Pulp Fiction, 1938 · page 140 of 148
10 Short Novels Magazine — page 140: what you’re looking at
What you’re looking at
# Page 138: Ten Short Novels Magazine This is an interior story page from a pulp magazine, featuring prose text in two columns with an accompanying illustration. The visible text describes a boxing match scene involving a character named Fletch, who appears to be a fighter preparing for or engaged in combat. The narrative mentions other characters including Pop Skeggs, Trina, and references to McCafferty and Gahagan. The illustration shows a muscular boxer in fighting stance. The text discusses Fletch's mental state during the match and his struggles with unwanted thoughts that threaten his focus and performance. The page is numbered 138 and continues from a previous page.
📄 Transcribed text from this page (OCR, searchable)
Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.
138 % * % Ten Short Novels Magazine (Continued from page 136) in a green robe, was already climbing the platform steps. Fletch grinned. To- night he was the doctor. It’d be a quick operation, with plenty of anesthetic. He’d pay back a lot of lumps. And he wouldn’t short Packy on the measure. Fletch got a thunderous greeting, a Dempsey ovation. In the ring he glided to his corner like a prowling tiger. He was primed for a savage go. He felt mar- velously primitive. He had boundless faith in the storehouse of devastating power that was his lean body. Not a trace of nerves threatened his defense. From a ringside seat, Trina waved her handker- chief. She, too, had faith in this reborn fighting man. He raised his gloved hand and nodded confidently. A scorching tirade burst from Pop Skeggs. Fletch whirled. He choked off an impulse to yell and stiffened in the clutch of helpless rage. McCafferty had beat them to the punch. Gahagan wasn’t in the ring. The scrambled-faced man in the oppo- site corner was a decoy, Gahagan’s leer- ing, punch-tottery second. The green robe and trousers hoisted to the knees had turned the trick. Fletch laughed and made a careless gesture. Nothing to get in a lather about. He was honed to a fighting edge that couldn’t be dulled. Yet already his solar plexus was stirring to life like a poked hornets’ nest. “We’re going back to the dressing doom!” yelled Pop. But, of course, they couldn’t—not with fifteen thousand wild- eyed fans stamping’ and whistling for action. “Shadow box!” Pop exclaimed. “Keep that sweat rolling.” Fletch went to work. Furiously he hurled himself into combat with the to- bacco-fogged atmosphere. State of mind; that was the thing. Just hold the attitude and keep the system from cooling. But unwanted thoughts crowded in. The bet and the contract and the prospect of be- ing saddled by a crook for the rich years of his. box-fight career. Violently he shook his head. Wrong tack that time. Those thoughts would steer him for the rocks, would sink him. He imagined he was the world’s champ engaged in a charity exhibition. His im- agination would work only one way— against him. Pop tried a machine-gun (es xe Wi q ky ‘ =e * i ea y = NS \ SA \ SS == ak SST <a m= a a a SSS a —— re ae, . > om — e aie” a ee Se es " ~ S e — Sets - SEE pot? == fw“, “a et a {1 ce ae, +L ST GN *e . barrage of trivialities—anything to 0c- . cupy Fietch’s mind. But already that Gomichboo 2G,