Page 35 of Property of Legend

Hell throws a wrestling match that feels like a backyard barbecue.Unlike the last time, I was at the club because Legend couldn’t miss a fight, I’m outside on a Friday evening.It’s better than sitting beside my daddy’s death bed and wringing my hands over the upcoming race.

The ring’s duct-taped together under a string of sagging Christmas lights.There’s a waft of smoke, ribs cooking, and the crowd roars louder than a Baptist revival when a biker named Wildcat body-slams some poor bastard in a John Deere cap.

And that’s when I see him.

The mayor.

Not the human one.No, ma’am.

Mayor McCoy, the golden retriever mix I’d read about in theHerald Leader, is trotting down the center aisle like he runs the town.Technically he does, his big, shaggy tail wagging with all the pride of a pedigree.Someone slapped a leather vest on him,Mayorstitched across the back in gold thread, and a chew cigar sticks out the side of his mouth like he’s about to cut a deal with a lobbyist behind the barn.

“That’s the mayor.”I say, full of wonder, elbowing Legend.

He doesn’t even look up from the betting sheet in his hand.“Yep.”

“Of Hell, Kentucky.”

“That’s right.Stud that ruined the puppy mill down the road.Bastard’s got more kids than the state fair goat barn.”

Mayor McCoy stops right in front of me, gives a wag, then hikes his leg and pisses on a traffic cone blocking off the action.The crowd goes wild.

“It’s like he’s signing legislation,” Legend mumbles.

Mayor McCoy takes a liking to my leg.

“Don’t worry, darlin’.He only bites activists,” Legend says shooing him off me.

“I like him better than most politicians I’ve met.”

“Damn right you do.”

“He’s got more approval than the governor,” someone hollers behind me.

Another cuts in to argue, parroting our governor, “Hey, shithead, we’re all in this together.”

A woman loudly claims to love our governor, calling him, “Daddy”.

I spit out my beer.

Holler says, “Ain’t sayin’ I agree with everything, but I like he still has his Kentucky teeth.Wonder if he’ll keep ‘em when he runs for President.”

Legend grinned.“Now don’t go ruining the night by talking politics, y’all.And I mean it.”

Everyone pipes down.

Holler leans in and says, “That’s Legend for you.He always wants us to keep our britches up, not show off our asshole opinions.”

I can’t stop laughing, not just because of the absurdity, but because Hell somehow made this mayhem feel like community.Something I haven’t experienced in Paradise for a long time.

I notice the women, too.

Three of them lean against a picnic table loaded down with plastic cups of spiked punch and a massive pot of burgoo, Kentucky stew with a mystery meat base, spicy as sin, and thick enough to stand a spoon in.A fourth lady stirred the pot with a boat paddle like she was summoning spirits.The scent alone could cause an argument over recipes three counties wide.

They wore leather vests,Property ofstitched above their men’s names in looping script, rhinestones glinting under the lights.And I knew them.Not from the clubhouse.From real respectable life.

“That’s Janie Pruitt,” I whisper, wide-eyed.“She’s the deputy county clerk in Official Paradise.”

Legend chuckled.“Yeah, and she’ll slice your tires if you don’t try her transparent pie tonight.”

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