They marched into the arena then to face the champion of Sandiki.

Who had been champion for eleven years, since he was twenty-four. He was very graceful and wide and stood six feet in height, only half a foot less than Fezzik.

Fezzik didn’t stand a chance.

He was too clumsy; he kept falling down or getting his holds on backward so they weren’t holds at all. The champion of Sandiki toyed with him. Fezzik kept getting thrown down or falling down or tumbling down or stumbling down. He always got up and tried again, but the champion of Sandiki was much too fast for him, and too clever, and much, much too experienced. The crowd laughed and ate baklava and enjoyed the whole spectacle.

Until Fezzik got his arms around the champion of Sandiki.

The crowd grew very quiet then.

Fezzik lifted him up.

No noise.

Fezzik squeezed.

And squeezed.

“That’s enough now,” Fezzik’s father said.

Fezzik laid the other man down. “Thank you,” he said. “You are a wonderful fighter and I was lucky.”

The ex-champion of Sandiki kind of grunted.

“Raise your hands, you’re the winner,” his mother reminded.

Fezzik stood there in the middle of the ring with his hands raised.

Chapter 4