“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.

John Duncan.

Sunday, May 15, 2011

Post 1 Terror Pit Bulls 2

WELCOME: Please scroll down to page 29 or click labels read first, Terror Pit Bulls Chapter 1. Satan Appears
Rats in great numbers gushed out of black holes hissing screeching squeaking squealing.  Pouring across the landscape like floods of muddy water to attack those cripple bodies, a delicacy of delicious human flesh.  Poisonous, needlepointed teeth will strip the teenager’s delicious flesh to the last delicious morsel.  Eating as if every delicious mouthful were the last, and then.  Devour the delicious skeleton bones to the last delicious crumb.  And them wee-bastards tongues will pass across the delicious blood.  Licking it deliciously to the last delicious drop.  
TERROR . . . PIT BULLS 2       
(The Most Ferocious Breed of Fast Fighting-Dogs Ever Seen)
Touch not the fighting-dog without a glove
Glasgow, before she gives birth to the First Industrial Revolution, during the reign of Queen Victoria.
Chapter 1.
 Rats, Rats, and Rats with Long Wormy Tails
     “My, my . . . that is so pretty a blue Scottish sky.  A happy summer sky that has only, wee white puffy clouds.”  The teenage girl told herself. Her dreamy face staring high above.  “What a wonderful wonderful change.  Oh ay. It’s a smashing difference from the long, dark winter sky, which puts you through fuckin' hell, how awful, the cold nights between autumn and spring.  Bleeding heck, what about the bitter cold as well. Trudging through snow and slush freezing your bum off.  Ay . . . not forgetting these short hours of daylight to, turning into (she grimaced) long, dark creepy nights.”  Quite quickly, a cute smile crossed her face.  “It’s July, sunny cloudless weather.  Long, bright days of summerPerfect conditions for hiking.”
     Slowly her blue eyes withdrew from the happy sky.  She stood in thought inside her bedroom, and then backed away from the sash window’s pane of glass.  Those blue eyes were fixed upon the cast-iron-fireplace, checking the oak frame clock on the mantelpiece.  Its pearl colour dial read 6:30 a.m., the teenage girl said subconsciously.  “Time tae go.”        
     She picked up her haversack slipping her arms through padded loops.  Sunlight burst through the window making bright patterns on the wooden floor and walls.  The teenage girl felt a sentimental attachment come over her.  Her childhood toys properly placed on bed.  Which she cuddles at night.  Their funny faces are staring straight back at her.  She smiled waving her fingers at her pillow pets, whispering cheerfully.
     “I’m going tae miss yea all."  In a silly manner the teenage girl throws a big kiss at them.  "See yea all when I get back.”  
     Her bedroom oak door she opens walks out into a wee-dark hall.  Noise and movement was coming from the kitchen.  The teenage girl shuffles inside faced Mum and Dad soon to leave for work.  Both were sitting at a gate-leg table drinking tea.  Milk and sugar lay close by a pottery teapot.  Built into a stonewall, a cast-iron fireplace combined with oven and domestic coal grate.  On top of it an iron-kettle sits all alone.  Steam rises out of its spout.  Years boiling water over a coal fire made the kettle, black on the outside.  Burning coal in the iron-grate gave a dying red glow of heat.
     “Good mornin’ tae yea both,” she mouthed lively in her Scottish velvety cadence. 
     “Ay Maggie.  Good mornin’, dearie.”  Mum said, noticing her daughter properly dressed in walking breeches, wearing a matching pullover, and on her feet-hiking boots.  “You’ve got a nice day tae begin yer hikin’ holiday, I’m glad yea hid the good sense tae pack yer campin’ gear the night before.  There’s nothin’ worse than rushin’ tae pack, dearie.  Yea take after me, well organized.  Not like some people.”  Making a face at her husband who had a sloppy attitude.
     Dad was a person that did things at the last minute, and he retorted.  “May yea hive two weeks of glorious sunny weather, Maggie.”  He added in fun but meaning it.  “Don’t get up tae any funny buisness Maggie MacLean with Peter now.  I know whit teenagers get up tae.  I wis one myself, yea know.”
