Don King worked a sentence like a man hunched over a pinball machine.
For him, words were not discrete links that eventually coalesced into sentences and thoughts.
With King, the mother tongue was a hoop-de-doo of polysyllabics that went crashing and caroming against one another, sprockety boing and lights flashing, all in the service of his latest (and greatest) deal.
Like that player poised over the pinball game, King had a way of humping the great Anglo language machine, of imparting a little spin here, a little emphasis there. He was a unique listening experience.
A word like "assiduous," for instance, would loll on his tongue . . . as-sidddd-u-usss . . . as if it were the last peppermint patty in these continental United States. Other words went rocketing off like tin cans shooting down a treacherous rapids.
The effect of this veritable--or as King himself might put it, this verrrr-i-ta-blllle cascade and pro-fuuuuu-sion of words-- was to keep a listener transfixed.
King himself liked the sound of these mildly mutated