{"product_id":"destination-morgue-isbn-9781400032877","title":"Destination: Morgue!","description":"Dig. The Demon Dog gets down with a new book of scenes from America’s capital of   kink: Los Angeles. Fourteen pieces, some fiction, some nonfiction, all true enough   to be admissible as state’s evidence, and half of it in print for the first time.   And every one of them bearing the James Ellroy brand of mayhem, machismo, and hollow-nose   prose.  \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Here are Mexican featherweights and unsolved-murder vics, crooked cops   and a very clean D.A. Here is a profile of Hollywood’s latest celebrity perp-walker,   Robert Blake, and three new novellas featuring a demented detective with an obsession   with a Hollywood actress.  And, oh yes, just maybe the last appearance of \u003cb\u003eHush-Hush\u003c\/b\u003e sleaze-monger Danny Getchell. Here’s Ellroy himself, shining a 500-watt Mag light   into all the dark places of his life and imagination. \u003cb\u003eDestination: Morgue!\u003c\/b\u003e puts the   reader’s attention in a hammerlock and refuses to let go.“Ellroy rips into American culture like a chainsaw in an abattoir.” \u003ci\u003e—Time\u003c\/i\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“One of the great American writers of our time.” \u003ci\u003e— Los Angeles Times \u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e“Nobody in this generation matches the breadth and depth of James Ellroy’s way with noir.” \u003ci\u003e— Detroit News\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Ellroy is either our greatest obsessive writer or our most obsessive great writer.  Either way, he is turning the crime novel’s mean streets into superhighways.” \u003ci\u003e—Financial Times\u003c\/i\u003eJames Ellroy was born in Los Angeles in 1948. His L.A. Quartet novels–\u003cb\u003eThe Black Dahlia\u003c\/b\u003e, \u003cb\u003eThe Big Nowhere\u003c\/b\u003e, \u003cb\u003eL.A. Confidential\u003c\/b\u003e, and \u003cb\u003eWhite Jazz\u003c\/b\u003e–were international bestsellers. \u003cb\u003eAmerican Tabloid\u003c\/b\u003e was \u003ci\u003eTime\u003c\/i\u003e’s Novel of the Year; his memoir \u003cb\u003eMy Dark Places\u003c\/b\u003e was a \u003ci\u003eTime\u003c\/i\u003e Best Book of the Year; and a \u003ci\u003eNew York Times\u003c\/i\u003e Notable Book, and his most recent novel, \u003cb\u003eThe Cold Six Thousand\u003c\/b\u003e was a \u003ci\u003eNew York Times\u003c\/i\u003e Notable Book and a \u003ci\u003eLos Angeles Times\u003c\/i\u003e Best Book of the Year. He lives in Kansas City.Chapter 1 \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003eBalls to the Wall \u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBoxing is: \u003cbr\u003eBlood sport declawed and reregulated. Cockfights for aesthetes and wimps. \u003cbr\u003eBoxing is microcosm. Boxing baits pundits. Boxing rips writers and rags them to riff. \u003cbr\u003eBoxing taps testosterone. Boxing bangs to the balls. Boxing mauls and makes you mine meaning. \u003cbr\u003eMexican boxing is: \u003cbr\u003eBoxing distilled. Boxing stoicized. Boxing hyperbolized. \u003cbr\u003eMexican boxing is machismo magnified. Mexican boxing is bristling bravado. Mexican boxing means you die for love and live to impress and subjugate your buddies. \u003cbr\u003eVegas boxing is: \u003cbr\u003eLowlife pomp. Westminster West. Best-of-weight class as best-of-breed. \u003cbr\u003eVegas boxing is Rome revived. Gladiators divert high rollers. Imperial goons exploit muscled maxi-men and mainline their money. \u003cbr\u003eI got the word: \u003cbr\u003eErik Morales meets Marco Antonio Barrera. \u003cbr\u003eJunior featherweights. Title tiff. Vegas. \u003cbr\u003eI had to go. