Exacting Clam 23 had been a paperweight for years when, at the age of twenty-three, he finally bested a local zine and earned a title fight against the formidable literary journal The Physical World. Known for his high-minded essays, award-winning poetry and a mean right coverhook, World was feared throughout the literary journal boxing world—especially after a recent bout with the journal Sing the Following, during which World had hit Sing with a vicious pagemaker in the first round that had dislodged a staple and caused permanent damage to his spine.

Clam had been self-trained up until that point, but when the title fight was set he walked downtown to pay a visit to the esteemed journal boxing trainer A Secret Ancient Knowledge. Clam stepped into the journal’s gym and spotted Knowledge in the far corner, holding a heavy bag while a collection of poetry jabbed lightly at it.

“Excuse me?” Clam began. “My name is Exacting Clam Twenty-three, and I’ve got an upcoming fight with—”

“I know exactly who you are,” said Knowledge. “You’re that rhinestone manifesto who’s gonna get his ass kicked by The Physical World.”

“I’m sorry?” said Clam.

“Look,” said the journal. “I don’t mean to be rude. I wish you all the luck—I do.”

“I don’t need luck,” said Clam. “I need help.”

“Got that right,” said Knowledge, and the poetry book smirked.

Clam crossed his pages. “You don’t think The Physical World can be beat?”

“Oh, he can be beat,” said Knowledge. “Just not by you.”

“No?” said Clam.

“You don’t want it badly enough,” said Knowledge. “I’ve seen you out there. You’ve got some talent, sure. But you lack page discipline.”

“Look, I just beat the undefeated Scrawled Angry Polemics—”

“A zine!” coughed Knowledge. “A strong wind would blow over that polemic.”

“Mr. Knowledge?” Clam took a step towards him. “I’m standing here asking for your help. I’ll do whatever it takes.”

Knowledge looked over at him.

“Please,” said Clam.

They started training the next day. Clam already considered himself to be in fighting shape, but Knowledge raised the bar; he put the contender on a daily regimen that included an eight-mile run, a hundred foldups, two hundred “jumping journals,” a ten-minute coverplank and thirty minutes of shadowbooking—not to mention spars with every journal in town. Clam beat some easily, but others gave him a tough time. During his spar with Post Script, for example, the annual hit Clam with an upperbook that laid him out on the canvas.

“Is that it?” Knowledge shouted at him as he tried to sit up. “You done?”

Clam collected himself and struggled to his feet. “I’m just getting started,” he pronounced.

Clam felt ready for anything when he stepped into the ring to face The Physical World two weeks later. But then he saw World trotting out of the tunnel in a dark red gown, his title in all caps and his cover chiseled. Clam leaned over to Knowledge and hissed, “He’s huge!”

“So what?” said Knowledge. “The harder they fall, you know?”

Clam tried to calm his nerves as the oversized book climbed through the ropes and the referee brought the two journals together. When the first round bell rang, though, World threw a quick copyright-cross that connected squarely with Clam’s title page. Clam sucked in his breath and his vision skipped for a second—he’d never been punched that hard before. Before he could get his bearings, World threw a one-two coverhook combination that caught Clam in the “Home, Dubbed.”

“Gloves up, gloves up!” shouted Knowledge from the corner. But the punches came too quickly; World connected first with “Henry Wessells’s Another Green World,” and then with “The Death of the Shoemaker: A Traditional Folktale from the Devilstrip Cycle of the Akronite People of North-east Ohio.” “Punnet of Puns!” shouted Knowledge from the corner. “Horse in the dark, Clam!”

Clam made it through the first round, but World knocked him down in the second. At the end of that round, A Secret Ancient Knowledge sat him down on the stool and said, “So. You’re in a war—a disease of cloudy subtleties. Are you up for it, or are you done?”

Exacting Clam 23 took the deepest breath he could. “I’m just getting started,” he said. Then the bell rang and Clam rose from his stool.

Clam stood his ground through the third, and towards the end of that round he noticed that World’s pages were slowing down—he was starting to get tired. World was even more sluggish in the fourth. Clam kept his gloves up through the first minute of that round, until World threw a lethargic right hook. Clam sidestepped it and hit World directly in the ISBN; when World doubled over, Clam hit him straight in the title.

“That’s it—go at ‘im!” shouted Knowledge.

Clam pushed World back against the ropes and kept swinging, delivering a storm of coverhooks and crosses and upperbooks, one after the other, until finally words—his words, World’s words, who could tell?—started spilling onto the canvas. Clam didn’t stop—he threw a jab to the byline and then a pagemaker to the index. World wobbled. Before he could regain his balance, Clam hit him in the contents with everything he had left. World fell straight forward onto his front cover; Clam stood over him, flexing and daring him to get back up. The referee’s count seemed to take forever. When he finally reached ten, Clam fell to the canvas and raised his gloves in victory.