“Every dog deserves a place to live. Every dog deserves a place in your heart. Every dog deserves a place to walk. Every dog deserves a place to run.”

Many experiments went on with dogs mating different breeds hoping their pups would be designed to have that extra ability as a fighting-dog. To breeders of dogs it was the Staffordshire Bull Terrier, to trainers of fighting-dogs, Pit Bull.


Tuesday, August 3, 2010

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Published by John Duncan https://play.google.com/store/books/details?id=kRLnQuur730C
ISBN 9780615393377

Warning! High drama at its gritty best--great screen potential.

"I am what I am."  Super creepy blood curdling read it, and your heart will jump through your chest.

BONE CHILLING tailor made for the silver screen 30 chapters 514 pages.  Read Chapter 1. Satan Appears . . . scroll down


Duncan                                                       Introduction
Italy, at the time of her Roman Empire there were . . . Gladiators.  Great Britain, at the time of her British Empire there was . . . Professional-Dog-Fighting. 
It began in the seventeenth century that lasted until nineteenth century. At the beginning, Royalty, aristocracy, patronized (Bear baiting Bull baiting,) Pit Bull type dogs fighting Black Bears to the death, and Bulls that had their horns padded.  Until dog fighting had had become more popular, replaced them.  Those bygone years, is there difference between, man killing man and dog killing dog?  Both sports were to entertain the people.
At that time they believed this was the way for animals to be sacrificed. Many experiments went on with dogs mating different breeds hoping their pups would be designed to have that extra ability as a fighting-dog.
It is common knowledge in Great Britain. That British Bulldog and Staffordshire Terrier are the original animals, which bred infamous canine. When the pups grew into young dogs.  People noticed that they were special born to fight in a confine space with no backing off, the pit.  Not only did the breed have indomitable courage, and tenacity as a fighting-dog.  This is bred in him her at birth. It was also, a great ratter, ruthless killer of vermin.  Adopted in the Country’s rat infested coalmines, where they would stop the deadly tunnel rats, in life and death battles from harming the men.  To breeders of dogs it was the Staffordshire Bull Terrier.  To trainers of fighting dogs, Pit Bull touch not the fighting-dog without a glove.
Synopsis
    Tom Mitchell: die-hard fan of Professional-Dog-Fighting, who has a gift of doing things the right way was born into a world of violence at the time of Queen Victoria.  The period during which he grew into adulthood, when dog fighting and rat baiting pits were legal.  The violence was all around him that rooted deep in his heart; he has a dark-side with a black-mind, which is unearthly.  Mitchell would sell his soul to have the most ferocious breed of fast-fighting-dogs ever seen.  So strong is his passion to have them.  He commits to a great power.  Its demonic forces are mastering destinies flesh ripping, bone crunching fate in the shape of a powerful new breed of dog without fear.  To gallop into destruction against man or beast that would challenge it--inside or outside the pit.  Mitchell would never change his wicked way, not—for—anyone.  

A dark dark side of Great Britain’s long history that you can’t keep in the dark, so many dark deeds had been committed.  Mitchell was damn good at everything he does, fighting-dogs always meant more to him than people.

TERROR . . . PIT BULLS
(The Most Ferocious Breed of Fast-Fighting-Dogs Ever Seen)
Touch not the fighting-dog without a glove 
Chapter 1.
Satan Appears

Early dawn filtered out of charcoal clouds breaking over a highly developed industrial landscape. That was influenced with rambling stone buildings far as the eye could see, and paved in cobblestone streets lit up by masses of glimmering, Gas Lampposts.  Gaslight shines faintly all around reflecting sinister dark passages, which harbor creepy, inky black shadows that blends into the city's haunting background.  It shows a landscape of tall chimneys, domes, spires, steeples, and towers.
     The still of steely light, stone structures threw back echoes of lamplighter's footsteps marching in the cobble streets of divided districts.  A great many of them from the Gas Board were routinely ascending ladders turning the lamps, OFF.  Then, at the onset of night with military precision, they were again ascending ladders turning the lamps, ON; glimmering gaslight once more reflects creepy, harmful, inky black shadows that hold villains dressed in ghostly hood and cloak cutthroats of the world.
