And now they won't have nothing to do with no people from Earth on account 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 all our scratch—said we'd gummed up Martian trade and he'da trun us in the clink too only he didn't want to see no more of us. He wouldn'ta even give us fare back to Earth except he said he didn't want us anywhere on Mars.
"So that," the little promoter concluded sadly, "is why I don't like Mars and rasslin' and Martian Mules and people who talk about such things." His beady eyes flicked a baleful glance at Sherry, who hovered nearby on the chance that he'd stop talking and give her an inning.
Hoiman stood up, carefully shook the bottles to be sure that they were empty, extracted a cigarette from the pack he'd stuck into his pocket, and used my lighter again. He hefted it carefully, reluctantly putting it back on the table. Then his little black eyes swivelled to the last piece 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 dingy little 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 have got the pitch. "The only thing," I told her solemnly, "that Hoiman ever got a hammerlock on was a dollar bill!"
But Sherry wasn't listening, "Don't you just love wrestling?"