield’s pistol and shoot Bob Cleary ‘tween the eyes, but Ryman would yell, “Stay outta my rock patch, Zee.” Sweaty palms and stingin’ eyes be hanged, I gotta a job to do, so I climb into the Big Money seats to handle bettin’ needs of the gentlemen there. A soft-handed feller in a gray fedora, pushes two Abe’s at me. I give him a marker and grab five Washington’s from a city boy with thick glasses and new shoes.

A farmer in the standin’ section yells, “Dummy, get yer ass over here.”

I duck under the rope and take his greenbacks. Ryman lays in the dust like a lazy dog. The farmer’s moola are probably all he has left from that load of hay he sold last fall. He stashed his rolled-up bills in a Prince Albert tobacco can in the barn rafters, should Baby Sister’s headaches return, and the doc needs to visit, or the vet called durin’ calvin’ season. “Mark me for three bucks, Dummy.

Winner Take All - See Page 2


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