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“I ain’t scared,” somebody yelled, and we watched in disbelief as a young man I’d never seen before stepped forward and handed two dollars to Delilah. She took the money and said, “Ten-to-one. Stay in the ring for sixty seconds, and you’ll win twenty dollars.” She shoved the microphone at the young man and said, “What’s your name?”

“Parley.”

“Good luck, Parley.”

He climbed into the ring as if he had no fear of Samson, who’d been watching without the slightest hint of worry. Delilah took a mallet and struck a bell on the side of the ring. “Sixty seconds!” she said.

Parley moved around a bit, then retreated to a corner as Samson took a step in his direction. Both men studied each other, Samson looking down with contempt, Parley looking up with anticipation. “Forty-five seconds!” she called out.

Samson moved closer, and Parley darted to the other side of the ring. Being much smaller, he was also much quicker, and apparently was using the strategy of flight. Samson stalked him; Parley kept darting.

“Thirty seconds!”

The ring was not big enough to run much, and Samson had caught his share of scared rabbits. He tripped Parley during one of his sprints, and when he picked him up, he wrapped an arm tightly around the boy’s head and began a headlock.

“Oh, looks like the Guillotine!” Delilah gushed, with a little too much drama. “Twenty seconds!” Samson twisted his prey and grimaced with sadistic pleasure, while poor Parley flailed at his side. “Ten seconds!”

Samson whirled and then flung Parley across the ring. Before Farley could get up, the World’s Greatest Wrestler grabbed him by the foot, lifted him in the air, held him over the ropes, and with two seconds to go, dropped him to the ground for the victory.

“Wow, that was close, Samson!” Delilah said into the microphone.

Parley was in a daze, but he walked away in one piece and seemed to be proud of himself. He had proved his manhood, had shown no fear, and had come within two seconds of winning twenty bucks. The next volunteer was likewise a stranger, a bulky young man named Claude, who paid three dollars for a chance to win thirty. He weighed twice as much as Parley but was much slower, and within ten seconds Samson had nailed him with a Flying Dropkick and wrapped him into a Pretzel. With ten seconds to go, he hoisted Claude over his head, and in a magnificent display of strength, walked to the edge of the ring and tossed him.

Claude, too, walked away proudly. It was apparent that Samson, despite his theatrics and menacing demeanor, was a good sport and would not harm anyone. And since most young men wanted to have some contact with Delilah, a line soon formed at her side.

It was quite a spectacle, and Dewayne and I sat for a long time watching Samson dispose of one victim after another with all the moves in his repertoire. The Boston Crab, the Scissors, the Piledriver, the Jackhammer, the Body Slam. Delilah merely had to mention one of the maneuvers in her microphone and Samson would quickly demonstrate it.

After an hour, Samson was soaked with sweat and needed a break, so Dewayne and I scooted off to ride the Ferris wheel twice. We were debating whether to get another helping of cotton candy when we heard some young men talking about the girlie show.

“She takes off everything!” one of them said as he walked by, and we forgot about the cotton candy. We followed them to the end of the midway, where the gypsies’ trailers were parked. Behind the trailers was a small tent that had obviously been erected so that no one would see it. A few men smoked and waited, and they all had a guilty look about them. There was music coming from the tent.

Some carnivals had girlie shows. Ricky, not surprisingly, had been seen leaving one the year before, and this had caused quite an uproar in our house. He wouldn’t have been caught if Mr. Ross Lee Hart had not also been caught. Mr. Hart was a steward in the Methodist church, a farmer who owned his land, an upright citizen who was married to a woman with a big mouth. She went searching for him late on a Saturday night, in the midst of the carnival, and happened to see him leaving the forbidden tent. She wailed at the sight of her wayward husband; he ducked behind the trailers. She gave chase, yelling and threatening, and Black Oak had a new story.

Mrs. Hart, for some reason, told everyone what her husband had done, and the poor man was an outcast for many months. She also let it be known that leaving the tent right behind him was Ricky Chandler. We suffered in silence. Never go to a girlie show in your hometown was the unwritten rule. Drive to Monette or Lake City or Caraway, but don’t do it in Black Oak.

Dewayne and I didn’t recognize any of the men hanging around the girlie tent. We circled through the trailers and flanked in from the opposite side, but a large dog had been chained to the ground, guarding against Peeping Toms like us. We retreated and decided to wait for darkness.

