“See? See, this right here, this is what I’m talkin’ about,” Frankie said, pointing at the television bolted to the ceiling. The fact that the boxing match was even airing was a surprise; it was an amateur event, making a local access station only in the absence of the usual high school basketball games that would be airing again in another month or so.
“If you watch,” Frankie continued, shaking his head and speaking to no one in particular, “If you watch, you can see this kid flinch every time the champ throws a punch, but not when he throws it, no… just a, just a
milisecond before the the guy draws back.”
He shook his head. “Goddamn fake bullshit,” he grumbled, and took another pull on his beer. It was bad enough that the match was clearly rigged, but Frankie had dropped a good chunk of change on the kid.
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