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003eI love boxing.\u003c\/b\u003e We go back. \u003cbr\u003eMy folks divorced in '55. My dad got me weekends. We holed up. We watched the fights. \u003cbr\u003eWe had a bubble-screen TV. We snarfed Cheez Whiz. My dad rooted on race and \"heart.\" \u003cbr\u003eHe liked white fighters best. He liked Mexicans next. He liked Negroes last. \u003cbr\u003eHeart eclipsed race. Heart mitigated race. Heart gave Mexicans White Man status. \u003cbr\u003e\"Mexican\" meant all Latins. Mexican meant some Italians. Mexican meant the Cuban Negro Kid Gavilan. \u003cbr\u003eMy dad fucked up race and geography. He was a Wasp. He hit L.A. and learned Spanish. He dug inclusiveness. He knew the White Man ruled. He knew the Brown Man craved in. \u003cbr\u003eHe wanted him in. \u003ci\u003eIf\u003c\/i\u003e he kicked ass to his specifications. \u003cbr\u003eRace. Heart. My early education. \u003cbr\u003eI lived in L.A. I watched TV fights. I watched fights live. \u003cbr\u003eThe Olympic. The Hollywood Legion Stadium. \u003cbr\u003eSmoke. Ceiling lights. Beer and crushed peanuts. \u003cbr\u003eMy dad took me. We sat with Mexicans. We watched Mexicans kick triracial ass. \u003cbr\u003eMy dad went chameleon. My dad gestured wild. My dad Mexicanized. \u003cbr\u003eHe talked to Mexican men. He slapped their backs. He translated for me. \u003cbr\u003eMale-speak. My early education. \u003cbr\u003eHeadhunter. Go to the body. Cut off the ring. \u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003ePendejo. Cojones. Maricon. \u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003eMy dad divided Mexicans. Illegal immigrants were \"wet-backs.\" \u003cbr\u003eWetbacks had heart. They swam the Rio Grande. They sought \u003ci\u003etrabajo\u003c\/i\u003e. \u003cbr\u003eThey scuffled. They worked hard. They craved White Man \u003cbr\u003estatus. \u003cbr\u003eHoodlums were \u003ci\u003ePachucos. Pachucos\u003c\/i\u003e lacked heart. \u003cbr\u003eThey oiled their hair. They overbred. They packed switchblades. \u003cbr\u003eThey shivved cops. They smoked mary jane. They disdained White Man status. \u003cbr\u003eI met two Mexican kids. Reyes and Danny. They came from T.J. \u003cbr\u003eThey saw T.J. fights. They saw the mule show. They loved Art Aragon and Lauro Salas. \u003cbr\u003eWe smoked mary jane. I was ten years old. \u003cbr\u003eI got dizzy. I punched the air like a \u003ci\u003emaricon\u003c\/i\u003e. \u003cbr\u003eMy mother died. I bunked full-time with my dad. We watched fights. We snarfed TV dinners. \u003cbr\u003e12\/5\/58: \u003cbr\u003eWelterweights. Title tiff. Don Jordan versus Virgil \"Honeybear\" Akins. \u003cbr\u003eJordan wins. Jordan's a Dominican \u003ci\u003enegrito\u003c\/i\u003e. \u003cbr\u003eHe's mulatto. My dad digs him. My dad grants him Mexican status. \u003cbr\u003eHe's psycho. He was a child hit man. He killed men at age ten. He killed thirty men in a month. \u003cbr\u003eMexicans were killers. My dad said so. My dad spoke Spanish. My dad saw the mule show. My dad knew his shit. \u003cbr\u003e12\/10\/58: \u003cbr\u003eLight heavyweights. Title tiff. Archie Moore versus Yvon Durelle. \u003cbr\u003eIt's Armageddon. Moore wins. Moore's Negro. Durelle's Quebecois. \u003cbr\u003eMy dad upgrades Moore's racial status. Moore gets Mexicanized. My dad downgrades Durelle. Durelle gets Mexicanized. \u003cbr\u003eDurelle \"eats leather.\" Durelle \"leads with his face.