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 eye-less, 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 thirtyeight 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.