Stories (2011) (3 page)

The outside. It was strange how much he and Big George used
that term. The outside. As if they were enclosed in some small bubble-like
cosmos that perched on the edge of the world they had known; a cosmos invisible
to the outsiders, a spectral place with new mathematics and nebulous laws of
mind and physics.

Maybe he was in hell. Perhaps he had been wiped out on the
highway and had gone to the dark place. Just maybe his memory of how he had
arrived here was a false dream inspired by demonic powers. The whole thing
about him taking a wrong turn through Big Thicket country and having his truck
break down just outside of Morganstown was an illusion, and stepping onto the
Main
Street
of Morganstown, population 66, was his crossing the River Styx and
landing smack dab in the middle of a hell designed for good old boys.

God, had it been six months ago?

He had been on his way to visit his mother in Woodville, and
he had taken a shortcut through the Thicket. Or so he thought. But he soon
realized that he had looked at the map wrong. The shortcut listed on the paper
was not the one he had taken. He had mistaken that road for the one he wanted.
This one had not been marked. And then he had reached Morganstown and his truck
had broken down. He had been forced into six months hard labor alongside
George, the champion pit fighter, and now the moment for which he had been
groomed had arrived.

They were bringing the terriers out now. One, the champion,
was named Old Codger He was getting on in years. He had won many a pit fight.
Tonight, win or lose, this would be his last battle. The other dog, Muncher,
was young and inexperienced, but he was strong and eager for blood.

A ramp was lowered into the pit. Preacher and two men, the
owners of the dogs, went down into the pit with Codger and Muncher. When they
reached the bottom a dozen bright spotlights were thrown on them. They seemed
to wade through the light.

The bleachers arranged about the pit began to fill. People
mumbled and passed popcorn. Bets were placed and a little, fat man wearing a
bowler hat copied them down in a note pad as fast as they were shouted. The
ramp was removed.

In the pit, the men took hold of their dogs by the scruff of
the neck and removed their collars. They turned the dogs so they were facing
the walls of the pit and could not see one another. The terriers were about six
feet apart, butts facing.

Preacher said, "A living dog is better than a dead
lion."

Harry wasn't sure what that had to do with anything.

"Ready yourselves," Preacher said.
"Gentlemen, face your dogs."

The owners slapped their dogs across the muzzle and whirled
them to face one another. They immediately began to leap and strain at their
masters' grips.

"Gentlemen, release your dogs."

The dogs did not bark. For some reason, that was what Harry
noted the most. They did not even growl. They were quick little engines of
silence.

Their first lunge was a miss and they snapped air. But the
second time they hit head on with the impact of .45 slugs. Codger was knocked
on his back and Muncher dove for his throat. But the experienced dog popped up
its head and grabbed Muncher by the nose. Codger's teeth met through Muncher's
flesh.

Bets were called from the bleachers.

The little man in the bowler was writing furiously.

Muncher, the challenger, was dragging Codger, the champion,
around the pit, trying to make the old dog let go of his nose. Finally, by
shaking his head violently and relinquishing a hunk of his muzzle, he
succeeded.

Codger rolled to his feet and jumped Muncher. Muncher turned
his head just out of the path of Codger's jaws. The older dog's teeth snapped
together like a spring4oaded bear trap, saliva popped out of his mouth in a
fine spray.

Muncher grabbed Codger by the right ear. The grip was strong
and Codger was shook like a used condom about to be fled and tossed. Muncher
bit the champ's ear completely off.

Harry felt sick. He thought he was going to throw up. He saw
that Big George was looking at him. "You think this is bad,
motherfucker," George said, "this ain't nothing but a cake walk. Wait
fill I get you in that pit."

"You sure run hot and cold, don't you?" Harry
said.

"Nothing personal," George said sharply and turned
back to look at the fight in the pit.

Nothing personal, Harry thought. God, what could be more
personal? Just yesterday, as they trained, jogged along together, a pickup
loaded with gun bearing crazies driving alongside of them, he had felt close to
George. They had shared many personal things these six months, and he knew that
George liked him.

