Mack’s chin rested on top of cold, hard cement, his paws ached, his body scarred from previous encounters. His brown fur grimy, his two ears, small and folded like all American Pit Bull Terriers. His left ear had a slice going down from his ear to chin and was full of red marks and bruised lightly.
As he rose to stretch, his metal collar jingled. He began to walk about the area, stretching his large aching muscles. The place smelt of raw meat and of the other dogs in the area. The warehouse, full of wooden crates and supplies for their owners.
Extra machinery was a common thing found in here.
Two other dogs were in this building, a female German Shepherd named Lizzie who was currently napping, and a tall black Doberman with large pointed ears named Stewart. Stewart is the self-proclaimed leader of the trio, and the other two dared not argue with his unfair logic-he had torn a few Pit bulls, beagles and Dalmatians apart when fighting in the ring, now Mack and Lizzie were at his mercy, even though as far as stamina and muscular structure went, the brown canine could potentially fight him-but in all honesty, he didn’t want to.
Fighting was in fact the last and most dreaded item on his mind, as Stewart rose to greet his two slaves, his voice echoed throughout the warehouse. “Morning!” Lizzie stirred awake, yawned and shook her entire body before standing next to a tired Mack.
The Doberman looked down upon the two, he was tallest and certainly looked the roughest. Half an ear missing, his right eye bloodshot, his underside marked with bites. The only other sound that could be heard other than Stewart’s blabbering was the sound of fluorescent lights from the ceiling. “Today folks, we fight. For the good of our species, for our owners who feed us.” That terrible word-fight. The thing that Mack was brought up with, the thing he was scared of. Today, it was over with.
The Pit bull coughed a bit and spoke, born in Boston, Massachusetts, he had a deep city accent. “I’m not fighting again.” Stewart’s good ear twitched, his tone spiteful. “Yeah, you are actually.” Mack sighed and shook his head. “I can’t do this anymore, it’s wrong and disgusting.” The Doberman growled a bit, but Mack didn’t back down. “You’re a Pit bull…you’re MEANT for fighting, you’re good at it! You have a reputation, never beaten, never lost a fight. You’ve made big money for the humans who’ve taken such good care of you. Why do you think families hate your species? Because you’re a FIGHTING dog.” Lizzie looks to Mack in concern-what was he doing going up against a Doberman who could kill anything? Mack narrowed his eyes. “Innocent lives ruined, dogs who didn’t do anything are torn apart because we’re roped into this shit! That’s fair to you?”
The two were about to lunge at each other, but four tall males entered the warehouse. All three of the dogs began to bark, whether in terror or pure anger it was hard for them to tell.
Before Mack could think, a heavy collar was forced onto his neck, causing him to cough a bit. His owner, intimidating and extremely overweight.
Dragged from the warehouse to the outside where a bit of rain drizzled from heavy dark clouds, across a dank and foul smelling alleyway, the pavement wet against his paws, the feeling of dread seemed to follow him. This is the only place outside he was allowed, and only with a human tugging at him. The feeling of sadness in the air like a mist over Mack’s mind, on the occasion he did see humans they were usually upset. Sometimes injecting strange substances into their arms, causing them to act strange and fall down. The smells that wafted to him were typically unpleasant, garbage and dead animals were the two things he detected. There was something depressing yet creepy about the outside world.
At the end of the alleyway about a mile off, was a street. Full of fast moving cars and humans who seemed happy and content, and certain smells would come from there. Smells of amazing food and the feeling of happiness. This often caused Mack to tug on his collar in a desperate attempt to live on that side of the world. However, the human who pulled him would often kick him if the pulling became too much. It was hopeless. Everything was always hopeless.
After walking across the alleyway and walking through a rural area of town, then around some other corners. Mack begins to stick his nose to the moist, tall grass he walks upon. A group of humans stand around a large hole, surrounded by what looked to be a fence.
He is now tossed into the pit, complete with barbed wire wrapped around the entire structure. He knew what was coming next, he began breathing heavily, his heart pounds in his chest as he looks to his opponent.
