After the Ward and Gatti fight, we are sitting at a picnic table in a cubicle of winter domes. There are aged politicians who double as as boxers using virtual zorro masks and electronic antennas. Somehow, I am still an up and comer, and inside our equipment we are swinging. I am at the table and we move in a leather ballet, slow motion, pulling our punches as fruit falls, fuzzy round icicles popping soundlessly like feathers. I sleep within the rope a dope, untouched, tickled. I win in the ring and the zorro mask, where I am stronger, more tan, and announce something blue in a crystal lit microphone. The politician weeps, rising from the table, running away from the table. You give them a three point combination, and all is frozen as an ivory horn making no sound in the mellifluous drum pounding of space. Shiva Thappa ices away on crystal skates, bound for the gold.