But when it came to the pit, George was a different man. The
concept of friendship became alien to him. When Harry had tried to talk to him
about it yesterday, he had said much the same thing. "Ain't nothing
personal, Harry my man, but when we get in that pit don't look to me for nothing
besides pain, cause I got plenty of that to give you, a lifetime of it, and
I'll just keep it coming."

Down in the pit Codger screamed. It could be described no
other way. Muncher had him on his back and was biting him on the belly. Codger
was trying to double forward and get hold of Muncher's head, but his tired jaws
kept slipping off of the sweaty neck fur. Blood was starting to pump out of
Codger's belly.

"Bite him, boy," someone yelled from the
bleachers, "tear his ass up son.

Harry noted that every man, woman and child was leaning
forward in their seat, straining for a view. Their faces full of lust, like
lovers approaching vicious climax. For a few moments they were in that pit and
they were the dogs.

Vicarious thrills without the pain.

Codger's leg began to flap.

"Kill him! Kill him!" the crowd began to chant.

Codger had quit moving. Muncher was burrowing his muzzle
deeper into the old dog's guts. Preacher called for a pickup. Muncher's owner
pried the dog's jaws loose of Codger's guts. Muncher's muzzle looked as if it
had been dipped in red ink.

"This sonofabitch is still alive," Muncher's owner
said to Codger.

Codger's owner walked over to the dog and said, "You
little fucker!" He pulled a Saturday Night Special from his coat pocket
and shot Codger twice in the head.

Codger didn't even kick. He just evacuated his bowels right
there.

Muncher came over and sniffed Codger's corpse, then, lifting
his leg, he took a leak on the dead dog's head. The stream of piss was bright
red.

* * *

The ramp was lowered. The dead dog was dragged out and
tossed behind the bleachers. Muncher walked up the ramp beside his owner. The
little dog strutted like he had just been crowned King of Creation. Codger's
owner walked out last.

He was not a happy man. Preacher stayed in the pit. A big
man known as Sheriff Jimmy went down the ramp to join him. Sheriff Jimmy had a
big pistol on his hip and a toy badge on his chest. The badge looked like the
sort of thing that had come in a plastic bag with a capgun and whistle. But it
was his sign of office and his word was iron.

A man next to Harry prodded him with the barrel of a
shotgun. Walking close behind George, Harry went down the ramp and into the
pit. The man with the shotgun went back up. In the bleachers the betting had
started again, the little, fat man with the bowler was busy.

Preacher's rattlesnake was still lying serenely about his
neck, and the little copperhead had been placed in Preacher's coat pocket. It
poked its head out from time to time and looked around.

Harry glanced up. The heads and skulls on the poles-in spite
of the fact they were all eyeless, and due to the strong light nothing but
bulbous shapes on shafts-seemed to look down, taking as much amusement in the
situation as the crowd on the bleachers.

Preacher had his Bible out again. He was reading a verse.
"...when thou walkest through the fire, thou shalt not be burned; neither
shall the flame kindle upon thee..."

Harry had no idea what that or the snake had to do with
anything. Certainly he could not see the relationship with the pit. These
people's minds seemed to click and grind to a different set of internal gears
than those on the outside.

The reality of the situation settled on Harry like a heavy,
woolen coat. He was about to kill or be killed, right here in this dog-smelling
pit, and there was nothing he could do that would change that.

He thought perhaps his life should flash before his eyes or
something, but it did not. Maybe he should try to think of something wonderful,
a last fine thought of what used to be. First he summoned up the image of his
wife. That did nothing for him. Though his wife had once been pretty and
bright, he could not remember her that way. The image that came to mind was
quite different. A dumpy, lazy woman with constant back pains and her hair
pulled up into an eternal topknot of greasy, brown hair. There was never a
smile on her face or a word of encouragement for him. He always felt that she
expected him to entertain her and that he was not doing a very good job of it.
There was not even a moment of sexual ecstasy that he could recall. After their
daughter had been born she had given up screwing as a wasted exercise. Why
waste energy on sex when she could spend it complaining.

