The fourth free-for-all of fresh bodies had entered the ring. Beat on one another till only one remained standing in frayed cutoffs and slick-bottomed boots. Flecks of blood and bone shadowed the spiderweb tattoos that coiled up each of his ball-bat forearms, twisted and tied into the railroad spikes that nailed into his right and left shoulders. They had been inked by a tattoo-artist friend wanting the same thing he wanted, getting out of the Kentucky hills. It was Jarhead Johnny Earl. Goat and Walkup stood with Angus while Ned sat tied in the barn, getting fingernails of meth from Scar. Angus watched McGill pat Jarhead on the back and say, “Got two more free-for-alls, then get to see you fight for a lot of crumpled green, boy.” Jarhead hadn’t come all this way robbing, smuggling, and listening to the prophecies of a backwoods soothsayer only to be treated like a child. He told McGill, “Ain’t your boy.” McGill squeezed Jarhead’s trap and said, “Johnny Earl, you win Sunday, you’ll be whatever I say you are.