     Their phantom silhouettes, hide in dark recesses waiting for a victim to rob or send to the land beyond.  No sooner than fear makes them disappear upon hearing.  Blood-curdling, screeching squeaking squealing creatures of the darkness, voracious rat packs, black rats, brown rats with long wormy tails slithering over under each other.  Followed by the young whose voracious appetite is there when born.  Screech squeak squeal for parents.  Those are occupied with whiskers twitching rapidly pointed snouts glued to the ground. Sniffing screeching squeaking searching, and squeaking screeching sniffing searching for delicious cripple body to deliciously eat.
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     And quite suddenly--the screeching squeaking squealing became loud; their shrill cries are now in a state of high excitement.  The rat’s acute sense of smell has found thee favorite food they crave for, delicious human flesh.  First comes First to eat.  The race against time to get there First before there’s nothing left of this juicy, delicious cripple body, is on, within moments.  Rat packs hunched up screeching squeaking squealing slithering over under each other.  Hundreds upon hundreds of them wee-bastards squeaking squealing screeching to get there First, furrow burrow into a derelict shop.  Inside—rats in tidal floods turbulently gush out of black holes in all directions, screeching squeaking squealing, nipping, tripping, falling, and slithering over under each other.  Every inch of this vile smelly floor is carpeted in miry frames with long wormy tails.  The great number weighted down the juicy, delicious cripple body from head to foot.  The unfortunate, a homeless beggar who’d died in his sleep was blanketed three-deep in rats, all skirmishing for a position to eat a beggar's banquet of delicious food. 
     Poisonous, vermin needlepointed teeth are voraciously gorging delicious flesh, delicious organs, delicious eyes, delicious nose, delicious ears, delicious tongue, drinking and licking his delicious blood
to the last delicious drop.  Nothing would be wasted; even the delicious bones and skull filled with delicious marrow, is eaten to the last delicious crumb.  The rat’s voracious appetite massed together in hundreds left no trace.  Thee delicious beggar had ever existed in a world of delicious violence.
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     Life was a methodical procedure regarding fields of progress in a city populated with thousands of closely packed solid stone buildings with walls seldom less than two feet thick, every stone hand cut to fit onto the next.  There are tenements, terrace houses, one storey houses, mansions, stately homes, a behemoth Art Gallery, collection of churches, hospitals public parks, university founded in 1451 and, a great Gothic cathedral dating back to the 12th century, along with many other imposing buildings of marvel.  Dominating the skyline, spires, steeples, towers, and tall chimneystacks pouring out thick smoke are.  Already in production, smelting ore for many quantities of bronze and iron products.  That sends clouds of fumes and gases billowing up inside chimneystacks, and into the air creating a field of fog, only.  To be carried in wind over ghostly warehouses and factories that is silent, soon.  Workers would bring them to life.
     In the distance, stood mounds of shale mixed amongst coal dust or coal dust mixed amongst shale, either way. One thing is perfectly certain.  These massive man-made mounds towers over all that lay before it, and steam engines echoed out with great-gasps pulling freight cars of coal.  (Coal was energy.  Coal was fuel.  Coal takes priority over any other matter.  All this coal had to be dug from coalmines that are rat-infested.  And Victorian Britain had a lot of coal, deep in rocks beneath the ground.  Where men and boys worked round the clock digging it out.  Everything relied on the exploitation of natural 
resources, and where waterpower was sufficient factories sprang up.  It was a different way of ruthless capitalism.  Which used labor in a new systematic fashion of woman and children, who had to work long hours, often through the night.)
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     Further along the rail track. A whisky distillery and beer brewery are already in production; smell of grain to make the golden liquid was heavy—lingers, and the air, rancid with the smell of coal smoke escaping from household chimneypots. That never goes away.   
     Shops selling newspapers, cigarettes, tobacco and other merchandise were busy with customers.  While bread factories baking all sorts of products worked round the clock and.  The local dairy plant, processing milk was up and running at four a.m., bang on the nose, where men women and children were disciplined at producing, work hard was the cry across the land.  Workers were dressed in, long rubber aprons rubber gloves rubber wellington boots.  Which protects them from scalding hot water sanitizing glass bottles without interruption, mechanically.  They put them in place to cool down behind rows upon rows of bottles ready and waiting, in a connecting network.  Those were taking by others working the production line, filling them to the brim with milk and into metal crates.  The sounds of bottles shake as they stack the crates all day long.
