Chapter 4

When Parris arrived at the cabin, McTeague was sitting next to the fireplace, waiting for him. Greta was there, too. She was standing on her toes, her wrists tied behind her. A sock was stuffed in her mouth, and her steel collar had been replaced by a noose. The taut rope ran up and over a ceiling beam, and the other end was tied to a steel hook in the wall. Greta's eyes were filled with fear and dismay.

Parris wondered which of them his boss would kill first.

McTeague said, "Hello, Troy. Glad you could come by. Hope you don't mind if Loopy joins us." At that moment Parris felt a big hand on his shoulder. Loopy pushed him into the room. Parris hadn't spoken, but McTeague said, "No use offering excuses. No use pleading for mercy. You betrayed us. You betrayed the Ranch. You betrayed me." His voice, which had been calm, grew louder. "I gave you your job. Gave you countless opportunities to fuck the help, fuck the young women chosen for the hunt, fuck the fucking raccoons if that's what you wanted. And you betrayed me."

McTeague had risen and now stood close to Parris. Loopy held the back of Parris's neck with one hand and had twisted Parris's left arm behind him with the other. So when McTeague's blow came, Parris had only his right arm to try to fend it off. He failed. The punch caught him on the side of the jaw, and his knees buckled.

Loopy pulled him back up again and now had his forearm across Parris's neck. McTeague went to work on Parris's belly and chest. The blows were methodical and powerful. After six or seven, McTeague stepped back. Parris was limp in Loopy's arms.

"Now, Greta," said McTeague, "we're going to have a contest. We're going to see which of you has the stronger life force." He picked up another rope from the sofa and tossed it, too, over the beam. One end was formed into a noose, like the one around Greta's neck. He placed it around Parris's neck, then pulled the rope taut. Loopy let Parris go, and the weight nearly pulled the rope out of McTeague's grip. But he quickly got control. He pulled until Parris toes barely touched the floor. "Strip him," McTeague said. Loopy ripped off Parris's shirt, and the buttons popped off and scattered on the floor. Then he loosened Parris's belt and pulled down his pants and underpants.

"Shit," said Loopy, looking at Parris's penis. "What's all the fucking excitement about? Mine's twice that size."

"Hold him up," McTeague said. Then he tied the rope to the handle of a heavy wooden chest next to the sofa. "See if that'll hold him."

Loopy carefully let go of Parris. The chest budged, then stopped. "That should do it," McTeague said, "but we have to make sure his feet don't quite reach the floor." They made several adjustments, and soon Parris was swinging free, his toes inches from the floor and his face turning purple. McTeague then went to Greta and pulled on her rope until she, too, was suspended by the noose around her neck.

"A real pair of swingers," said Loopy, laughing at his own joke.

After half a minute, Parris began to get an involuntary hard-on.

"Guess he's thinking about you, darling," Loopy said to Greta. But she was having problems of her own. Her face was turning purple, too, and she was making little gurgling noises. McTeague slapped her. "Stay awake and pay attention," he said. "The object of this game is survival. If Troy succumbs before you do, we'll let you live. For a while. If you die first, we'll do our best to revive Troy so he can see what we do to your body." Greta, of course, was oblivious to everything he was saying. Lack of oxygen was slowly killing her. Parris's body began shaking violently. He had been unconscious even before they hanged him, but now bodily systems more primitive and essential than consciousness were at work. The shaking subsided to a tremor, then stopped. His erection went limp, and he pissed on the floor.

McTeague felt his chest. "No heartbeat," he said. He turned to Greta. "You win."

Out of gratitude, McTeague let Loopy decide how Greta would die. And as Loopy outlined his plan, McTeague realized it was sheer genius. When it came to mayhem, Loopy was an idiot savant. McTeague had never heard of Ralph's Arena, but that wasn't surprising. It appealed to folks in a different social stratum. The important thing was that those folks enjoyed much the same kind of excitement that the hunters at the Ranch paid so much for — though the setting was an oversized gym in a grimy mining town, not hills and forests and a handsomely appointed hotel.

Sam Marx, who owned the arena and who had known Loopy since he was an extremely delinquent juvenile, was at first reluctant to participate. He had never been to the Ranch, though he had heard rumors about it. He was doubtful about dealing with a lot of snooty WASPs. But he showed up anyway, a big man in his early 60s. In his double-breasted suit, he looked like a film noir gangster. This impression was enhanced by his thick black eyebrows and droopy eyelids, and by the cigar clenched between his teeth. Over drinks on the hotel veranda, Loopy explained what he had in mind. As McTeague listened, it seemed almost as though Loopy and Marx were speaking a foreign language. They talked about the relative merits of Mean Mountain Mossback, Bigger Bertha, the Demon Sisters and the Midnight Midgets. At Loopy's mention of the midgets, Marx's face lit up. "Great idea," he said. "They're over in the Tennessee right now, and I think we can probably get them by the end of the month."

"Excuse me," said McTeague. "I'm totally lost. I understand Loopy wants to use our young lady in some sort of snuff show, which is fine with me, but who the hell are the Midnight Midgets?"