As four o’clock approached, we had to make a painful decision- go to the matinee, or stay at the carnival. We were leaning toward the picture show when Delilah appeared at the wrestling ring. She had changed costumes, and was now wearing a two-piece red outfit that revealed even more. The crowd flocked to her, and before long Samson was once again hurling farm boys and hillbillies and even an occasional Mexican out of the ring.

His only challenge came at dark. Mr. Horsefly Walker had a deaf and dumb son who weighed three hundred pounds. We called him Grunt, not out of disrespect or cruelty-he’d just always been called that. Horsefly put up five dollars, and Grunt slowly climbed into the ring.

“He’s a big one, Samson,” Delilah purred into the mike.

Samson knew it might take a bit longer to shove three hundred pounds out of the ring, so he attacked immediately. He went in low with a Chinese Take-Down, a move designed to slap both ankles together and cause the opponent to collapse. Grunt fell all right, but he fell on Samson, who couldn’t help but groan in pain. Some of the crowd yelled, too, and began cheering on Grunt, who, of course, couldn’t hear a thing. Both men rolled and kicked around the ring until Grunt pinned Samson for a second.

“Forty seconds!” Delilah said, the clock running much slower with Samson flat on his back. He kicked a few times, to no avail, then employed the Jersey Flip, a quick move in which his feet swung up and caught Grunt by the ears, then rolled him backward. Samson sprang to his feet as Delilah narrated the moves. A Flying Dropkick stunned Grunt.

“Fifteen seconds!” she said, the clock once again moving quickly. Grunt charged like a mad bull, and both men went down again. The crowd cheered again. Horsefly was hopping around the outside of the ring, delirious. They grappled for a while, then Delilah said, “Ten seconds.” There were some boos directed at the timekeeper. Samson twisted and yanked Grunt’s arm behind his back, grabbed a foot, and slid the poor boy across the ring and through the ropes. He landed at his father’s feet. Horsefly yelled, “You cheatin’ sonofabitch!”

Samson took offense to this language and motioned for Horsefly to enter the ring himself Horsefly took a step forward and Samson spread the ropes. Delilah, who’d obviously seen such threats many times, said, “I wouldn’t do that if I were you. He hurts people when he’s angry.”

By then Horsefly was looking for a reason to hold his ground. Samson looked ten feet tall standing at the edge of the ring, sneering down. Horsefly bent down to check on Grunt, who was rubbing his shoulder and appeared to be on the verge of tears. Samson laughed at them as they walked away, then to taunt us, began flexing his biceps as he strolled around the ring. A few in the crowd hissed at him, and that was exactly what he wanted.

He handled a few more challengers, then Delilah announced that her man had to eat dinner. They’d be back in an hour for their final exhibition.

It was now dark. The air was filled with the sounds of the carnival; the excited screams of kids on the rides, the whoops and hollers of the winners at the booths on the midway, the music shrieking forth from a dozen assorted speakers, all playing different tunes, the constant jabbering of the barkers as they enticed folks to part with their money to view the world’s largest turtle or to win another prize, and, above all, the overwhelming electricity of the crowd. People were so thick you couldn’t stir ‘em with a stick, as Gran liked to say. Mobs crowded around the booths, watching and cheering. Long lines snaked around the rides. Packs of Mexicans moved slowly about, staring in amazement, but for the most part, hanging on to their money. I had never seen so many people in one place.

I found my parents near the street, drinking lemonade and watching the spectacle from a safe distance. Pappy and Gran were already at the truck, ready to leave but willing to wait. The carnival came only once a year.

“How much money you got?” my father asked.

‘Bout a dollar,” I said.

“That Ferris wheel doesn’t look safe, Luke,” my mother said.

“I’ve been on it twice. It’s okay.”

“I’ll give you another dollar if you won’t ride it again.”

“It’s a deal.”

She handed me a dollar bill. We agreed that I would check back in an hour or so. I found Dewayne again, and we decided it was time to investigate the girlie show. We darted through the throng along the midway and slowed near the gypsies’ trailers. It was much darker back there. In front of the tent were some men smoking cigarettes, and in the door was a young woman in a skimpy costume swinging her hips and dancing in a naughty way.

As Baptists, we knew that all manner of dancing was not only inherently evil but downright sinful. It was right up there with drinking and cussing on the list of major transgressions.

The dancer was not as attractive as Delilah, nor did she reveal as much or move as gracefully. Of course, Delilah had years of experience and had traveled the world.

