Dog Eat Dog by Chris Lynch Read Free Book Online Page A

bucket. Bobo drank the Coke, and the bucket, and another bucket.
    “It’s time, goddamnit,” Terry said.
    They all got up and toddled toward the back, Augie yanking on Bobo’s chain. Bobo followed, in line, took a few sideways steps, banged off the corner of the bar, got back in line, and went out to meet the Doberman.
    I wasn’t going to go. I was above that. I felt sorry for Bobo. Bobo wasn’t my concern. Screw Bobo. I was going to leave. I sat on my stool, drank my Coke to the sounds of the growling and snarling and the dogs. I found myself leaning in that direction anyway, hanging on every bit of it, piecing it together the way kids must have in the radio days. I got lost in it.
    “Here, kid. They’re gone now. You got nothing ta prove. It’s on me.”
    The bartender leaned in to me, slid a hopping popping cold pint of draft under my nose. He stood back smirking and watched me. The bubbles jumped up at me, tickling my nose. I did not pull my nose away. It smelled delicious. Hoppy. It was Bass ale. Nothing else smells like that. But Bass doesn’t have those bubbles. It was Bass and Rolling Rock together. I stuck my nose practically into the drink, got the tiniest bit of foam on the tip of my pointer nose.
    I heard a bark, huge, like a gong. Dogs don’t bark when they fight. It was Bobo. I pushed the glass over, watched it spread out across the bar before I walked back to the bullring.
    Bobo wasn’t fighting. He stood, listing, in the middle while the Doberman ran hysterical circles around him, looking for an opening. Bobo simply rotated ponderously, like a circus elephant on a tiny platform. The Doberman got around back, took a nip of Bobo’s leg. Did it again. Did it again. The locals were popping blood vessels screaming at Bobo. The Jamaicans folded their arms. One of them smiled.
    “Pussy,” Terry screamed at Bobo. “Fight, faggot dog. I’ll kick your ass myself.”
    Augie wasn’t a lot of help from his champion’s corner. “Bo! Bobo. Bobo Bobo. Fuckin’ Bobo.” His voice cracked when the Doberman opened a gash on Bobo’s hip.
    One step slow, ten degrees off center, Bobo couldn’t seem to pull it together. It got pathetic, watching the smallish, lean and angry dog kicking hell out of the big bull. One more lunge, the Doberman snagged Bobo’s ear. He pulled and pulled, the way a normal dog will play tug of war with a stick. He dug in deep with his paws, and yanked convulsively, pulling Bobo’s hide like a sweater over his head. Bobo made not a sound as he held his ground, head pointed down, and blood poured over his eyes.
    I was more ashamed than I had ever been in my whole shame-infested life. My throat felt as if there was a whole walnut stuck in it. I took three quick steps toward the fray, as if I could help now.
    Like a cornerback out of nowhere, Terry banged into me, chest to chest.
    “Don’t you never, never break up a dogfight, you got that? Don’t you never even think about it. The loser is supposed to lose, that’s how we get rid of the weaklings. And not that I fuckin’ care, but you get in between there, and they’ll fuckin’ eat your ass, understand? And believe this, boy, I won’t put my hand in there f’you .”
    Somehow, Terry made me feel like I was in danger. I took a step back. Even though I could still hear the sickening fight, it was now easier to take, looking into Terry’s mug instead of Bobo’s. The crowd noise had remained loud, but had switched to a filthy choir of vile attacks on Bobo. I looked at the other faces, saw even more hate than usual. I remembered Terry’s speech on the meaning of dogs, realized that they all believed it. I hoped the dog would die in the fight, for his own sake.
    “Faggot, Bobo, go for his dick , why dontcha.”
    “Hope he bones ya up the ass when he’s done, Bo.”
    “Shoulda let little Bunky the rat terrier fight instead.”
    Terry half turned away from me, to make his point while pointing at the fight as if it was a lesson