Marx snorted. "Only one the best goddam acts we've ever booked at Ralph's. Hugely popular. Humor, pathos, raunchiness, and intense, raw violence. They've got it all." He stopped and frowned. "But where's the babe. This won't work without a pretty spectacular babe. You know, big tits, big hair, big eyes."

"That part I understand," said McTeague. He turned and gestured to one of his security men, who led Greta out onto the veranda. She wore only white bikini panties. Marx rose and bowed slightly, a courtesy that seemed incongruous under the circumstances. Greta looked at him with expressionless eyes.

"She's on the scrawny side," Marx said. "What happened to her leg?"

"I stuck a knife in it," said McTeague.

Marx glanced at him. "I would have thought you hired people who would do that sort of thing for you." McTeague's face darkened, but he said nothing. Marx gently pushed Greta's hair back from her face. "What about her ear? Did you do that, too? And her eyelid?"

"No, that was done by... Well, let's just say that neither Loopy nor I was responsible," said McTeague.

Marx walked around Greta. "I hope you don't mind, miss, but I'd like you to push your panties down just a bit. Yes, that's it." He pointed to a raw, deeply indented spot that had yet to heal. "And that?" he asked.

McTeague had grown exasperated. "Look," he said. "We're not selling a thoroughbred mare, we're offering someone to be knocked around a ring and then snuffed, for the delectation of a crowd of rednecks. Do you need Miss America for this?"

Marx didn't answer. He continued examining Greta. Finally, he said, "You're a lovely young woman. You'll be one of the loveliest ever to appear at Ralph's." Turning to McTeague, he said, "You've got a deal. The Medical Center, with which we, too, have a relationship, will get one quarter of the gate." He moved closer and added, in a low voice, "I'm not in the killing business, McTeague, but I believe I can guarantee she will not survive the Midgets."

They shook hands, and Marx handed McTeague and Loopy cigars.

They climbed into in Marx's long black '79 Cadillac, Loopy and Greta in the back seat, Marx behind the wheel. The windows were tinted so dark that McTeague couldn't see Greta's expression as the car pulled away. He hoped she was fearful and crying.

In fact, she was very calm. Loopy and Marx started talking about great wrestling acts and some of the stupid things people did on amateur night. After a while, Loopy said, "Mr. M, do you mind if I persuade this young lady to give me a blow job?"

"Be my guest, son," Marx replied.

Loopy grabbed Greta by the back of her neck and squeezed hard. She winced but didn't cry out. "You know what I want, bitch," he whispered. "Do it." She unzipped his pants, leaned over and began sucking his dick. Tiffany had been right. It was enormous.

In less than half a minute, Loopy gave a mighty groan and filled her mouth with cum. "That was nice, honey. Say, Mr. M, you want to pull over and let me drive while she does you?"

"No thanks, Loopy," said Marx. "I've been faithful to my Molly for 40 years. I'm not going to break that record."

"Gee," said Loopy, "you Jews are more Christian than the Christians. No offense intended."

"None received. In fact, I presume you meant it as a compliment."

"Absolutely," said Loopy, though he had never before used "Christian" as a compliment.

They drove on in silence until Greta startled them both by asking, "Who are the Mighty Midgets?"

"It's the Midnight Midgets," Marx corrected her. "Though they're not really midgets. They're dwarfs. You know, with short legs. All four of them are under four feet tall. Used to be six in the act, but one fell off a bar stool and broke his neck and another entered a monastery. I know it sounds crazy, but it's God's truth."

"And I'm expected to wrestle all four of them?" Greta asked.

"Yeah. Well, not exactly, Miss. You'll wrestle two at a time. It's like a tag team, only you don't have a teammate and they do. They can bring in the other two for relief as needed. No offense, but I'm not sure the replacement duo will be needed. You don't look very strong."

Greta considered a reply but decided to skip it.

"These are tough little peckerheads," Marx went on. "I've seen 'em wear out big, strong men. You grab one and toss him out of the ring, and the other is biting your calf or punching you in the balls. Not that you have balls, of course, but you get my drift?"

"And if I toss both of them out of the ring, or subdue both of them one way or another, then what?"

"Then the other two little bastards come after you. It's quite a show. They're as persistent as blackflies at a beach party."

Great, thought Greta. From sadistic hunters to hungry buzzards to bloodsucking midgets.

"I'm sorry about all this," Marx said. "Really, I am."

"Then why don't you just let me go?" asked Greta.

"No way," interrupted Loopy. "No way. You could ruin things for a lot of people, including me."

"Loopy's right," said Marx. "Regrettably, letting you go is out of the question. The best you can hope for is that you'll survive your bout with the midgets. Then we'll find some other opponents. Or maybe the best thing would be for the midgets to kill you quickly. You know, put you out of your misery, so to speak."

Greta thought about this. She wasn't miserable, just very weary. All she had been through had given her a quiet confidence in her ability to survive. But it had also left her exhausted in mind and body. What difference did it really make whether she died in bed after a long life or was snuffed by midgets in a wrestling ring?

They drove on in silence for another half hour, then Loopy grabbed her by the neck again and whispered, "Do me."