     Public transport of green and orange double-deck tramcars rattle constantly around the city picking up passengers, their iron wheels clang clang on tram rails, and when they come to stop.  Grinding brakes screech throughout the city.  High above, the sky’s impish inky clouds broods over the city have gathered to resemble what looks like, an evil hideous monster.  Its ugly mouth wide open black as coal appears to swallow up, all that is good and saintly below.
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     This is Glasgow before she had given birth to, First Industrial Revolution, the Empire’s second city, which has been prosperous since the Middle Ages.  Is a large, sprawling, working, corporate town of the first order, divided into many specified local districts.  Its great river, River Clyde was great not in size but in great stopping the force of great ocean-going-liners and ships launched from her embankment into, the bracken Clyde water.  Polluted from years of harmful substances by industry. Still, it winds devotedly as a partner through the heart of the city slogging away to meet a deadline. 
     Onward she steadily flows south defiantly as ever, regardless of these impurities in her bracken Clyde water, under iron and stone bridges meeting the city’s oldest park Glasgow Green, an area that has played a vibrant role in the life of Glasgow for over five hundred years.  Her tireless bracken water proudly and stubbornly streams on to the ocean passing the great factories of many products also, iron works and shipyards stretching for miles to the sea, where iron men built iron ships in all kinds of weather. That carried in the air all day long, disturbing noises like bursts of machine-gun fire from; iron rivets being riveted onto massive iron plates.  Holding them together in different heights, lengths and widths, great ships that would spend their lives sailing across the oceans of the world.
     (A note of respect to Glaswegians who are very keen on her identity, from a major industrial giant to a shining star, Britain’s FIRST European city of culture, a great achievement. The Clyde made Glasgow and Glasgow made the Clyde.  It made both the river and itself black with soot and, grime, as the city raced into a commanding position in the First Industrial Revolution.  Glasgow was a producer of big heavy industrial material.  Its shipyards were supreme, lasting for nearly hundred years, and that 
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distinct period in history is lost forever. During the Second World War, Clyde built more shipping tonnage than the whole of America’s shipyards combined.  Clyde built was a global guarantee of quality.  Which took great skills of sheer hard physical work and challenges by those craftsmen, considering. Great Britain was on her knees close to defeat; her factories and shipyards were relentlessly bombarded from the air.  And out of a million military personnel from Britain and other Countries.  That served in the British Armed Forces. Two hundred twenty three thousand men women were from the City of Glasgow.  Written on the Cenotaph in George Square, remembering those who had made the great sacrifice with their lives.)
   
     In a wee room of a terrace house masculine canine stretched and yawned.  It looked at a bed between the walls barks to awaken its master.  The sound broke into the early dawn more barking followed, which drifts out from the sash window and settles onto the street.  Close by, homeless, starving strays without food have responded to the natural environment to survive, their highly developed sense of smell, search for rats and cats to eat, without warning.  They froze upon hearing that rough bark. It was a familiar sound well known to them.  Instantly their ears cock in fright. They shivered fixing bloodshot, bulbous canine eyes towards the window.  The strays had cause to worry.  That rough distinctive barking is the mark of a fierce, savage fighting-dog. Which likes to kill, which enjoys the kill, and which lives for the kill.  At once, their animal instinct transmits a warning to fear, if the beast gets outside.  It will certainly come chasing after me spoiling to fight.  Tails, tucked between paws, the strays’ cow off whining across waste ground, and those.  Crept into, ghostly, creepy, dark shadows of tenements to safety.
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     Underneath warm blankets a body moved.  He was awakening by the dog’s barking.  From underneath the blankets, an arm withdrew his veined hand rested on top of a cabinet touching, a wee-box and loose change of silver coins.  He rose quickly sitting on the edge of the cavity bed, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. From that wee-box he took out a match--struck it.  The glow, lights up the strong face of a rugged good-looking young man.  He removed a glass shade from a paraffin lamp, and lit the wick—placed back the glass shade.  The young man adjusted the wick higher to brighten up his tidy bedroom but poorly, furnished.  Paraffin light sparkled pinhead drops of water on damp walls.  That slithers down into dark shadows.  The room was freezing which did not bother him.  He knew autumn brought cold weather.  And, he knew he would survive.  He was a miracle—slum lad strong and healthy resisting his environment; but it had had taken a toll on him inwardly bringing about, a hardness and bitterness that permeated his soul.  Outwardly, he was of fine appearance, thick dark hair, bushy eyebrows, steel blue eyes, Roman nose, and broad chest with a frame measuring six-foot, two-inch tall.     His eyes circles around the room to rest upon a British Bulldog, eighteen month’s old, twenty-inches in height stretching its muscular body. That is etched with scars and nicks resulting from professional dogfighting and rat-catching.  Bulldog rubbed against its master’s legs.  He got down on one knee, cuddled it hard kissing the animal’s bullhead repeatedly pouring his heart out to it, stroking its muscle body with respect.  It barked and growled licking his face and hands, happy just to be beside him.  They had a special friendship.  Bulldog was a major player in his life.  To look at a fighting-dog observers can only admire it.  It would not break hearts.
