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wolves. He's got a guy in Springfield says he can cop 'em from Forest Park. That'll be something, hah? Maybe we should think about spreading out in the animal kingdom, you know, some big cats or something. Maybe pit a couple panthers? No fucking end to the possibilities, hah?" |
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When they took their seats, Jerry leaned over to the fat man's ear. "I need a favor." |
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"Somebody fell into the cracks I gotta find." |
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Muzzy nodded again. "He from the state?" |
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"He drive a car? Own a house? Shop with MasterCard and VISA?" |
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The bell rang again. From overhead speakers the voice of Mike "the Fig" Mangiafico welcomed everybody and announced the night's docket, which included six pit-bull fights of three different weight classes. The fighting weights were strictly agreed upon, and during the cocktail hour the dogs were closely weighed. If a dog was over his agreed-upon weight class, the owner would automatically concede the fight and compensate the opponent with his $5,000 entry fee. The Fig announced the odds, then the special event: two Kenyan jackals. Carlos was favored three to one, although nobody was certain jackals could fight. It was an exotic sideshow that would turn out to be a duda lot of barking and posturing but no blood. |
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The referee in a blue blazer stood up with a portable microphone and called out, "Gentlemen, face your dogs." |
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Below, the handlers entered the pit at opposite ends of the square and positioned their dogs, holding them firmly by the flesh of their necks. Though the dogs tugged a little to get at the opponents, there was no growling, no barking, no baring of incisors, no hackles standing up. These animals were so singularly programmed to fight |
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