The midgets were booked for the last weekend in August. This gave Greta 12 days to prepare. She was living in a couple of rooms over a practice gym attached to Ralph's. The arena was a dark brick jumble of a building at the end of what once had been a fairly prosperous shopping street. Now, most of the storefronts were boarded. Connie, a big, raw-boned woman who worked for Marx, was Greta's keeper. She was gruff but kind-hearted. She fixed Greta big breakfasts and hearty dinners. "Gotta fatten you up," she said. "Like Hansel and Gristle."

Greta was allowed to work out in the gym at the rear of the arena. She lifted weights and skipped rope. She even tried a couple of punches at the heavy bag, but she quit after she broke a nail.

Sam took her and Connie into the arena one night and turned on all the lights. In the middle was a shabby boxing ring. The covering on the ropes was frayed and the mat had bare patches. Ringside seats were folding chairs. Further back there were benches.

"It'll hold over 600," Marx said proudly. "We've packed in as many as 720 for really big events."

Ralph's was an institution, the center of what was left of the town's social life. And it was affordable. For a typical wrestling night, ringside seats were $25, and most of the rest were $10. For big attractions, and the Midnight Midgets were definitely a big attraction, ringside cost up to $50. And if the crowd was big enough, Sam opened up what he called the "sky boxes." Kids could climb onto the rafters for $2 each. They got a great view and a chance to throw peanuts on the crowd below. Every now and then one fell. Three had died that way, and another would spend the rest of his life being pushed around in a wheelchair and pissing into a plastic bag. But no one would have dreamed of suing Ralph's, or Sam Marx personally. That would just spoil things for everyone else. Besides, shit happened.

It was Friday night, the big night, and Ralph's was packed. The warm-up act was a pair of local bullies who were pounding the shit out of each other, but the crowd didn't need much warming up. When the ring announcer introduced the Midnight Midgets and the four little men ran down the aisle and clambered into the ring, the cheers were deafening.

Then the midgets did their standard opening, running crazily all around the ring, vaulting over one another, sometimes colliding, always in motion. One attached a choke collar and leash to another, who scampered around on his hands and knees and then raised a leg and pretended to piss on the announcer's trousers.

The midgets wore black boots, black mesh tops and black jockstraps with shiny black codpieces. They were misshapen, ugly and irrepressible. Octavius was the leader, or at least he was supposed to be. The others — Federico, Polio and Stone — constantly challenged him. And whenever he loudly and insultingly referred to them as Curley, Larry and Moe, all hell would break loose. They'd gang up on him, pummeling him and kicking his shins. Twice he had ended up with a broken nose after such altercations, and once he got so pissed off he knocked Federico out cold. When Federico hadn't revived after five minutes, a doctor from the Medical Center was called in. The crowd had roared with laughter when Octavius loudly implored the fallen midget to wake up before the doc harvested his kidneys.

After a few minutes of such madness and mayhem, the announcer again took the mike, and the midgets and the crowd fell silent.

"Facing the Midnight Midgets in mortal combat tonight is a lovely newcomer to wrestling, Princess Starlight. Let's give her a very big welcome." Greta walked slowly down the aisle, accompanied by Connie. A white silk robe hung from her shoulders and hid her body.

Connie climbed a short stepladder and parted the ropes. Greta climbed after her and entered the ring gracefully, regally, just as Marx had told her to. Not that she needed coaching. She knew just what was expected this evening. She would give this crowd her best, even if she died doing it.

Connie removed her robe, and Greta raised her arms above her head, like a ballerina or a figure skater, and slowly turned around and around. The crowd was awestruck. She was gorgeous. She wore only a G-string with silver sequins. Body makeup sprinkled with silvery flecks made her gleam like a fairy queen. Even the indignity her body had suffered at the hand of McTeague had been transformed. Her left thigh was wrapped in a silvery bandage that looked like a royal garter.

"Princess Starlight is new to wrestling, ladies and gentlemen," said the announcer, "but she is used to performing before crowds. This ecdysiast extraordinaire has tantalized audiences on three continents. She has stripped and gyrated before prime ministers and presidents, plutocrats and pashas. She has won the hearts and hardened the pricks of the rich and the powerful on three continents."

The boilerplate was the work of Marx, who had an old-fashioned view of promotion and marketing. He had also penned the copy for flyers and posters proclaiming Greta an "oracle sans auricle, who hears the voices of the long-dead and sees into the future." This approach wouldn't have worked in most venues, but the crowd at Ralph's had come to look forward to it.

Finally, the introductions over, the announcer climbed out of the ring, and the referee entered. The crowd hooted and jeered. His name, during his wrestling days, had been Bad Bill, but he was now, by consensus, Blind Bill. He did his part in the ring with wonderfully offensive officiousness, and everyone loved to hate him.

The overhead mike hovered just above him as he called Octavius and Greta to the middle of the ring. "Okay, now, I want a good, clean match. No more than two midgets in the ring with the lady at one time. And if she happens to be on the ropes, the midgets who are outside are to leave her alone. No punching her or tripping her or holding her.