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        A thin smile on the young man’s lips parted to a strange, mocking wolfish smile, which opened up his face, revealing strong, regular teeth, in his Scottish cadence that carried a distinctive velvet sound.  He said strongly towards the Bulldog.
     “Good morning, Fury.  Ay . . . my precious, you were at your best last night.  Crunch crunch crack crack another win.  Give me a fighting-dog and I come alive.” He paused briefly shook his head disappointed.  “Damn it.  Fuck.  Fuck, just my lousy misfortune, Fury.  The prize-money, there’s never enough money to make me quit that stinking coalmine,” The young man made a sound of disgust, and then told himself.  “I should be thankful to Fury, I am.  I am.  Without it life would’ve sucked.  Fighting-dog has brought me great joy, and excitement of thrills chills to my boring life of endless toiling.  Fighting-dogs have always meant more to me than people.”
     Suddenly, from another part of the poor-wee-house a female voice bounced around the interior.  “Tom Mitchell, are you awake.  It’s time to get up.  You’ll be late for work.”
     Small as the house was, cubbyhole for a toilet, kitchen size of a stamp.  Leading from it three wee-boxed-rooms.  A fly could have heard her.
     As Mitchell sat on the edge of his cavity bed he felt miserable, thinking about another rotten day at the coalface and, that lousy letter from the Army to enlist.  Gosh . . . going into the military has upset my plans.  Fuck.  Life sucks.  There’s nothing I want the most than to have ferocious-fast-fighting-dogs, which nobody else had.  This would be a crown on my head.  I’ll have money. Ay, I'll have money. Then I could leave that stinking lousy coalmine.  It was then he called sourly.
     “Alright Mum, I’m up.”
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     Feeling low, Mitchell’s attention fell quickly to the beast.  Recalling their first meeting, when looking through Sandy’s pet shop window.  His hands and face pressed against the pane of glass gazing upon, a British Bulldog pup of ebony color, an extremely rare color for that breed.  His black-mind raced he remembered the legend.  The old Gaelic tradition was, an animal that’s black as night is the Devil in disguise.  It brings wealth, death, and destruction.  This is when Tom Mitchell realized he had always wanted to have, the ultimate savior to turn his life around for better.  Standing there alone, he spoke proudly his destiny out loud.
     “Ay . . . the only way out from that stinking hell hole.  So be it . . . I’ve got nothing, and I’ve nothing to lose.  To remain poor is not for me,” he paused.  “I am what I am.  I’ll train the pup as it grows up into a fighting-dog; make lots of money—lots of it—buy my own kennel.  I’ll have the most ferocious breed of fast-fighting-dogs ever seen.  Give me a fighting-dog and I come alive, crunch crunch crack crack.”
     Excited by his actions Mitchell went inside, leaned over the wire fence, picked up, a six-weeks-old, male pup, he muttered, “Beefy for its age.”  Looking it over, his shrewd eyes checked for ailments found none.  He continued to address the pup.  “Starting from now until you become a young dog, I guarantee, my precious. You’ll have fire in your belly like me.  (Mitchell crunched his teeth,) ay, like me, like me.  Your heart shall be mean as hell, it will be the same color of thy fur, dark as coal, with your muscle body, pudgy face wild black eyes; you’ll be a fighting-dog to fear.  Ay my precious, nothing in this stinking world is going to stop us.  It will be you and me together from now on.  I’ll take care of you, and you take care of me.  To get your attention, I’ll name you . . . let me think.”  The pup projected a fiery bullish look, and he proclaimed, “Fury.  You will be called Fury.”