The smells of sweat, body odor and an unkempt dog were prevalent, who barked ferociously across from him. The floor beneath him now wet mud. This was hell. The place where various canines and humans congregated to watch extreme violence unfold in front of them.
Dirty and bruised humans were all around the barbed wire, shouting, throwing money to one another, swearing, making bets about the two dogs and acting like they each ruled the world of blood sports.
The dog who slobbered all over himself was a yellow lab, his build looked unnatural, like he was hopped up on steroids, the muscles huge but extremely unhealthy. His eyes not brown and innocent like a puppy dog’s eyes, his gaze full of violent intent and insanity. The meaning of his life and those he loved, had faded away. Bloodshed was what he cared about. His mind was gone from the medications and abuse he had suffered by the hand of this sport, and for lack of a better term, he was a crazed and rabid psychopath.
The two are released from their leashes, the shouts from the humans in the circle became louder, the yellow lab is the first to pounce, and he goes for Mack’s leg, he hops out of the way nearly toppling himself over with a spurt of mud. Mack wished he could dodge attacks forever, but he knew. He knew the truth. The Pit bull’s owner shouts to Mack. “GET HIM! Get him boy! Gonna let that fucker push you around?! Good boy! Get him!” The screams of impatience and waiting for the fight to really start from everyone else was giving Mack a severe headache.
The Labrador shows his fangs and growls. “Either you or me buddy…I’m not losing to a species as hated as much as you are!”
The pounce comes again, this time the yellow lab pinned all of his strength on the Pit bull, now he is on top of him, Mack’s backside is slammed into the sticky and dirt soaked ground, then the snapping jaws come. Mack knew all the moves he would do, the dog snapped at Mack’s face. “You’re gonna die!” Shouts the lab, his teeth slamming way to close to his nose now. Saliva splats into his eye, the clamor from the audience becoming deafening. Mack needed to beat him. Not because he thought he was better and thought he was the toughest, but because if he was put down, that would leave Lizzie and Stewart alone. If Patrick became disappointed in Mack, death could be just around a corner. That’s what happened to dogs who couldn’t fight-they were disposed of.
The brown canine whispers to the lab as he takes a break and attempts to scare him with more barking. “I’m so sorry…” Mack slides underneath the lab swiftly and bites his stomach so hard that it caused the bloody and yellow dog to yelp in pain. The Pit bull didn’t let go, no matter how much the lab tried to get him off. As Mack was still grabbing onto his opponent’s gut, he threw his head back and ran to one corner of the pit, red fluid poured out of his gut.
From the sheer pain, the dog flopped down and whimpered, he wasn’t dead-but this probably meant he would never fight again.
Humans cheered, some angrily stormed away from the field. More rain began to pour down and soak into the pit bull’s fur, causing it to look darker. Mack stared into the yellow lab as he was now hooked up and ready to go back to the warehouse for a break.
This unknown dog, now lying in a pool of his own blood, crying from excruciating pain. Every injured dog left a permanent image in his brain, perfect nightmare fuel. He was yanked out of the ring-while he had never killed another dog, he always felt deep in his mind that he could easily cause a death.
Patrick, his owner coaxed him with words-his tone lighthearted. Saying things like “It’s brutal dude, but it’s not cruel. It’s a sport Big Mack! You’re good at it! I love ya!”
Of course, came the issue of Mack’s wounds, because they were there. Patrick took this time to bring his animal back to the apartment, stick an IV in him and do some at home veterinary care. No medication he gave truly helped, the pain never truly went away even with all the pain meds he was given. This hurt and certainly was not anything a professional vet would do.
Mack was so fried, that it hardly mattered at this point and time. This was the life he was given, and he would fight for Patrick if it meant staying alive. That was the nature of the dog. Due to Mack’s stamina, he was worth $25,000. A known fact within this gang and perhaps with others.
The yellow lab was later discovered by a fellow gang member, his owner had thrown him down a flight of stairs, leading to the basement of his house to die a slow and bloody death. That’s the name of the game.