Word: butchers
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Bobby Ussery is not a classy rider. He shifts around in the saddle, stretches too far forward, and arches too high off the horse. Fans of a bygone smoothy like Eddie Arcaro are appalled. "A real butcher on style," they say. Then they line up at the pari-mutuel windows to bet whatever horse has Ussery...
...thing is, the butcher wins-on all kinds of horses, on all kinds of tracks. "I try," he explains precisely, "to get my horse to the wire first." Fortnight ago, at New York's Aqueduct, Ussery booted home an astonishing five winners in seven mounts, followed this two days later with a triple. Last week he was a triple winner again, won seven other races, bringing his season's record on the country's toughest, most competitive track to 131, and making him undisputed top jock at the Big A. (Johnny Rotz, in second place, has only...
...When they saw what Grimm was doing one of the men gave a choked cry and stumbled back into the wall and began to vomit. Then Grimm too sprang back, flinging behind him the bloody butcher knife. 'Now you'll let white women alone, even in hell,' he said. But the man on the floor had not moved . . . From out the slashed garments about his hips and loins the pent black blood seemed to rush like a released breath . . . upon that black blast the man seemed to rise soaring into their memories forever and ever. They...
...Sachs never knew Proust, he knew several of his homosexual servants, including one who ran a house of male prostitution originally financed by the novelist. From the servants' recollections, Sachs draws a picture of "an unknown Marcel Proust of the great, terrible depths," whose sadism led him to butcher shops where he watched calves being slaughtered and who once had a rat brought to him so that he could stab it to death with a hatpin. Proust, says Sachs, was "a kind of monster child, whose mind had all the experiences of a man, and whose soul...
With his iron-grey hair, light blue eyes and dimpled chin, Syrian Strongman Amin Hafez, 42, conveys so genial a manner that it is hard to believe he is called the Butcher of Damascus. Last week he once again lived up to that name. Syria was a charnel house. In the midland city of Hama, mothers wailed over the bodies of dead sons, the famed Sultan Mosque lay in ruins, and the corpse of one rebel leader, riddled with 50 bullets, was contemptuously dumped by soldiers from an open jeep onto the sidewalk. The bloody-handed Baath (Renaissance) Party...