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     From his pocket, Mitchell withdrew some money counted out the amount, paid Sandy, which included collar and leash.  Finally, there was a way out of the quagmire his life had had fallen into.
     Once outside, he leaned against the wall cuddling it proud to have a dog to call his own.  People pass him some paid no attention and others. Are smiling at this tall handsome man cuddling a wee-pup, who did not notice them.  His eyes were fixed on the pup planning for the days ahead.  Fury will have endless training, constant long walks, mixed with daily running to develop strong paws, large marrowbones from the butcher, will strengthen jaws, and when it’s ready to fight, live-bait.  There are plenty of stray dogs roaming about.  
     Without warning, Fury, snarling and growling with fierceness gripped its wee-muscular jaws onto Mitchell’s hand shaking its head vigorously, struggling to get down from his arms.  It seemed to have read his mind.  He thought, my God, look at its head shaking, just like a Terrier with a rat caught between its jaws.  Gosh Fury has pluck.  These wee-white-teeth are sharp and unpleasant, doing their best to puncture my skin.  Lucky for me at that age it can’t do damage.  I wouldn’t like to make Fury angry when they’re stronger.  I’ll teach him who the master is as he grows up.  Placing the pup on the ground Mitchell attached collar and leash, instantly. Fury aggressively pulled forward growling stretching the leash tight, muscles of its wee sturdy body bulged.  Every step taken by the pup, stronger it got, and Mitchell could see the pups fierce determine look to pull ahead, as if its after something.  Maybe, he wondered, Fury is chasing a dog or rat I do hope so?  Its behavior is unusual; most pups want to be carried.  His black-mind did not let the occurrence hamper the exercise.
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     Stopping at the house, Mitchell picked up Fury opens the front door.  He felt his hands wet and glanced at them.  The sight puzzled him; there’s blood on the palm of his hands.  Quick check of the pup’s pads revealed the source. The pads were raw from walking.  Not understanding why? It didn’t stop or cry out most whelps would give up but kept plugging ahead.  On that very first day he knew the pup was special.  It had a stout heart.
     Mitchell had a gift of doing things the right way producing, a battling, lockjaw fighting-dog, which won all of its flesh ripping, bone cracking crunching, blood curdling fights.  But, he was not satisfied.  Fury was slow, a savage fighter that stood ground its eyes ever on the move, always moving for the right moment to strike; he wanted to have the best--best fast-fighting-dogs--new breed that nobody else had.  That would be champion of the pit meant more money for its trainer.  Without money he knew life sucks and. His black-mind had had the greed for money.  Mitchell also knew not everyone could be successful.  If that did happen--everyone was successful.  There would be no one to do the donkeywork.  The world would come to a standstill.  To accomplish wealth, you have to live dangerously.  Take chances on making the right decisions.  Whatever or whenever the situation should arise.  Those who do become successful deserve that privilege, after all.  In buisness you have to offer everything in collateral up front.  It’s the only way to accomplish wealth after wealth.
     He came back to the present, made a grimace gazing again around the room disgruntled about the poverty surrounding him, his way of living as a coal-miner.  Is unjust, no way out.  It was stacked with so many obstacles against the working class.  The minority has too much and the majority has too little.  An afterthought came to him.  I have to change--quicker the better.  I have to improve my life.
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      From his cavity bed Mitchell went over to the enamel pitcher with water.  He poured some water into the matching basin, and splashes it thoroughly over his face and body.  Picking up the towel, he dried himself continued to get dressed for work.     
     When he came out of the bedroom.  There was Mum beside the cast-iron fireplace combined with oven and domestic coal grate.  In her hand is her favorite iron poker stoking coal inside the grate, which leapt into life.  She had that practice of making a roaring fire. (Mrs. M was one of many; within the hour thousands upon thousands of coal fires are lit, its smoke billowing up through the range channel escaping out of chimneypots into the air, and forming into a sea of smoke.  If one could fly like a great bird soaring at a great height looking down at all that coal smoke, it would seem.  That this part of the world was on fire.)
     “Good morning Mum.  How are you?”  Tom said.
     “Not so bloody good, your brother, last night, drunk again.”  She replied looking at the flames sparking.  “If your father was alive.  He would’ve sorted him out.  Ay . . . Dad took no nonsense.  Self-discipline Dad was.  You’re just like him.  One of a kind.”  
