Published by John Duncan buy book at https://play.google.com/store/books/details?id=kRLnQuur730C
Warning! High drama at its gritty best--great screen potential.
"I am what I am. Give me a fighting-dog and I come alive crunch crunch crack crack."
BONE CHILLING tailor made for the silver screen 30 chapters 514 pages. Read Chapter 1. Satan Appears . . . scroll down
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.
(The Most Ferocious Breed of Fast-Fighting-Dogs Ever Seen)
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.
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.
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.)
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.)
“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.”
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.”
“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?”
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.
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.”
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