\" \u003cbr\u003e5\/27\/60: \u003cbr\u003eWelterweights. Title tiff. Jordan bows to Benny \"Kid\" Paret. \u003cbr\u003eParet's a Cuban Negro. My dad hates him. My dad gets his race right. \u003cbr\u003e3\/24\/62: \u003cbr\u003eWelterweights. Title tiff. Paret versus Emile Griffith. \u003cbr\u003eGriffith's Negro. Griffith's island-bred. Griffith stomps Paret. \u003cbr\u003eParet dies. \u003cbr\u003eParet trash-talked Griffith. Paret called him queer. \u003cbr\u003eSex hate. Revenge. My early education. \u003cbr\u003eI went to fights. I watched TV fights. I read fight magazines. \u003cbr\u003eI still lived in L.A. I bopped around. I dug racial stratification. \u003cbr\u003eNegroes lived south. Mexicans lived east. Whites lived everywhere. \u003cbr\u003eNegroes craved civil rights. Mexicans craved conflict and personal honor. \u003cbr\u003eMexicans grew small. Mexicans moved swift. Mexicans ran stoic and expansive. \u003cbr\u003eMexicans coveted. Mexicans aspired. Mexicans knew the White Man was El Jefe. \u003cbr\u003eMexicans hobnobbed with whites. Common tastes united. Common language flowed. \u003cbr\u003eChili con carne. \u003ci\u003eUna cerveza, por favor.\u003c\/i\u003e Hook to the liver. \u003cbr\u003eI Mexicanized. I Mexicanized with Wasp circumspection. \u003cbr\u003eI wore Sir Guy shirts. I provoked fights with little kids. I notched mixed results. \u003cbr\u003eI lacked power. I lacked skill. I lacked speed. I lacked heart. \u003cbr\u003eIt showed. My defeats were ignominious. My victories were pathetic. \u003cbr\u003eSummer '64: \u003cbr\u003eI was sixteen. I stood 6¢2?. I weighed 120. My dad said I ruled the Toilet-Paper-Weight Division. \u003cbr\u003eI challenged my pal Kenny Rudd. \u003cbr\u003eSix rounds. With gloves. Robert Burns Park. \u003cbr\u003eCornermen. Ref. Five-dollar purse. \u003cbr\u003eI had height. I had reach. Rudd had heart. Rudd had speed and power. \u003cbr\u003eRudd kicked my ass. Rudd fought barechested. I wore a Sir Guy shirt. \u003cbr\u003eMy dad got sick. He went to the hospital. He bunked with a Mexican guy. \u003cbr\u003eThey talked fights. I brought them cheese enchiladas. \u003cbr\u003eMy dad died. The Mexican guy recovered. \u003cbr\u003eI lived by myself. I watched TV fights. I hit the Olympic. \u003cbr\u003eI saw Little Red Lopez. I saw Bobby Chacon. I saw six million guys named Sanchez and Martinez. \u003cbr\u003eI sat ringside. They bled on me. I ate cut residue. \u003cbr\u003eI sat top-tier. I shared piss cups with Joses and Humbertos. They protested bum verdicts. They tossed piss cups. They doused \u003ci\u003eputo\u003c\/i\u003e officials. \u003cbr\u003eI pulled some dumb stunts. I got in trouble. I detoured and paid. \u003cbr\u003eI did county jail time. I talked fights with wicked Juans and rowdy Ramons. I fought a Mexican drag queen named Peaches. \u003cbr\u003ePeaches squeezed my knee. I popped him. I aped Benny \"Kid\" Paret. I called him a \u003ci\u003emaricon\u003c\/i\u003e. \u003cbr\u003ePeaches kicked my ass. Guards pulled him off. Triracial inmates cackled. \u003cbr\u003eI dissected my defeat. I put something together. \u003cbr\u003eMexican boxing explicates the mind-body split for white wimps worldwide.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMEXICAN BOXING IS WORKMANLIKE. Mexican boxing is inspired. \u003cbr\u003eIt's savage emphasis. It's basic boxing retuned to short range. \u003cbr\u003eYou move in. You stalk. You cut the ring off. You intimidate with forward momentum. \u003cbr\u003eYou crowd your man. You eat right-hand leads. You counter and left-hook to the body. \u003cbr\u003eYou instigate exchanges. You trade in close. \u003cbr\u003eYou take to give. You forfeit your odds for survival. You eat shots. You absorb pain. You absorb pain to exhaust your man and exploit his openings. You absorb pain to assert your bravado. \u003cbr\u003eYou clinch