     Her gaze fell upon the Bulldog, it barks, growls, runs in a circle like every other morning.  She snatched a quick glance at Fury’s plate; it had gobbled up the porridge.  Mrs. M opened the lid of a white, enamel bin with words DOG FOOD on it.  She withdrew a parcel, unwraps the greaseproof paper to reveal, a large, raw meaty bone.  Her lips had a thin smile, and she remarked.  “Ay Fury, always on time for breakfast.”
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     At once, fighting-dog's eyes gleamed its jaws clamps onto the marrowbone.  Mrs. M opens the back door to the rear garden.  Fury ran out past the outhouse settles on a patch of grass to eat.  She looks at the Bulldog caressing the bone with its tongue. 
     Mitchell noticed Mum still had had that thin smile.  This is a good time to tell her, he thought.  She seems in good humor.  Should help to soften the bad news
     “That letter I got yesterday was from the government.  In two-months, I’ve to register for the Army.  I’ll be twenty-one-years-old then.  It’s the age miners have to enlist for national service.”
     Mrs. Mitchell sighed; tears appeared in her soft sad eyes upset her son would be absent for sometime.  “Tom . . . you’ll be away for two-years.” She gulped thinking the worst.  “You might not even come back.  Buried or lost in some foreign field.  How can I manage without you?  Your brother is out of control.  All he thinks of is booze.”
     “Don’t fret Mum, I’ll send you my Army pay.  You’ll be okay.  Oh Mum, you know Jack is harmless; he’s just a wee-bit-wild.  You said when Jack was born. The doctor unexpectedly dropped him.”
     That mistake caused her weary body to tremble.  “Ay . . . our first born.  The baby had had accidentally fallen from the doctor’s hands.  Before he could catch it.  Baby’s head hit a chair.  I-knew, I-knew, bairn . . . the baby, would not be right.”
     Gently Tom wrapped his arm round her shoulders; she looked haggard and miserable, causing his eyes to moisten.  The wrinkles on her face came early. Brought on by Dad’s death.  He remembered Mum when Dad was alive.  She was warm and loving beautiful inside and outside.  How long she is going to stay unhappy, he could not say.
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     Mrs. M found comfort in her son’s arm, staring into his handsome features recalling that he was the spitting image of his Dad.  Whom both had strong personalities, and Jack was the opposite through no fault of his own.  Life had dealt him a wicked blow at birth.  Memories of happier times came back to her but they were fleeting.  She became bitter again and, with narrow eyes she said in contempt, “I’ll never forgive God for taking your father away from us.  That is why Jack took to drink.  He loved Dad deeply, like I did.  We miss him terribly.  It drained me of my hopes and dreams I had for the family. 
     “This world is not a nice place; matter of fact it’s a wicked place.  People against people, animals against animals, it will never change.  I’ve listened to them bible thumpers, those preachers in Glasgow Green Park converting th­e crowds, preaching about the supernatural some force beyond understanding, a supernatural being.  We have to change from bad to good, from worse to best, all to the good, they say, that there’s a better life after death.  That mankind is evil cursed with blaspheme and many other ghastly things.  We have to live a good clean life to be allowed into God’s Kingdom.  People look up to the preachers for hope and salvation. I believe that is true. Thousands of believers agree and follow them.  All these people can’t be wrong.  When I’m dead Dad will come to me, then.  We can share our love in a place of happiness.” 
     “Ay Mum, maybe the preachers are right that this world is a trial period.  I do agree the road of life is a mysterious journey.  Nobody seems to know the purpose of why we’re here.  Is it not to test our metal? If we are worthy to enter another life beyond the grave.”  His mood quickly changed to reality.  “But . . . right now Mum. I’m also angry with God.  Since I was Ten-years-old, I’ve worked at the mine.  That’s when I became a man.  I didn’t know what it was like to be a child.  Although, my schooling was just
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meager it taught me more than the basics of reading and writing.  I was always anxious to learn, only. I never got that chance; the big bad, stinking, mean lousy world passed me by.  It was not to be.”  He added firmly, “Don’t fret over me, Mum.  When and where I fight for Queen and Country.  I’ll come back to you and Jack.  My life cant’ get any worse than what it is.  Not only that Mum.  I’m a survivor.  I’ve too . . . much hate in me against the world; God, Gabriel or angels, take your pick; will not allow me into Heaven.  There’s too . . . much of the Devil in my soul. I can never change.  Not even for you, Mum.  I am what I am.  When that day comes I get demobed from the Army.  I’ll still have time or I’ll make time to carve my niche in this forsaken world, fighting-dogs have always meant more to me than people, nothing can ever replace them.  Ay . . . Professional-Dog-Fighting runs wild in my blood, so be it. I’ll make money from dogfighting.  I am what I am.  Give me a fighting-dog and I come alive.”