He flipped his mental card file to his daughter. What he saw
was an ugly, potato-nosed girl of twelve. She had no personality. Her mother
was Miss Congeniality compared to hen Potato Nose spent all of her time pining
over thin, blond heartthrobs on television. It wasn't bad enough that they
glared at Harry via the tube, they were also pinned to her walls and hiding in
magazines she had cast throughout the house.

These were the last thoughts of a man about to face death?

There was just nothing there.

His job had sucked. His wife hadn't.

He clutched at straws. There had been Melva, a fine looking
little cheerleader from high school. She had had the brain of a dried
black-eyed pea, but God-AllMighty, did she know how to hide a weenie. And there
had always been that strange smell about her, like bananas. It was especially
strong about her thatch, which was thick enough for a bald eagle to nest in.

But thinking about her didn't provide much pleasure either.
She had gotten hit by a drunk in a Mack truck while parked offside of a dark road
with that Pulver boy.

Damn that Pulver. At least he had died in ecstasy. Had never
known what hit him.

When that Mack went up his ass he probably thought for a
split second he was having the greatest orgasm of his life.

Damn that Melva. What had she seen in Pulver anyway?

He was skinny and stupid and had a face like a peanut
pattie.

God, he was beat at every turn. Frustrated at every corner.
No good thoughts or beautiful visions before the moment of truth. Only
blackness, a life of dull, planned movements as consistent and boring as a
bran-conscious geriatric's bowel movement. For a moment he thought he might
cry.

Sheriff Jimmy took out his revolver. Unlike the badge it was
not a toy. "Find your corner, boys."

George turned and strode to one side of the pit, took off
his shirt and leaned against the wall. His body shined like wet licorice in the
spotlights.

After a moment, Harry made his legs work. He walked to a
place opposite George and took off his shirt. He could feel the months of hard
work rippling beneath his flesh. His mind was suddenly blank. There wasn't even
a god he believed in.

No one to pray to. Nothing to do but the inevitable.

Sheriff Jimmy walked to the middle of the pit. He yelled out
for the crowd to shut up.

Silence reigned.

"In this corner," he said, waving the revolver at
Harry, "we have Harry Joe Stinton, family man and pretty good feller for
an outsider. He's six two and weighs two hundred and thirty-eight pounds, give
or take a pound since my bathroom scales ain't exactly on the money. A cheer
went up.

"Over here," Sheriff Jimmy said, waving the
revolver at George, "standing six four tall and weighing two hundred and
forty-two pounds, we got the nigger, present champion of this here sport."

No one cheered. Someone made a loud sound with his mouth
that sounded like a fart, the greasy kind that goes on and on and on.

George appeared unfazed. He looked like a statue. He knew
who he was and what he was. The Champion Of The Pit.

"First off," Sheriff Jimmy said, "you boys
come forward and show your hands."

Harry and George walked to the center of the pit, held out
their hands, fingers spread wide apart, so that the crowd could see that they
were empty.

"Turn and walk to your corners and don't turn
around," Sheriff Jimmy said.

George and Harry did as they were told. Sheriff Jimmy
followed Harry and put an arm around his shoulders. "I got four hogs
riding on you," he said. "And I'll tell you what, you beat the nigger
and I'll do you a favor. Elvira, who works over at the cafe has already agreed.
You win and you can have her. How's that sound?"

Harry was too numb with the insanity of it all to answer.
Sheriff Jimmy was offering him a piece of ass if he won, as if dus would be
greater incentive than coming out of the pit alive. With this bunch there was
just no way to anticipate what might come next. Nothing was static.

"She can do more tricks with a six inch dick than a
monkey can with a hundred foot of grapevine, boy. When the going gets rough in
there, you remember that.

Okay?"

Harry didn't answer. He just looked at the pit wall.

"You ain't gonna get nowhere in life being sullen like
that," Sheriff Jimmy said. "Now, you go get him and plow a rut in his
black ass.

Sheriff Jimmy grabbed Harry by the shoulders and whirled him
around, slapped him hard across the face in the same way the dogs had been
slapped. George had been done the same way by the preacher. Now George and
Harry were facing one another.