when desperate. You backpedal when stunned or insensate. You fight coy to avert the brink and buy moments. \u003cbr\u003eThe body shots sap wind. The momentum saps will. The absorbed pain saps brain cells. The absorbed pain builds character and fatuous ideals. \u003cbr\u003eMexican boxing is lore. \u003cbr\u003eMexican fighters chew steaks. They drink the blood and spit out the meat. \u003cbr\u003eMexican fighters slurp mescal. They gargle and swallow the worm. \u003cbr\u003eMexican fighters do roadwork at 10,000 feet. Mexican fighters train in bordellos. \u003cbr\u003eMexican boxing is memory. \u003cbr\u003eFights in bullrings. Fights at weigh-ins. Fights at victory balls. \u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003eFights\u003c\/i\u003e. \u003cbr\u003eThe Trifecta. '70-'71. Ruben Olivares and Chucho Castillo. \u003cbr\u003eThe Inglewood Forum. Sellout crowds. \u003cbr\u003eRockabye Ruben rocks. Chucho presses and bleeds. Round 3-Ruben rests recumbent. Ruben rises and rallies \u003ci\u003erapidamente\u003c\/i\u003e. \u003cbr\u003eRuben takes tiff one. Unanimous decision. The mayhem mandates tiff two. \u003cbr\u003eRuben rips. Chucho chops and chisels. Ruben launches left hooks. Chucho counters contrapuntal. \u003cbr\u003eRuben cuts. His left eye leaks at the lid. The cut calls it. It's over. Chucho-TKO 14. \u003cbr\u003eThe rubber match rocks. It's all pressure. Chucho drops Ruben. Ruben rises and rebounds. \u003cbr\u003eRuben roils. Ruben wracks the ribcage. Ruben rules the ring. Ruben reigns in the rubber. \u003cbr\u003e4\/23\/77: \u003cbr\u003eThe Forum. Nontitle tiff. Carlos Zarate and Alfonso Zamora. \u003cbr\u003eSeventy-two fights collective. Seventy-one KOs. \u003cbr\u003eRound 1 goes slow. Zarate tests Zamora. Round 2 disrupts. \u003cbr\u003eA geek jumps in the ring. Cops haul him out. Cops kick his ass. \u003cbr\u003eRound 3. Zarate zips close. Zarate zaps Zamora. \u003cbr\u003eOne knockdown. Eight count at the bell. \u003cbr\u003eRound 4. Zarate in close. Zamora's got zilch. Two-knockdown TKO. \u003cbr\u003eIt's over. It's not momentous. It's not competitive. \u003cbr\u003eZamora's dad's in the ring. Zarate's dad ditto. Zamora's dad zaps Zarate's dad. \u003cbr\u003eIt's instantaneous. It's Zarate-Zamora II. \u003cbr\u003eMemory: \u003cbr\u003eZarate. Lupe Pintor. Rafael Herrera. \u003cbr\u003eThe great Salvador Sanchez. Julio Cesar Chavez-\u003ci\u003eel grande campeón\u003c\/i\u003e. \u003cbr\u003eMexicans. White Men all. Ask my dad. \u003cbr\u003eMorales-Barrera vibed walk-through or war. \u003cbr\u003eMorales was 35 and 0. He had the WBC belt. \u003cbr\u003eHe had youth. He had speed. He had a more diversified attack. \u003cbr\u003eHe had career momentum. He had an HBO contract. He had the Next Chavez prophecy. \u003cbr\u003eBarrera was the last Next Chavez. He ate some right hands. He got de-prophesied. \u003cbr\u003eHe was 49 and 2. He had the WBO belt. Wags called it \u003cbr\u003eWBOgus. \u003cbr\u003eBarrera \u003ci\u003eowned\u003c\/i\u003e the Mexican attack. \u003cbr\u003eHe closed in. He cut off. He left-hooked. He went downstairs. \u003cbr\u003eHe \u003ci\u003ehad\u003c\/i\u003e career momentum. He \u003ci\u003ehad\u003c\/i\u003e HBO ties. Junior Jones de-momenticized him. \u003cbr\u003eRight hands. \u003cbr\u003eOne KO loss. A rematch. One loss by decision. \u003cbr\u003eBarrera learns defeat. Barrera fugues out. Barrera regroups. \u003cbr\u003eBarrera's a Mexican. Barrera's a Catholic. Barrera digs redemption. \u003cbr\u003eBarrera's a rich kid. He hails from Mexico City. \u003cbr\u003eBoxing ends someday. He knows it. He's eyeing law school. \u003cbr\u003eMorales was middle-class. He hailed from T.J. His dad was a fighter. \u003cbr\u003eHe's a soft touch. He donates Christmas dinners. He won his belt. He banked the check. He stocked T.J. schools with computers. \u003cbr\u003eThey were good kids. \"Good kids\" is fanspeak. Good kids are killers who limit their rage to the ring. