Stewart was gone when Mack was tossed back into the warehouse by Patrick. These three never seemed to attack each other like in most cases of dog fighting. These three were a bit different, and the owners of the three canines figured working together would make for a better profit for the entire gang, so they let them hang out since they were much better behaved when they could see each other.
Being that each dog was owned by a separate owner, Stewart and Lizzie fought at different times. Exhaustion hit him, but much worse than tiredness, was guilt. The dog who he had torn up was more than likely just as innocent as he was. All the dogs as far as Mack was concerned, were in the same boat.
He walked slowly through the warehouse, his paws pattering on the cement ground as he slumps in a corner. The place felt musty, the walls covered in dust and holes. Electrical wires stuck out from certain areas. He was also unable to get the smell of his opponent’s blood out of his nose, a smell he knew all too well. He had just been given a quick bath by Patrick, his fur silky, his wounds cleaned out and some even stitched, but inside he felt a surge of violation, a feeling of remorse and unending guilt.
He turned his head, snapping back into reality as Lizzie lied on her stomach. She had not fought today, in fact she didn’t fight often. Maybe her owner didn’t care for her record, she wasn’t the best, compared to Mack and Stewart she was the lowest fighter. The German Shepherd found Mack handsome, but maybe it was more his personality. This place had made him angry, but he undeniably had a coolness and laid back nature when he wasn’t fighting.
She scratched her ear with her front paw before speaking. “You okay?” She knew he wasn’t. He didn’t look at her face as he spoke. “I viciously tore another poor dog up, even more to add to how evil I am. He’ll never fight again I don’t think.” A tear escaped his eye as Lizzie stood up and nuzzled him gently. “You’re a good boy, Mack.” He lies on his stomach, aching in pain a bit, he smelt meat and knew it was almost time for feeding, but it was hard for him to get excited over it, even though his tail did flick ever so slightly when food was mentioned or could be smelled.
Stewart quickly barges in the front door after being released from his master. He shakes his body and stretches. “Another dog bites the DUST!” Mack rolled his eyes and Lizzie turned her head away, almost hoping he’d just ignore the two if they didn’t speak. The Doberman Pinscher still had spots of blood on him, but he wore it as a sort of trophy and not in guilt. “I assume Mack, you won whatever fight you were in? Awesome job I’m sure!” The Pit bull didn’t feel like arguing or telling him how awful he felt, he wouldn’t care. Stewart’s mind was snapped-it was hard to believe that even though he was born here, no dog is truly ‘born’ evil. It really did seem like he was. A few pieces of meat were tossed into the warehouse, the three canines promptly took pieces of raw steak.
Stewart spoke as he ate. “Ya know guys, I’m almost getting bored of attacking dogs. I wonder what humans would be like to attack?” Lizzie and Mack both felt quite uncomfortable with this idea. Stewart continued speaking in a cocky and malevolent way. “Like, I wonder what their flesh is like to dig into? I would imagine a human would be easier to fight, they only have two legs and most are probably pretty bad at fighting, and they don’t have teeth or claws. Helpless creatures they are-but damn, probably would make a fine meal!” Mack pretended he heard none of it, Lizzie shrugged just so she wouldn’t get in trouble for ignoring him. “I bet my owner would be proud if I brought down some seven year old or something.” He chuckled. “If it pleased him, I would do it. In a heartbeat. That little bastard would be mine.”
Mack felt a bit sick to his stomach. A kid? Stewart wanted to kill a KID? How often did he fantasize about that? Why did that thought please him so much? He spoke of it like he had been thinking it for a really long time. He smirked as he continued to think on his depravity.
The brown pit bull soon found himself with his owner, running on a treadmill in an abandoned building directly next to the warehouse, a large collar around his neck. Running at full speed, with the 30 year old human that tormented him. Yelling at him to run faster, Mack knew he reached his limit, but his legs carried him quicker. Anything to not get a beating or steroid injection, which had not happened to him in quite a while. He panted heavily, his legs throbbing…keep going! Keep it up! No beating or bloody bruises if you do good! He knew once he’d come back, every bone in his body would ache. That was his life, fighting or torturing himself to meet high expectations. No matter how hard his heart pounded or his head hurt, the violence would be skipped and he’d get a treat or at least a few loving pats. It was worth it. It always was.
Mack slept soundly that night, even though he rested on cold cement, Lizzie was right by him offering him nuzzles and whispers of comfort if the dog had a nightmare and woke for a few seconds. He wished he could at least have pleasant dreams of running and catching a rubber ball or being treated by a human companion who actually cared for him, at least then he would be away from the hellishness of this place he knew as home. Was there anything beyond the abuse and the fighting for him? For a fighting dog, especially a Pit bull, perhaps this was the life for him.
In the early morning hours, Stewart and Lizzie both lie lazily upon the concrete floor, Mack had not gotten a wink of sleep. His body ached due to the fighting he had endured, the running on the treadmill and his stomach weak from the lack of food he was given. The dog stands up, puts his nose to the ground and sniffs for a while. Mack stopped and stood silently, looking at the walls. The darkness becoming easier for him to see in, looking around at this messy warehouse, seeing what shapes were casted in the darkness. Everything looked like a shadow, but the darkness did not bother Mack much. He had much scarier things to fret about.