     Maggie had known Peter Watson since childhood, he was good company, and she liked rough, noisy activities.  She preferred mixing with boys.  Maggie was tomboyish, she replied smiling.  “Don’t worry Dad I know the ups and downs of a relationship.  I’m only enjoyin’ life, fir cryin’ out loud. Peter is only a friend.  We work in the same department at the shoe factory, anyway. Don’t worry yer silly wee-head.  I’ll see yea both when I get back.  Take care of yerselves. Love yea. Love yea. Bye bye.”
     Mum voiced.  "Ay dearie, hive a nice time.  Make sure dearie yea hive fun.  Take lungfuls of lovely fresh air.  It will dae yea a power of good dearie."
    Dad pitched in.  "Enjoy yer holiday Maggie.  Yea've always been a lover of the great outdoors.  Watch out fir potholes.  Take care sweetie."
    They watched Maggie all smiles leave. Dad with a tear in his eyes looked at his wife, saying     “Martha.  Our daughter disnae realize, from the moment she wis born. I dae worry about her, sometimes I worry myself sick over her stayin' out late at night.  Layin' in my bed wide-awake fears of attack on her, listenin' and listenin' fir her footsteps on the landin' tae give me peace of mind.  Maggie can be a constant source of worry tae me.  The winding mean streets of Glasgow can be dangerous.  Filled with a lot of ragamuffin crazies hurtin' people.  I can’t help if I’m a sentimental old fool that’s me weakness. I’ll always worry about her, when she’s not around us.  That goes fir yea as well.”
     Martha was a typical woman whom is always ready with advice, and she chirped.  "Don’t fret, Mike.  It’s only natural tae worry about family.  Fir god sake yea widnae be normal if yea didnae.  I tae worry myself sick over her and.  I worry about yea as well, along with a whole lot of other things.  The difference is, well.  I don't show it.  In a sort of way I’m glad Maggie’s on holiday. When she’s here.  We couldnae get a minute tae ourselves.” Mrs. MacLean added with a twinkle in her eye.  “Now . . . that we’re alone.  We can enjoy the house, our way.”
     Mike replied with a frowned forehead.  “Whit dae yea mean, Martha? We can enjoy the house, our way?”
     “Och away with yea.  Don't be daft.  Yea know,” giving him a cute sexy wink.
     Mike’s face lit up with a beaming smile, his voice soft and romantic, said.  “Ay lass, the house tae ourselves.  That’s real nice.”  Framing his lips into an O with feelings of deep affection for her.  She was the love of his life.
     Mike and Martha MacLean would spend their entire life in that rented home, just like the families long before them, a home, which has seen births, engagements, marriages, and death.  Those that were not appreciated, there was no escape to a better life; Victorian government bureaucracy oppressed the working classes.  The country has become an economic powerhouse.  Towns are built for industry and trade—not for people.  Homes are thrown up in a hurry, without a thought for their dwellers.  Hard discipline keeps a major industrial society in order.  Common people, men women and children are made to respect authority.  The system to work hard kept them down.  Anything that could improve their lives it was out of reach.  They also lacked the knowledge of buying property, and marriage between them was.  Till death us do part.  Divorce was a bad word.  That is not what you do.
     Those that were appreciated, landlord aristocrats, the educated, and the wealthy owned these homes. Which employed an army of men named factors' representing their financial interest.  Those factors' were hand picked, tall mean and creepy with long-skulled features, ghost-like to intimidate the renters. Dressed in long, black frock coats button to the neck.  On their heads, black stove-pipe-top-hats.  They in a superior manner come knocking on your door weekly for the rent money and.  God help you if you didn’t have the money.  Whoever occupied that home ends up evicted.  Homeless, at the mercy of rat infested streets and disease, babies, children, the ill and the elderly.  They were all imminent to death by the thousands.
     Maggie closed the front door behind her.  Stood for a moment on the tenement’s gloomy landing.  She jerked her shoulders to position the haversack comfortably.  Maggie was a plain, honest girl with no nonsense about her.  She had straight blond hair, smooth oval face, and thick neck resting on a five foot, seven inch athletic body resulting from hiking.  Any free time, especially weekends. She and Peter sixteen years of age made a mad dash into the countryside.  Walk off their feet all over the place from dawn to dusk.  The teenagers had a deep love of open spaces.  At a young age both had taken to hiking like ducks take to water.  They had athletic minds, complete fitness freaks, experience hikers who are serious about the great outdoors with no stupid behaviour.  Both were in their element of making shelter against rain, and knife cutting winds.
