* * * * *
The first thing that I noticed when I entered was the steel, chain link cage that sat in the middle of the tent. Roughly twenty by twenty feet square, it towered up over twelve feet, capped with a roof also made of chain link. A cage door for entrance and exit was on one side. In the rear of the cage, there was a hinged, circular wooden panel, roughly two feet in height, located in the bottom corner. A large tin tube was attached to the back of the panel and ran up to the side of the tent, then outside. The cage itself sat on a wooden platform, a couple of feet high. Around the platform, in a semicircle, there were placed aluminum bleachers, ten to twelve rows to a section. Off to one side of the cage was a small table with a large timer set on it, sort of like the type you saw at a high school basketball game to count down the minutes in a quarter.
Above all of this was a large, somewhat ragged banner with block letters written on it that stated, “Welcome To The Lair of Xerxes, The Persian Hell Beast!"
All I could think of was that it must be a bull dyke wrestling match.
The tent was almost full, and I barely found a place to sit in one of the back rows. In all there were around five hundred souls gathered round the cage. Most of the men were farmer or mill workers, but as I cast my gaze around, I spotted a few that could have passed for a lawyer or doctor. Slumming I guess.
There were a few women in the crowd, including one that was sitting in front of me. She was a plump, peroxide blond and was hanging on to the arm of a skinny little man wearing a cowboy hat. She was yapping up a storm in the little guy’s ear, and he just sat there and listened, staring at the floor, probably wishing he’d taken his date to a movie where she’d have had to keep her mouth shut.
The air was thick with smoke and the smell of beer and cheap whiskey. While the temperature outside had been close to forty, the air inside was increasingly getting warmer and warmer. People were doffing their coats, and more than a few had begun to perspire. We sat there for about ten minutes, and then natives began to get a little restless. More than a few started hoot’en and holler’en and some even began to pound their feet on the bleachers. I just sat back and watched, becoming increasingly puzzled as to what I’d paid twenty bucks to see.
Then from the back of the tent, a flap opened and in walked three men. The first was a painfully thin elderly black man with a fringe of gray hair. He took a position outside the cage, next to the circular wooden panel. The second man was a nondescript fellow, wearing a parka and slacks, carrying a pad of paper and a pen. He took station next to the clock. The third man, well—the third man could have given Ernie Twillfigger a run for his money in the looks department.
He was a short, squat guy, just a little over five feet tall. He was in his forties, and his hair was dark and greased back. He had a broad nose and close-set eyes. A five o’clock shadow was evident on his ponderous jowls. Between his thick, pasty, blubbery lips, a cheap half-smoked cigar was wedged. The tobacco spittle was dripping down the corner of his chin. He was dressed in a loud, yellow and green-checkered sports coat, with a blue shirt with open collar. You could see the stain of his sweat making a dark crescent around his armpits. His slacks were black and he wore a pair of scuffed up brown and white oxford shoes with white socks. He strode up to the front of the cage and began to speak.
A hush fell over the crowd.
“We all know why we’re here,” he started, “sporting and wagering men we all are. For three nights, the mighty Xerxes has taken all comers, and for three nights he has vanquished them all.”
A few in the crowd hooted, and a few yelled “Get on with it!”
The man took the cigar out of his mouth and stared about the room, as if daring anyone to say anything further. Quiet returned.
“You know the rules, you know the offer,” he bellowed. “2,000 bucks to any man who can survive in the cage against Xerxes for fifteen minutes. I repeat, any man who can merely stay in this cage with Xerxes and not ask to be let out, will be rewarded with 2,000 dollars in addition to having his bid money returned to him.”
Bid money? What in the hell did he mean by that?
“That’s right, 2,000 smackers, and you don’t even have to win, only survive. So, who will pay for the chance to wage war with Xerxes, who is man enough to take on the Persian Hell Beast? The bidding starts at one hundred dollars.”
So that’s it, I thought, they got to bid for the chance to take on this Xerxes. Well, it ain’t naked women, but it might be fun after all.
The bidding began, and soon the price was up to 400 bucks. For a moment there it looked like a strapping young buck of the county had won, when a voice in the back of one of the bleachers roared out “500 dollars, and I dare any man to raise it!”
I saw the young man who had just bid turn his head up towards in apparent annoyance, but as soon as he saw who had just spoken, he turned pale, gulped and sat down. I turned and looked at the man who had made the last bid. He had just stood up.
He was the biggest man I had ever seen in my life.
The people began to murmur around me.
“Dickle Doug!” exclaimed the man next to me.
“Dickle Doug who?” I asked him.
“That’s 'Dickle Doug' Watford, the meanest man in the county. No one fucks with Dickle Doug!”
Indeed, one look could tell you why. He was around six feet, eight inches tall and must have weighed over 400 pounds, most of it muscle. His jet-black hair was wire brush thick and was sticking out from underneath the ball cap he was wearing. His face was covered with a full bushy beard. He had piercing black pig-like eyes that were surrounded by thick gristle and were topped by one huge single eyebrow that ran across his forehead. He was wearing a red flannel shirt, bib overalls and what looked like a pair of size thirteen boots, which looked curiously dainty compared to the rest of him.
The Ringmaster—for lack of a better term—looked up at this mountain man, took his measure for a moment, and then nonchalantly asked if there were any other bidders. There weren’t. He turned to the black man standing by the gate.
