Savage Read Free Page A

That weekend I took the large crucifix he had given me and hammered a nail into Jesus’s heart and threw it from the basement doorway onto the kitchen floor at my Dad’s feet. He said, “You’re not hurting me when you do that,” like Jesus was now in real agony.
    "That was funny," I whispered.
    Holly’s hair tampered with the Garden’s dark mystery. She put her hair in a ponytail and tried to hide a yawn. The garden howled with gusts of cold-air reverb.
    I had goosebumps. I looked at my sister’s legs as she rubbed them, her pale limbs poking through the denim curtain of her fraying jean shorts.
    Holly was talking to Dad. She looked down at my month-old blue Converse canvas shoes dangling, not quite hitting the ground, then at the creased program in my lap.
    Dad sat dumfounded, his face void of erratic enthusiasm or query. When he did stand, it was at around 5’ 9" in total; his greying beard with hints of red in it surrounded his roundish face. He was thin but sometimes bloated in the summer from his usual 170 pounds, depending on his diet and activity. Mom was 5’ 2", with a body type that lacked definition. She got perms twice a year which would grow out and resemble a bit of an afro. I called her hairstyle "meatball" for some reason. Her large nose and coal eyes dominated her face. Mom spoke with a high, metallic twang which made some of our friends ask Holly and I if we were from the South.
    Dad muttered something to Holly and got up, blowing his nose loudly as he rose. As he blew his nose in the familiar four-burst chime, Holly and I moved our heads to the beat. He disappeared into the cavernous static.
    Holly kicked my foot.
    "So, you want Ricky Steamboat to win ’cause of your newt? You know, your lizard, your dragon you have in your room? Didn’t you call him Ricky? Is that—"
    "No, not because of that, duh," I said, cutting her off. "I think he’ll win the belt from Macho Man tonight."
    "You think so?" Holly scratched her knee, the tiny hairs on her arms and legs standing up among sparse freckles. "Mom said she found your newt on the floor. Did it get out?"
    "It always does. I had to put some records on the top of the tank."
    "Oh."
    "But yeah," I said to Holly, "I think Steamboat is gonna win because he’s a lot quicker. I think he’s got better stamina. He’s wicked." I had just seen a bloody match on television between former Intercontinental Champion Tito Santana and the current champion Macho Man but missed some of it because Dad wanted me to put my bike away properly in the garage. I tried to tape it but couldn’t find an empty tape in time.
    The heads of two devout Savage fans in the row in front of us turned around.
    "No way, man. Macho’s gonna kill ’em. Steamboat’s a wimp, ohhh yeeaahh!"
    I could smell their Right Guard, they were older, bigger. They were chewing on candy, stuffing their braced faces with a lacquer of sugar nectars and other bright, noisy foods. Holly sniffed the air in disgust at them, disgust for the way their concession-bought candy had caked along their ugly braced teeth.
    I wanted nothing to do with them. One boy continued at a lower volume. "Macho Madness all the way," the other declared before both turned to face the empty ring.
    "Ohhhhhh yyyyyyeeeeaaaahhhh!" one boy said, nodding and manoeuvring his hands in manic finger gestures.
    I heard one of the boys tell his friend in a low rumble, "Stupid kid likes that fag Steamboat."
    I swung my legs. I liked Savage OK, but he had won the Intercontinental title in February by reaching into his yellow trunks and pulling out a piece of steel, hitting Tito Santana in the head with it when the referee wasn’t looking. I didn’t trust him.
    "So, it’s a title match though? That could happen?" Holly asked. "Who’s better?"
    "Well..." I said, a bit quieter, still feeling goosebumps. This was like the times on the couch on rainy days, watching