Bait Dog An Atlanta Burns Novel - By Chuck Wendig Page 0,81
the stink of spent gunpowder smells like? Why can’t I just… play around on Facebook and chase after boys and… I dunno, just quit stirring up the shit?”
Shane shrugs. “Why can’t I be six-foot-tall and built like Captain Marvel? We are who we are.”
“Well, I don’t wanna be me, then.”
Whitey, seeing that he’s not getting another bite from Atlanta, shifts his butt sideways and scoots over closer to Shane. Shane recoils. The dog gets closer. And again starts to emit ropy, gooey drool.
“He likes you,” Atlanta says.
“He’s a monster.”
“He’s a cute monster.”
“He ate somebody’s hand.”
“Kind of. A little bit of it.”
Shane picks up a corner crust of the sandwich the same way someone might pick up a dead mouse or a dirty tampon and flings it in the general direction of the Dogo. Whitey’s head ratchets back and the jaws snap closed on the sandwich piece, making it disappear. “Can you imagine those jaws closing around your throat?” Shane asks.
“No,” Atlanta says. “But I can imagine them closing on Orly Erickson’s.”
* * *
Later that day she decides to call Guy. Figures by now he’s done being mad at her. But his cell just rings and rings which tells her he’s still mad and won’t answer her call. Whatever. She decides to get ahead of that problem and pay him a visit. She gathers up Shane and Whitey and decides to take a walk and visit with her friendly neighborhood drug dealer.
The day is hot and the walk is long. It’s not technically summer yet but summer’s here just the same, biting deep and breathing hot dry breath.
Atlanta brings along a bottle of water, and occasionally tilts it back and lets Whitey slurp and lick at it.
Shane carts along his katana. Attacking anything and everything. Deadheading wildflowers. Hacking at a log. Chasing a white cabbage moth like it killed his mother and he’s out for vengeance.
Along the way, after beheading some thistle, Shane says, “Hey, I looked up that dog of yours.”
“What, he got a criminal record or something? Maybe win a spelling bee?”
Whitey pants as he walks.
“No,” Shane says, rolling his eyes. “I mean the breed of dog. The Dogo Argentino.”
“What about it?”
“It’s just funny that everyone wants to use him as a fighting dog is all.”
“Okay, you’re making me pull teeth here—just spit it out.”
“They’re not very good at it. See, they mixed a whole bunch of breeds in there—Great Dane, Boxer, Bull Terrier—but they also have an extinct breed thought to be the world’s best fighting dog, the Cordoba Fighting Dog. The Cordoba was so aggressive toward other dogs, if given a choice the males would choose fighting instead of mating every time.”
“Fightin’ instead of fornicatin’. Okay. I don’t see the disconnect here, dude.”
“With the Dogo, though, they bred the Cordoba traits out. The Dogo’s a pack hunter, not a dog fighter—so dogs that exhibited any aggression toward other dogs didn’t get to breed. Couldn’t have the dogs like, tearing each other apart on a boar hunt. They needed them to work together and to be loyal towards their people.”
Whitey looks up, drooling. As if he knows they’re talking about him.
Shane continues: “But still the dog fighters think that the ghost of this legendary Cordoba breed is still in there. So they try to tease it out—or do worse. But it’s a futile effort.”
“So, he’s just not a good fighter.”
“Nope.”
She pats him on the rump. “That’s fine by me.” Whitey’s tail wags.
* * *
Eventually they get to the little plot of land Guy owns, tucked behind a couple trees and a tangled wall of blackberry bush and rose briar. Soon as she turns the corner, she sees, feels her breath catch.
The windows are broken in the trailer. And the Scion. The front door of the doublewide is open, hanging off one hinge like Fred Astaire off a light pole. The grill’s overturned. The wooden front steps have been smashed. Most of the trailer’s décor is scattered across the lawn—an Amish hex, a wicker basket, a blue checkered tablecloth, all the country bullshit that Guy so unexpectedly adores.
Guy. Guy.
Atlanta breaks into a run, shouting his name. Whitey bounds after.
She knows what she’s going to see before she even sees it.
He’s going to be inside the house. Beaten. Burned with cigarettes. Hanging there from the light fixture, just an inch or two below his feet but that’s all you need, Chris proved that—no need to hang somebody high.
But what she finds instead is him sitting on a chair next to