Free Champion of the World by Chad Dundas

blasted out his entrance music. He threw up his arms and the clowns all did their pratfalls. Smiling as he came to the center of the ring, he whipped off his robe and did a slow turn. A couple of the women in the audience whistled at him as the stagehands came out and cuffed his hands behind his back.
    â€œMake a run for it!” somebody yelled, and Pepper shrugged in the direction of the man’s voice, as if to say,
You’re telling me!
They hustled him up the steps to the gallows and stood him on his mark as Markham appeared underneath.
    â€œMr. Van Dean, any final words?”
    â€œWell,” Pepper said, voice cracking. He cleared his throat. “Well, I’d just like to say”—taking some time to think it over—“I’d like to thank the people of the great state of Oregon for their hospitality. If by the end of tonight I somehow find myself having an audience with the man upstairs, you know, I’ll be sure to put in a good word. See if I can do something about all that rain.”
    â€œIs that all?” Markham asked through the crowd’s guffaws.
    Pepper swallowed hard. “Anybody got a drink?”
    Then the stagehands put the hood on him. Moira made fists, willing herself not to look away.
    â€œWell, folks,” Markham announced. “Shall we put this man out of his misery?”
    The platform creaked as the stagehands approached the lever. She held her breath, then felt the lurch in her chest as the trapdoor opened and his body took the sickening plunge, the crack of the rope as loud as a gunshot when it yanked him up short.

T hey stretched it out as long as they could, and Pepper started to worry that Markham might let him strangle just to teach him a lesson. Finally, he felt the cold metal of the doctor’s stethoscope as the stagehand they dressed up in a white smock made a show of checking his chest. He could hear the audience grumbling with impatience, few of them seeming overly concerned for him. “On with the show!” somebody called from the bleachers as Markham yanked the hood off his head. Pepper waited and waited, neck muscles cramping, breathing as shallowly as he could, trying to make subtle changes in the positioning of his body as the rope twisted and groaned. Each time it felt like the rope was on the verge of completely cutting off the blood to his brain, he would shift into the pressure, find a little space and survive. It seemed like hours, it seemed like forever, but finally the “doctor” gave him the high sign: a short, stiff pull on one heel that the audience wouldn’t notice in all the fuss.
    Pepper’s head snapped up, eyes wide and bright, grinning out at the crowd. Everyone else did another round of pratfalls, and the uncertain silence was broken by laughter and applause.
    â€œLadies and gentlemen . . .” he announced, but stopped, his voice weak. Using one finger, he pulled at the rope like a man feeling hot under the collar. The crowd chuckled, going with it now.
    â€œLadies and gentlemen . . .” and again he stopped. He cleared his throat and, as the horn players tooted another fanfare, climbed hand over hand up the rope. He pulled himself back through the hatch in the floor of the gallows frame and sat with his legs hanging over the edge of the platform. As he slipped off the noose, giving the rope a good snap so the crowd could see it was the real deal, he could make out a couple of guys in the front row smiling at each other, embarrassed at being suckered. He winked at them like they’d all been in on the joke the whole time.
    â€œThat’s better,” he said, rubbing his neck a bit. “Ladies and gentlemen, we’ll now enjoy a short intermission, during which we invite you to sample the offerings in our refreshment pavilion. Who knows, maybe a game of chance or one of our tremendous prizes will catch your eye? But don’t forget, be back in your seats in