by the end of the twenty-seventh, tanker came back to his corner lame. the champ had dented his forehead.

"how is it?" asked charlie jingle.

"fine," said tanker thickly. "it's fine." there was a slur to his voice, which tipped off what was beginning to happen. tanker's co-ordination system had been damaged.

"he's crackin' down, now. he's got all his power behind them punches. you can see it when he pivots."

"yeah? well i kin feel it when he punches," said the tanker.

charlie pumped him up with cooling fluid, worked his body. in the pit of his stomach was a sickness, a feeling of helplessness because tanker's trouble was not where he could reach it, now. now it was inside.

"he's gonna knock your head off, this one, tank. you got a dent in it."

"i know i got a goddam dent. you don't hafta tell me."

charlie put his gear out of the ropes.

"i told you it was a fix. don't blame me for nothin'."

"yeah. you wash your hands of it. just like that guy in the whuddayacall...."

"bible," said charlie jingle.

"yeah," said tanker. the bell sounded and he sprang to his feet.