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eVEGAS WAS T.J. UNCHAINED. \u003cbr\u003eI hit T.J. in '66. I got a head job. I saw the mule show. \u003cbr\u003eT.J. was scary. \u003cbr\u003eI hit Vegas in 2000. Vegas was worse. \u003cbr\u003eI stayed at the Bellagio. I heard it had \"class.\" I heard right and wrong. \u003cbr\u003eIt featured an art gallery. It featured silent slot machines. It featured stretch limos. \u003cbr\u003eLicense plates: Cezanne\/Matisse\/Picasso. \u003cbr\u003eMy suite was big. My suite had a church directory. My suite had cable fuck films. \u003cbr\u003eI settled in. I walked the Strip. I misjudged distances. \u003cbr\u003eHotel facades streeeetched. \u003cbr\u003eMedieval moats. Paris skylines. Mock Manhattans. \u003cbr\u003eStreet traffic crawled. Foot traffic gawked. \u003cbr\u003eFolks carried kiddies and cocktails. Folks carried slot-machine cups. \u003cbr\u003eI grabbed a cab. The cabbie was psycho. The cabbie vibed Klan. \u003cbr\u003eHe picked his nose. He picked his teeth. He slurped beer in a McDonald's cup. \u003cbr\u003eHe talked fights. \u003cbr\u003eHe liked Morales. Barrera was stale bread. J. C. Chavez was a punk. He lost to Frankie \"the Surgeon\" Randall. He trashed his suite at the MGM Grand. \u003cbr\u003eHe talked Mexican fights. \u003cbr\u003eThe cholos had heart. The cholos fought dirty. The cholos fucked goats. \u003cbr\u003eHe talked Vegas fights. \u003cbr\u003eMorales-Barrera was small. Hipster stuff. Rap stars and movie shitbirds verboten. \u003cbr\u003eBig fights rocked Vegas. Big fights flew on big money. \u003cbr\u003eSite fees. Pay-per-view. Casino perks. High rollers lured in to lose. \u003cbr\u003eBig fights drew big names. Ringside recognition. \u003cbr\u003eBig fights meant heavyweights. Big fights meant Tyson and bad juju. Big fights meant Oscar de la Hoya. \u003cbr\u003eOscar was pretty. Oscar bruised pretty. Oscar magnetized chicks. \u003cbr\u003eHe ain't a real Mexican. You can't be real and come from L.A. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI FOUND a Mexican restaurant. It vibed L.A. \u003cbr\u003eI ate a Mexican dinner. I schmoozed a Mexican waiter. He came from L.A. \u003cbr\u003eWe talked fights. \u003cbr\u003eHe liked Morales. Barrera was shot. \u003cbr\u003eHis wife liked Oscar. His daughter \u003ci\u003eloved\u003c\/i\u003e Oscar. He thought Oscar was queer. \u003cbr\u003eI walked to the Bellagio. A waiter brought coffee up. \u003cbr\u003eHe was Mexican. He came from L.A. \u003cbr\u003eWe talked fights. \u003cbr\u003eHe liked Morales. Barrera was through. \u003cbr\u003eHis wife liked Oscar. He didn't get the allure. \u003cbr\u003eThe waiter split. I dug my view. \u003cbr\u003eAnt swarms. Streeeetch facades. Seduction signs. \u003cbr\u003eCaesars. The Mirage. Gay white tigers. \u003cbr\u003eThe swarms vibed migration. Peons with cups. Supplicants hot for cash and diversion. \u003cbr\u003eI felt like El Jefe. Call me Batista. Call me Juan Perón. \u003cbr\u003eI viewed my Third World. I dispensed benedictions. I scrutinized and exploited small men. \u003cbr\u003eSanctioning bodies ruled boxing. \u003ci\u003ePuto\u003c\/i\u003e patriarchs reigned. \u003cbr\u003eThe IBF got indicted. The WBC held in. A wag called it \"World of Bandits and Charlatans.\" \u003cbr\u003eThe WBA. The IBA. The WBOgus. \u003cbr\u003eThe I's meant \"International.\" The W's meant \"World.