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-All-Mighty, 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.