     Mum's face looked extremely dubious considering her son wanted to meddle with demons.
    “Be careful Tom.  Dog fighting is the Devil’s work. There are people from around here. That practice witchcraft, a practice in league with Lucifer spirit of evil, so old.  It never dies out.  They believe Satan’s out there waiting--waiting just for the right person.  Who has the will to call it from Hell?”
     Mitchell was pleased by what she had said.  A wolfish smile opened up his face.  Why not he thought, I’ll give it my best shot, as he studied the sparsely furnished kitchen and its cramped conditions, which served as a dining room, living room and social room, grunting.  “ Paying rent for the likes of this.”  He snapped.
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      “If only, I could be that person to awake the force of evil.  I don’t care if dogfighting is the Devil’s work.  I stopped being human being years ago when dad was killed, I would.  Sell my soul to have the most ferocious breed of fast-fighting-dogs ever seen.” 
     Tom’s heart was heavy he withdrew from Mum respectfully.  Moving his hands around the house, he continued with a sneer.  “This is all we have from years of back-breaking-work.  I can’t go on working that hellhole.  That’s no kind of life I want.  I have to leave the mine, leave it . . . leave it far behind.”  He added quietly and decisively.  “There are those who take a wee-bite out of life.  That’s not for me.  There are those who take a bite out of life.  That’s not for me.  There are those who take a chunk out of life.  Ay . . . that’s for me.  That’s what life is all about.  Take what you can . . . get what you can . . . Take as much as you possibly can from this stinking lousy world.  No one else will do it for you.”
     Mrs. Mitchell agreed her features displayed pride as she released a rare smile.  “You’ve got ambition Tom.  Just like your dad when he was alive.  Nothing would stand in his way.  Two of you are of the same mold, made of iron.”
     He saw Mum the way she used to be—full of praise, and gave her a cuddle.  Pleased and surprised she still has a wee-spark.
     “She blurted unexpectedly. “Oh oh . . . look at the time, to busy chattering. I better get your breakfast ready.”
     It was then Mitchell’s black-mind took control; determined to wake the force of evil.  He had nothing to lose but ask for his wish.  Hoping, it would be the way out from living in squalor and working in squalor.  Dropping to his knees looking down with fists clenched.  He begged desperately in a strong low voice. “Plee-ase . . . Please Lucifer.  Listen to me . . . hear my cry.  Grant me these quarrelsome pugnacious fast-fighting-dogs my soul yearns for. And I shall forever follow your destructive path to the end of time.  Plee-ase . . . I will, I will, please Lucifer . . . I will.  Here my cry—plee-ase.  There’s nothing in this stinking world that I want the most. Oh ay, the highest of highs.  Give me a fighting-dog and I come alive.”
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     (With her back towards him, Mum was too engrossed preparing his meal.  That all sound evaded her.  She did not notice what he was doing.)
     As these words of truth are said, evil was listening.  This is what Satan had been searching for, a new disciple, who has a dark-side with a black mind, which is unearthly.  Aroused in its fiery chasm Satan roared deep inside hell.  At an alarming speed It traveled upwards to spread inside the house.   What is about to unfold and if permitted to see It, would frighten a person to death.
     Tom Mitchell had had committed to a great power.  Its demonic forces are mastering destinies flesh ripping, bone crunching fate, in the shape of a powerful new breed of dog without fear. To gallop into destruction against man or beast that dares to challenge it—inside or outside the pit.
     Both human’s were mysteriously hypnotized.  Above their heads unknown to them, thick, black, twirling-smoke formed into the head of Lucifer spirit of evil, eyes black as coal with a face and body so ugly words cannot describe.  It roared in glee, It found the claiming of another soul who has the ultimate craving to summon It. Satan’s powerful voice bellowed in a dialect that was from the 13th century, when ghouls, witches, and ravens birds of evil omen, roamed the land.  “TOM MITCHELL . . . THEE ARE TO BE THEIR MASTER, AND I THEE MASTER OF ALL.”