\" It stressed dominion and shared thought. \u003cbr\u003eOfficial judges judge fights. State commissions appoint them. \u003cbr\u003eSanctioning bodies court them. Sanctioning bodies corrupt them. Sanctioning bodies stress shared thought. \u003cbr\u003eFractured titles. Multi-championships. Two I's\/three W's. \u003cbr\u003eTitles mean money. Titles drive a fighter's momentum. \u003cbr\u003eJudges judge off it. Judges vote what's perceived best for boxing. Judges know the formal rules. Judges know subtext. Judges enforce consensus thinking. \u003cbr\u003eNot all judges. Not most judges. Some judges in key fights. \u003cbr\u003eBribery. \u003cbr\u003eImplicit. Covert. Unindictable. \u003cbr\u003eThe migration continued. The light show blipped on. \u003cbr\u003eI fucked with the TV. I hit HBO. \u003cbr\u003eWags called it Home Breast Office. I hit breasts and an end-title crawl. I hit a \u003ci\u003eBoxing After Dark\u003c\/i\u003e teaser. \u003cbr\u003eTwo days hence: \u003cbr\u003eMorales-Barrera. \u003ci\u003eSangre\u003c\/i\u003e. The Holy War. \u003cbr\u003eBAD had it. BAD \u003ci\u003eshould\u003c\/i\u003e have it. BAD \u003ci\u003eknew\u003c\/i\u003e. \u003cbr\u003eBAD was the best boxing show in TV history. BAD broadcast great fights. BAD broadcast bravura. \u003cbr\u003eGreat blow-by-blow. Jim Lampley in tight. Pro scoop and malapropisms via Roy Jones and George Foreman. Larry Merchant on meaning. \u003cbr\u003eBad Boy Barrera top-lined BAD card #1. He KO'd Kennedy McKinney. \u003cbr\u003eA fierce fight. A tuff tiff. A proud prophecy. \u003cbr\u003eI went to bed. I slept late. A waiter brought coffee up. \u003cbr\u003eHe was Mexican. He came from Oregon. \u003cbr\u003eWe talked fights. \u003cbr\u003eHe liked Morales. Barrera was fucked. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003eThe Mandalay Bay: \u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/b\u003eSlot-Machine Acres. Blackjack Estates. Keno Kountry forever. \u003cbr\u003eI walked through it. I got lost. I gagged on smoke. I smelled spilled cocktails. \u003cbr\u003eI rerouted. I trekked on. \u003cbr\u003eCard-Table Terrace. Roulette Rendezvous. Blow-Your-Mort-gage Mesa. \u003cbr\u003eI hit a corridor. I saw directional balloons. \u003cbr\u003eTricolor. Mexican. Red, green, and white. \u003cbr\u003eI followed them. I hit the press gig. \u003cbr\u003eDais. Lectern. Steam tables. Buffet in gear. \u003cbr\u003eI mingled. I saw Wayne \"Pocket Rocket\" McCullough. Morales decisioned him. I saw Richie Sandoval. Gaby Canizales KO'd him. \u003cbr\u003eHe got hurt. He quit boxing. He went into boxing PR. \u003cbr\u003eI saw Latin reporters. I saw Latin cornermen. I saw some Anglo press. \u003cbr\u003eThe room chowed down. The food was bad. All starch and grease. \u003cbr\u003eI sipped coffee. I listened. I bootjacked conversations. \u003cbr\u003eMale experts dueled. Male experts interrupted. Male experts riffed lore. \u003cbr\u003eI was there. I saw it. Dig \u003ci\u003emy\u003c\/i\u003e perception. \u003cbr\u003eThe honchos hit the dais. \u003cbr\u003eLou Di Bella. Mr. HBO. State commissioners. \u003cbr\u003eMorales. Barrera. Promoter Bob Arum. \u003cbr\u003eMorales looked calm. Barrera looked drained. \u003cbr\u003eWeight.  Stabilize. Walk at 135. Make 122 by tomorrow.","brand":"Vintage","offers":[{"title":"Default Title","offer_id":46300081586405,"sku":"NP9781400032877","price":16.0,"currency_code":"USD","in_stock":false}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/1842\/7735\/files\/9781400032877.jpg?v=1767725036","url":"https:\/\/k12savings.com\/products\/destination-morgue-isbn-9781400032877","provider":"K12savings","version":"1.0","type":"link"}