Bait Dog An Atlanta Burns Novel - By Chuck Wendig Page 0,65

shivs or razors. Or shit to throw in a dog’s eye. I’ve even seen it where they try to put razors on the dog’s paws or in their mouths. That’s amateur hour bullshit, though. Doesn’t happen too often, but Cajun Rules says you gotta check.”

“Face your dogs,” the ref calls. Another lasso motion.

Each handler forcibly turns his dog to face the center of the arena. The animals stand just behind their handlers, head and shoulder poking through the men’s legs.

The ref shouts: “Let go.”

The men step aside—

And the fight’s on. Atlanta’s heart’s racing and she expects it to match the tempo of the fight, figuring these two beasts will barrel forward and slam into one another like two cannonballs, but that’s not how it happens. The battle unfolds slowly and clumsily, the animals hesitant—if it’s a car crash, it’s one set to a slow-mo crawl.

Gristly Orion trots out into the middle like this is old hat. The other dog—Omar, apparently—circles right, still panting, still wearing that giddy dumb dog’s face, oblivious to the thrashing that Atlanta is now certain he’s going to get. Omar’s handler gets off to the side, starts yelling at the dog and waving his hands like he’s trying to telekinetically move the animal. Handler gets too close, and the ref taps him—“Back up. No touching, no touching.”

Karl stands back. Arms crossed. Showing his teeth in a broken-toothed smile.

Omar turns back toward his handler and the ref yells out: “Turn!”

“Shit!” the black dude says.

Karl just laughs as the ref whoops out: “Handle your dogs.”

Both handlers grab the dogs and head back to their corners.

“That’s a turn,” Guy explains. “Dog faces away from the fight, that’s a cur move. Curs are losers. Winners are champs. Dog makes a turn—meaning, he turns away from the fight—

three times, match is over. Dog loses. Bonafide cur, yo.”

Atlanta’s stomach flutters. That’s what needs to happen here. Omar isn’t up for this. He’s not a fighter. Keep turning, she thinks. Keep turning.

The ref whips his hand around again, calls out the same as before: “Face your dogs.” Dog head and shoulders show again through handler legs. “All right. Let go.”

Once more the dogs are free.

Again Orion boldly steps into the middle. He knows the drill and Karl doesn’t have to do anything to egg the animal on. But the black dude—whose name Atlanta still doesn’t know until someone from the audience tells him to “Whip that bitch, Deshawn!”—stands behind his dog, clapping his hands and snapping his fingers.

It works. Atlanta grips the plywood as Omar moves to the middle. But not like a fighter. The brindled pit’s got a lean, slack posture—a happy doggy face like he’s going to greet an old friend and maybe tussle in the dirt over a chew-toy. Orion just stands there. Head low. Shoulder hair starting to bristle. A hellhound ready to pounce.

The crowd is whooping it up, now. The skinheads cheering. Everybody else gasping or booing. It’s like watching a lamb bobble off toward a waiting lion.

Orion moves. Fast. Scary fast.

His jaw wraps around Omar’s muzzle. Orion dominates. Pushes the smaller pit bull down into the dirt, coughing up a plume of brown dust. Omar squeals, cries out—a sharp keening whimper. The crowd is loud, now—Atlanta’s own strangled cry is lost amongst their catcalls and monkey hoots.

Omar’s wriggling. Trying to move. Trying to roll over. But Orion isn’t letting it happen. As Omar whines and thrashes, Deshawn hops up and down, wide-eyed and screaming, the corners of his mouth wet with spit-froth: “No! No! C’mon! C’mon, son! Get up!” Deshawn hunkers low, suddenly waves his hands like he’s a man drowning at sea. “Fanged! Fanged! Omar’s fanged, yo! Ref, ref—you listening to me?”

The ref hurries over, hunkers down, then yells out: “Fang. On Omar. Handle your dogs, back to corner.”

Karl finally shows some life—and he’s pissed. He gets up in the ref’s face disputing the call, banging his two fists together like boulders. The ref acts like Karl isn’t even there.

“I said, handle your dogs.” It’s then Atlanta sees that the ref has a sparking stun gun in his hand. Karl backs off.

As the two handlers go for their dogs, Guy nods. “Karl bought his dog another five, ten seconds there. Dick move. But smart.”

“What’s fanged mean?” Atlanta asks, but the answer becomes plain:

As the handlers break the magnetic blood-bond between the two dogs, Atlanta gasps as she sees Omar’s face. His nose and muzzle are ragged. Blood patters down into the dirt, bubbling up in the