     The voice disappeared quickly as it came.  That left the Bulldog sexually aroused growling with nose to the ground, sniffing at something there.  Satan had put it under a spell preparing it to breed with another dog, and of the Devil’s apparition.  It was just the beginning.
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     Outside, rough growling caught Mitchell’s attention, he leans over the sink looks out of the sash window sees Fury doing intimate movements--thought nothing of its behavior. He casually turned away from the window, asking Mum.  “How’s Jack getting on? We seem to cross paths.”
     “Your brother’s fine.  He left for the milk plant at 4:30 this morning.”
     “At least Jack likes his job.”
     “Ay . . . your Dad wasn’t afraid of hard work.  Both of you are just like him.”
     Jack was slow and soft but never lacked from toil. The authorities for backward adults found him the job, putting bottle-milk into crates.  Young people who were soft in the head.  They were not going to rot away in some institute.  Everyone, are given a chance to show what he she could do.  And Jack was good at his job, which pleased management.  
     Tom, who had a gentle attachment for his precious brother would only allow Mum, to belittle him.  She had that right—no one else.
     The back door, Mitchell opens wide to call Fury into the house, it had finished the bone; not even a crumb was left.  He had always marveled at the Bulldog’s savageness, and the strength in its muscular jaws, hoping when Fury breeds.  Its pups as young dogs would have the same capabilities.  A fighting-dog needs strong jaws.
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     Going over to Fury, Mitchell strokes it with respect, saying. “Its time to go another day at the coalface.  Ay . . . my precious, oh ay, do I know.  Fury loves to kill the rats down there.” 
     Rats, the Bulldog understood, it snarled and growled meanly moving in a circle, sniffing for vermin.  But, Mitchell knew that soon Fury would be up against them wee-bastards, in life and death situations.
     He went back inside. Sits himself down watching Mum move the black-iron-pot off fire to range.  Gingerly, she scooped the ladle inside and poured the tasty porridge into a bowl.  Placing plate in front of her son, Tom began to eat.
     Fury sniffed underneath the table searching for additional food, is ignored.  Its master had an iron self-discipline nature; fighting-dog would not be over-fed, also.  Mitchell was single-minded concentrating only on one aim, pursuit of money.
     After double helpings of porridge along with thick slices of toast, Mitchell stretched his arms, uttering.  “I better get going Mum.  The gaffer likes his workers to be on time.”
     Mrs. M nodded.  “Ay son, here’s your lunch box.  Be careful down there.  Watch out for them
deadly tunnel rats.  These long wormy tails rats have—eeeh, slithering across the ground (Mrs. M shivered.)  Has given me goose bumps.  Rats, are seemingly impossible task to get rid of and difficult to deal with.  Mind you, the rat you have to respect, there indestructible.  Them wee-beasties never go away tough as nails, unafraid of humans.  Soon as their killed, more and more pop up in hundreds in thousands, in fact.  There’s no end to them wee-so an sos.  Give a rat an inch; it will attack you in a second.  A rat can never be trusted, so destructive.  Don’t ever Tom let your guard down against them wee-so an sos.”
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     Mitchell took the box, replying.  “You bet Mum, Fury protects me.  He doesn’t let them wee-bas . . . I mean them wee-beasties get near me.  I’ve always said.  Touch not the fighting-dog without a glove.  That’s my motto.  I am what I am.”
     “Ay . . . a grand dog he’s that for protecting you.”  She expounded.  “Only, the good Lord knows why Fury’s a savage fighting-dog.  It was Him who gave the Bulldog life.  We will never know or understand God’s strange ways.”  Mrs. M added.  “And I can see, son.  Its written all over your face. Fighting-dogs have always meant more to you than people.” 
     “Ay, you bet.  Fighting-dogs are my life. That’s what I live for.”  He remarked with a smile.  “Give me a fighting-dog and I come alive.  Bye-bye Mum.  I’ll catch you later.”
     Mrs. M had noticed Tom almost uttered the swear word.  She shook her head mocking him in fun, as he went out the front door.
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TERROR PIT BULLS born into a world of violence, great screen potential 30 chapters 514 pages tons of growling, tons of snarling, tons of action, thrills chills, deceitful, super creepy, evil vs good, and Satan.  Chapter 2. Kingdom of the Rat