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47 Loser Take All On some Friday night when your feet feel heavy and your balls feel heavy, when your head is a cloud and your eyes are two halves of a squeezed lemon; on a night anyone working the numbers would bury and the crowd wants red meat, you lumber out from your corner. The cut man screams to stick and move; neck down, gut rolled, you swat with roundhouses that wouldn’t daze a butterfly. Another old heavyweight who flushed millions on ponies, broads and bad advice, thirsty for one more good dance against some punk on his toes, taunting. ...

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