The Pit

He was hauled up and carried away.

“Nothing like a stormy night to pick up bait. No one ever suspects. Always blame the thunder. Thinks it scared the little shits into running off.”

“How much we gonna make?”

“Fifty a head easy.”

“Nice.”

Thunder clapped again, marking the end of Benny’s old life.

* * *

Brutus entered the ring. The dog kept his head lowered, shoulders high, ears pulled flat against his skull. His hackles already bristled. It still hurt to breathe deeply, but the dog hid the pain. Buried in his lungs, a dull fire burned from the pool water, flaring with each breath. Cautiously, he took in all the scents around him.

The sand of the ring was still being raked clean of the blood from the prior fight. Still, the fresh spoor filled the old warehouse, along with the taint of grease and oil, the chalk of cement, and the bite of urine, sweat, and feces from both dog and man.

The fights had been going on from sunset until well into the night.

But no one had left.

Not until this match was over.

The dog had heard his name called over and over: “Brutus…man, look at the cojones on that monstruo… he a little-ass bastard, but I saw Brutus take on a dog twice his size…tore his throat clean open…”

As Brutus had waited in his pen, people trailed past, many dragging children, to stare at him. Fingers pointed, flashes snapped, blinding him, earning low growls. Finally, the handler had chased them all off with his bat.

“Move on! This ain’t no free show. If you like him so goddamned much, go place a fucking bet!”

Now as Brutus passed through the gate in the ring’s three-foot-tall wooden fence, shouts and whistles greeted him from the stands, along with raucous laughter and angry outbursts. The noise set Brutus’s heart pounding. His claws dug into the sand, his muscles tensed.

They were the first to enter the ring.

Beyond the crowd spread a sea of cages and fenced-in pens. Large shadowy shapes stirred and paced.

There was little barking.

The dogs knew to save their strength for the ring.

“You’d better not lose,” the pit handler mumbled, and tugged on the chain hooked to the dog’s studded collar. Bright lights shone down into the pit. It reflected off the handler’s shaved head, revealing the ink on his arms, black and red, like bloody bruises.

The pair kept to the ring’s edge and waited. The trainer slapped the dog’s flank, then wiped his wet hand on his jeans. Brutus’s coat was still damp. Prior to the fight, each dog had been washed by their opponent’s handler, to make sure there was no slippery grease or poison oils worked into the coat to give a dog an advantage.

As they waited for their opponent to enter the ring, Brutus smelled the sheen of excitement off the handler. A sneer remained frozen on the man’s face, showing a hint of teeth.

Beyond the fence, another man approached the edge of the ring. Brutus recognized him by the way he sniffed between his words and the bitter trace of fear that accompanied him. If the man had been another dog, he would’ve had his tail tucked to his belly and a whine flowing from his throat.

“I placed a buttload on this bastard,” the man said as he stepped to the fence and eyed Brutus.

“So?” his handler answered.

“I just saw Gonzales’s dog. Christ, man, are you nuts? That monster’s half bull mastiff.”

The handler shrugged. “Yeah, but he got only one good eye. Brutus’ll take him down. Or at least, he’d better.” Again the chain jerked.

The man shifted behind the fence and leaned closer. “Is there some sort of fix going on here?”

“Fuck you. I don’t need a fix.”

“But I heard you once owned that other dog. That one-eyed bastard.”

The handler scowled. “Yeah, I did. Sold him to Gonzales a couple years ago. Didn’t think the dog would live. After he lost his fuckin’ eye and all. Bitch got all infected. Sold him to that Spic for a couple bottles of Special K. Stupidest deal I ever made. Dog gone and made that beaner a shitload of money. He’s been rubbin’ it in my face ever since. But today’s payback.”

The chain yanked and lifted Brutus off his toes.

“You’d better not lose this show. Or we might just have ourselves another barbecue back at the crib.”

The dog heard the threat behind the words. Though he didn’t fully understand, he sensed the meaning. Don’t lose. Over the past two winters, he’d seen defeated dogs shot in the head, strangled to death with their own chains, or allowed to be torn to pieces in the ring. Last summer, a bull terrier had bit Brutus’s handler in the calf. The dog had been blood-addled after losing a match and had lashed out. Later, back at the yard, the bull terrier had tried mewling for forgiveness, but the handler had soaked the dog down and set him on fire. The flaming terrier had run circles around the yard, howling, banging blindly into runs and fences. The men in the yard had laughed and laughed, falling down on their sides.

The dogs in their kennels had watched silently.

They all knew the truth of their lives.

Never lose.

Finally, a tall skinny man stepped to the center of the ring. He lifted an arm high. “Dogs to your scratch lines!”

The far gate of the ring opened, and a massive shape bulled into the ring, half-dragging his small, beefy handler, a man who wore a big grin and a cowboy hat. But Brutus’s attention fixed to the dog. The mastiff was a wall of muscle. His ears had been cropped to nubs. He had no tail. His paws mashed deep into the sand as he fought toward the scratch line.

As the beast pulled forward, he kept his head cocked to the side, allowing his one eye to scan the ring. The other eye was a scarred knot.

The man in the center of the ring pointed to the two lines raked into the sand. “To the scratch! It’s the final show of the night, folks! What you’ve been waiting for! Two champions brought together again! Brutus against Caesar!”

Laughter and cheers rose from the crowd. Feet pounded on the stands’ boards.

But all Brutus heard was that one name.

Caesar.

He suddenly trembled all over. The shock rocked through him as if his very bones rattled. He fought to hold steady and stared across at his opponent — and remembered.

* * *

“Caesar! C’mon, you bastard, you hungry or not?”

Under the midmorning sun, Benny hung from a stranger’s hand. Fingers scruffed the pup’s neck and dangled him in the center of a strange yard. Benny cried and piddled a stream to the dirt below. He saw other dogs behind fences. Smelled more elsewhere. His sister was clutched in the arms of one of men who’d nabbed them out of their yard. His sister barked out sharply.

“Shut that bitch up. She’s distracting him.”

“I don’t want to see this,” the man said, but he pinched his sister’s muzzle shut.

“Oh, grow some damn balls. Whatcha think I paid you a hundred bucks for? Dog’s gotta eat, don’t he?” The man dug his fingers tighter into Benny’s scruff and shook him hard. “And bait is bait.”

Another man called from the shadows across the yard. “Hey, Juice! How much weight you want on the sled this time?”

“Go for fifteen bricks.”

“Fifteen?”

“I need Caesar muscled up good for the fight next week.”

Benny heard the knock and scrape of something heavy.

“Here he comes!” the shadow man called over. “He must be hungry!”

Out of the darkness, a monster appeared. Benny had never seen a dog so large. The giant heaved against a