CWiefrCckfighter英文原版.docVIP

What matters is not the idea a man holds, but the depth at which he holds it. —Ezra Pound 1 First, I closed the windows and bolted the flimsy aluminum door. Then I flicked on the overhead light and snapped the Venetian blinds shut. Without the cross ventilation, it was stifling inside the trailer. Outside, in the florida sunlight, the temperature was in the high eighties, but inside, now that the door and the windows were locked, it must have been a hundred degrees. I wiped the sweat away from my streaming face and neck with a dishcloth, dried my hands, and tossed the cloth on the floor. After moving Sandspurs traveling coop onto the couch, I checked the items on the table one more time. Leather thong. Cotton. Razor blade. Bowl of lukewarm soapy water. Pan of rubbing alcohol. Liquid lead ballpoint pencil. Sponge. All in order. I lifted the lid of the coop, brought Sandspur out with both hands, turned the cocks head away from me, and then held him firmly with my left hand under his breast. I looped the noose of leather over his dangling yellow feet, slipped it tight above his sawed off spur stumps, and made a couple of turns to hold it snug. Holding the chicken with both hands again, I lowered him between my legs and squeezed my knees together tight enough to hold him so he couldnt move his wings. Sandspur didnt like it. He hit back with both feet four times, making thumping sounds against the plastic couch, but he couldnt get away. I pinched off a generous wad of cotton between my left thumb and forefinger and clamped my fingers over his lemon-yellow beak. There was just enough of a downward curve to his short beak so he couldnt jerk his head out of my fingers. He couldnt possibly hurt himself, as long as the cotton didnt slip. Impatient knuckles rapped on the door. Dody again. A vein throbbed in my temple. At that moment I would have given anything to be able to curse. How long you gonna be, Frank? Dodys petulant voice shrilled through the door. I gotta go to the b