Did things happen all to onct!
My bum slams the Martian and falls on him for the count, and wins thethoid fall and the match. That part is okay. But while the Martian isstill up in the air I notice that all the squeaking from the Martianshas stopped all of a sudden.
So from the Martians we are getting nothing but silence, strictlywholesale. I think maybe that's natural when their bum gets trun.
And then--plop! plop! plop!--and them flying light bulbs all drop downflat on the mat and lay there just like the Martian bum, until theyisn't enough light in the house to see to strike a match. And then thesqueaking starts again, like a million hungry rats, and I can justbarely see them Martians starting for the ring.
I gets my bum by the arm and tells him something tells me we betterblow the joint. We blow, fast. Them Martians is mad about somethingwhich I ain't had time to figure out, yet. My bum steps on one of themanimated light fixtures when he gets out of the ring and squashes it.A puddle of light squirts out, and natch he steps in it. We arescramming through that crowd like mad, and we are in the clear. But wehear them squeaks behind us for a long time. They are follyin' theglowing footprints my bum is leaving to point the way.
He emptied the last bottle of beer, holding it upended for a long timewaiting for the final laggard drop to detach itself. He stalled overhis drink, waiting for me to ask him what happened, so I did. He puton his most wounded expression, and I knew then that he'd suffered amortal blow--to his purse.
Yeah, we got away, I made my bum trun away his flashy shoes so theycouldn't track us by them. We walked all the way back to Neopolis, thepeople city. All kinds of plain and fancy rumors beat us there, so theColony Cops put us in protective custody until they got the straightstory.
Nobody ever saw another Martian. It seems that they got some tricknotions about theirselves. They are proud because they can walk on theground and don't have to fly, so they got a hearty contemp for thingsthat fly, like them insecks which they used for house lights.
Now, them insecks is dopes too and would give anything if they couldwalk like the Martians. And the Martians know the insecks can think alittle, and it makes them feel good to have the insecks looking up tothem. Lord knows nobody else does.
So when my bum lifted their bum up in the air and spun him around likea pinwheel it was a big insult to them. They took it that my bum wasas much as telling them that he didn't think they was any better thanthem insecks flying around over the ring. And the insecks took it as ainvite to come down and try the Martians racket so that's why they allflop into the ring and the lights go out. They was trying to walk.
That's more than the Martians can take. They swarm into the ring andkill all the insecks. They'da killed us too, but I got smart brainsand we didn't hang around asking for it.
And now they won't have nothing to do with no people from Earth onaccount of they have lost so much smoosh, the way they look at it.
We got no take from that bout. And the Colony Administrator lifts allour scratch--said we'd gummed up Martian trade and he'da trun us inthe clink too only he didn't want to see no more of us. He wouldn'taeven give us fare back to Earth except he said he didn't want usanywhere on Mars.
"So that," the little promoter concluded sadly, "is why I don't likeMars and rasslin' and Martian Mules and people who talk about suchthings." His beady eyes flicked a baleful glance at Sherry, whohovered nearby on the chance that he'd stop talking and give her aninning.
Hoiman stood up, carefully shook the bottles to be sure that they wereempty, extracted a cigarette from the pack he'd stuck into his pocket,and used my lighter again. He hefted it carefully, reluctantly puttingit back on the table. Then his little black eyes swivelled to the lastpiece of potato on my plate--the piece he'd spared in previous raids.
"What's the matter with them fries?" he asked.
It disappeared into his mouth and he went away, munching, a dingylittle man padding along on silent, predatory feet.
He'd scarcely slipped out through the door when Sherry moved in.
"Is he really a wrestler, Larry?" she asked breathlessly.
"Him?" Even Sherry, vintage Vine Streeter that she was, should havegot the pitch. "The only thing," I told her solemnly, "that Hoimanever got a hammerlock on was a dollar bill!"
But Sherry wasn't listening, "Don't you just _love_ wrestling?"
I let my eyes have a treat, taking their time as they went over thatclassy chassis. Then I said it. Fervently.
"Any time, Sherry! Any time."
THE END
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