“Better get the largest set we got, Pete.” he yelled, then turned and waved for Dickle Doug to come down.
Dickle Doug made his way down to the front, reached in his pocket and handed the Ringmaster money. The Ringmaster counted it, nodded and then went to the side of the cage and opened it. He waited for Dickle Doug to enter and followed him in. A few minutes later, Pete, the black man, ran back into the tent carrying a large canvas bag and joined the two men inside the cage.
The Ringmaster stepped forward.
“While we gird this gentleman for battle, my associate, Mr. Milford,” he pointed to the man by the clock, “will be taking any and all wagers that he sees fit. Judging by the size and reputation our challenger apparently has, and that this is the fourth day in a row the Mighty Xerxes has battled, the odds are proclaimed even for this bout!”
A groan of disappointment arose over this last statement, and a few men started to protest, but the Ringmaster cut them off.
“If you don’t like the odds, don’t bet.”
They didn’t like the odds, but they lined up to bet anyway. Not having seen this Xerxes and smelling a sucker bet, I stayed put and watched them “gird” Dickle Doug for war.
The first thing they did was break out an old leather football helmet, the kind Red Grange of “Galloping Ghost” fame used to wear, and forced it onto Dickle Doug’s head. After some struggle and the stuffing of hair and beard in and about the edges, the Ringmaster seemed satisfied with the fit. Ol’Pete then reached into the large bag and brought out a roll of silver duct tape. He motioned for Doug to open his mouth wide, which he calmly did and, to my amazement, Pete began to wrap the tape around Dickle Doug's mouth and the helmet. After three or four passes across his mouth and around his head, Pete tore the tape and patted the end flat on the helmet. The Ringmaster then took out a penknife and carefully cut a slit between the lips of Dickle Doug’s open mouth, apparently to give
him something other than his nose to breathe through.
I sat there dumbfounded as to what they had just done, but apparently most of the crowd here were regulars and didn’t pay much mind to what was going on inside the cage. Many were huddled around the bookie by the time clock and, from what I gathered, the rules of the house were either you bet on the challenger or not at all. That didn’t seem to deter any of the action, ‘cause folks were betting heavy on Dickle Doug, who was apparently something of a local legend.
I looked back up at the cage, saw Pete once more reach into the bag and this time pull out a huge straitjacket. Now I was really confused.
The Ringmaster and Pete helped Doug into this contraption and in about five minutes this bear of a man was trussed up like a Thanksgiving turkey. The Ringmaster stepped back, surveyed the situation and then motioned for Pete to leave the cage.
A hush fell over the crowd.
“One minute, folks, one minute left to place your bets on the final match of Xerxes for this engagement,” cried the Ringmaster. “One minute to show faith in your local champion!”
A last minute of activity took place around the bookie, but soon all were seated, with the air of expectancy as heavy as the smoke. The temperature in the tent was stifling now; it must have been close to eighty.
“Mr. Watford,” said the Ringmaster, “I remind you of the task at hand. Upon my starting the clock, fifteen minutes in the cage with Xerxes and the 2,000 dollars is yours. I you decide you can’t last any longer, all you need do is cry ‘Uncle’. The only rule is no biting by either you or the mighty Xerxes. If one of you bites the other, the match is over and the biter is disqualified, with all monies are forfeited. Do you understand?”
A muffled but clearly audible “Yeah, I got it,” was heard from Dickle Doug.
“Then,” intoned the Ringmaster, “give me fifteen minutes on the clock!”
The bookie, who apparently doubled as timekeeper, dutifully set the timer.
“Ladies and Gentlemen, I give you, Xerxes, the Persian Hell Beast!” With those words, the Ringmaster stepped outside the cage, shut the door, bolted it and nodded to Pete, who was standing by the circular wooden panel.
Pete pulled on a rope that was attached to the panel, and it immediately swung up and open. A rumble of thunder was heard emanating from the tin pipe attached to it, and out of it came the mighty Xerxes, greeted by the thunderous shouts and applause of the crowd.
It was the scrawniest assed chimpanzee I’d ever laid eyes on.
He was no more than three and a half feet tall and couldn’t have weighed more than sixty pounds, seventy tops. His pelt was a dullish black, flecked with gray and there were bare patches of skin randomly about his body. It looked like he had the mange. You could see the scars across his back where he’d been beaten and whipped over the years. His hindquarters, legs and feet were matted and crusted with what was apparently a mixture of his own dried feces and urine. I didn’t think it possible, but it looked like the wretched creature was going bald with age. To top it off, it appeared his left eye was cloudy. Cataracts.
He slowly shuffled out into the middle of the cage and placidly looked out with his one good eye at the crowd, all of who were hollering for his blood.
Over in the far corner stood his opponent, a six foot eight, 400-pound redneck, with his head encased in leather and duct tape and tied up in a straitjacket. If the Humane Society or the People for the Ethical Treatment of Animals had been there, they’d be having conniption fits.
As it was, they weren’t there, thank God. Just the good, honest hardworking people of Xavier County and yours truly were present to witness this unique sporting spectacle and the only thing I was thinking was that this was going to be a hell of a lot more entertaining than watching two naked whores wrestling. I found myself standing up, hollering and stamping my feet with the rest of ‘em.
Better than being stuck in back in Warhill.
Chapter 15