We sneaked along the shadows, advancing slowly until a strange voice from nowhere said, “That’s far enough. You boys get outta here.” We froze and looked around, and about that time we heard a familiar voice yell from behind us, “Repent, ye workers of iniquity! Repent!”

It was the Reverend Akers, standing tall with his Bible in one hand while a long, crooked finger pointed out from the fist of the other.

“You brood of vipers!” he yelled at the top of his lungs.

I don’t know if the young lady stopped dancing or if the men scattered. I didn’t bother to look. Dewayne and I hit the ground on all fours and crawled like hunted prey through the maze of trailers and trucks until we saw light between two of the booths on the midway. We emerged and got lost in the crowd.

“You think he saw us?” Dewayne asked when we were safe.

“I don’t know. I doubt it.”

We circled around and wandered back to a safe spot near the gypsies’ trailers. Brother Akers was in fine form. He’d moved to within thirty feet of the tent and was casting out demons at the top of his voice. And he was having success. The dancer was gone, as were the men who’d been hanging around smoking. He’d killed the show, although I suspected they were all inside, hunkering down and waiting him out.

But Delilah was back, wearing yet another costume. It was made of leopard skin and barely covered the essentials, and I knew Brother Akers would have something to say about it the next morning. He loved the carnival because it gave him so much material for the pulpit.

A regular mob crowded around the wrestling ring, gawking at Delilah and waiting for Samson. Again, she introduced him with the lines we’d already heard. He finally jumped into the ring, and he, too, had chosen leopard skin. Tight shorts, no shirt, shiny black leather boots. He strutted and posed and tried to get us to boo him.

My friend Jackie Moon crawled into the ring first, and like most victims, engaged the strategy of dodging. He darted around effectively for twenty seconds until Samson had had enough. A Guillotine, then a Turkish Roll-Down, as Delilah explained, and Jackie was on the grass not far from where I was standing. He laughed. “That wasn’t so bad.”

Samson wasn’t about to hurt anybody; it would harm his business. But as his final exhibition wore on, he became much cockier and yelled at us constantly, “Is there a man among you?” His accent was of some exotic variety; his voice was deep and frightening. “Are there no warriors in Black Oak, Arkansas?”

I wished I were seven feet tall. Then I’d hop up there and attack ol’ Samson while the crowd went wild. I’d whip him good, send him flying, and become the biggest hero in Black Oak. But, for now, I could only boo him.

Hank Spruill entered the picture. He walked along the edge of the ring between bouts, and stopped long enough to get Samson’s attention. The crowd was silent as the two glared at each other. Samson walked to the edge of the ring and said, “Come on in, little one.”

Hank, of course, just sneered. Then he walked over to Delilah and took money from his pocket. “Ooh la la, Samson,” she said, taking his cash. “Twenty-five dollars!”

Everyone seemed to be mumbling in disbelief. “Twenty-five bucks!” said a man from behind. “That’s a week’s work.”

“Yeah, but he might win two hundred fifty,” said another man.

As the crowd squeezed together, Dewayne and I moved to the front so we could see through the grown-ups.

“What’s your name?” Delilah asked, shoving the microphone up.

“Hank Spruill,” he growled. “You still payin’ ten-to-one?”

“That’s the deal, big boy. Are you sure you want to bet twenty-five dollars?”

“Yep. And all I gotta do is stay in the ring for one minute?”

“Yes, sixty seconds. You know Samson hasn’t lost a fight in five years. Last time he lost was in Russia, and they cheated him.”

“Don’t care ‘bout Russia,” Hank said, taking off his shirt. “Any other rules?”

“No.” She turned to the crowd, and with as much drama as she could muster, she yelled, “Ladies and gentlemen. The great Samson has been challenged to his biggest fight of all time. Mr. Hank Spruill has put up twenty-five dollars for a ten-to-one fight. Never before in history has someone made so large a challenge.”

Samson was posturing around the ring, shaking his sizable locks and looking forward to the skirmish with great anticipation.

“Lemme see the money,” Hank growled at Delilah.

“Here it is,” she said, using the microphone.

“No, I wanna see the two-fifty.”

“We won’t be needing it,” she said with a laugh, a chuckle with just a trace of nervousness. But she lowered the microphone, and they haggled over the details. Bo and Dale appeared from the crowd, and Hank made them stand next to the small table where Delilah kept the money. When he was convinced the money was in place, he stepped into the ring, where the great Samson stood with his massive arms folded over his chest.

“Ain’t he the one who killed that Sisco boy?” someone asked from behind us.