     Maggie went along the dark landing’s wooden floor to the stairwell.  Put her hand on the glossy maroon tile wall, followed the contours down the spiral stairway.  On the next floor she met the lamplighter with a “Good mornin’ ” who's balanced on wooden ladders’ leaning against the wall, “Good mornin’ ”, came back the reply.  
     He is one of a great many employed by the Gas Board.  That routinely, turns Off and On wall fitted Gas Lamps inside tenement stairwells.  Which lights up these dark stairs at night.  
     She continues walking down the aged, worn stone stairs.  Long sash windows decorated the walls, where the morning sun streamed through.  When reaching the foot of the stairs.  She was between the maroon tile walls.  Trimmed in a glossy black, bull nose barley twist tile.  Maggie carried on through the close, a five by fifteen foot long tunnel effect dark passage to daylight, making a right turn.  She kept walking the cobble pavement to meet Peter, on each side of her. Grey stone tenement buildings  far as the eye could see.  The tenements sloping black slate roof caught her imagination.  It was the colour of oil black and smooth under a bright sky.  A shaft of sunlight flashed on steeples, spires, towers, and tall chimneys, which cluttered the skyline of the city.  In the backdrop Maggie heard shipyard sirens bang on the nose to start work, and then.  Pounding noises of iron rivets that pierced the air, and she jabbed.
     "Bludy awful, sounds like a burst of machine gun fire, how these riveters can stand the fuckin' noise all day long, beats me.  They got tae be made of fuckin' iron.  Ay . . . iron men buildin' iron ships.  I suppose  some of us hive tae work on."
     Maggie wanted to distance herself from that noise.  She sped off happy feeling the warmth of the sun, and thinking.  No work for two weeks.  Isn’t that great.  Ay, there’s nothing better than a hiking holiday.
      Five minutes later, she met him coming out of the tenement close off Vinegar Hill, (a close is the tunnel effect passage that led to the apartments.) Both greeted one another warmly.  Surrounded by rambling stone tenements, and people marching to their jobs.  That has to work on.   
    Peter was sufficiently equipped, dressed in hiking clothes carrying a haversack on his strong shoulders.  Two camping tents rolled up with folded tent poles were neatly tied to it.   He was five foot, ten inches tall, wavy fair hair, brown eyes set on a round, kindly face, sporting a muscle physique.  Peter voiced his enthusiasm.  “Well Maggie the moment has finally arrived tae begin our holidays, taegether.  I know yea left the plannin’ fir me. So this is whit I’ve arranged.  First, we’ll get the coach tae Edinburgh then, hike tae South Queensferry, then.  Take the ferry across Firth of Fourth to North Queensferry. When we get there.  We’ll take shortcuts through the countryside tae Dundee.  Accordin’ tae my map.  It will take some three days tae get there, and along the trails.  We’ll camp jist before it gets dark.  Dae yea agree, hen?”  (He had a Glaswegian slang expression of addressing “girls and women,” as hen.)
     “Oh ay Peter that sounds great, long long summer hours of hikin'.  I know I’m in strong safe hands.”  She knew he had a sense of direction.
     He rolled his eyes in fun.  “Ay hen, I wont lead yea down the garden path.  Yea couldnae be safer with me.  Just imagine, the great outdoors . . . oh ay hen. I can smell the fresh country air already, hen.”
     He was a respectable young man with a sweet mind.  Not a bad bone in him.  Ever obliging to do a good turn for his companions than do the opposite.  Peter would not force himself on anyone, especially where he’s not wanted, and he uttered.  
     “It’s goin' tae be a smashin’ holiday, Maggie.  Hikin' through the Highlands of Scotland.  That has quite a history, and tragedies.  People still talk about spiritual forces like.  The Thunder God means action, fierce clans who'd fight tae the death.  The Lightning God means power, strong people who'd rule others.  The Wind God means nature, natural people who'd love the land, traditional stories as old as the heavens.  Ancient people inhabiting Scotland in Roman times worshipped them as statues.  These gods the ancients believed protected the Country from its enemies, and  brought about good harvests.  Ay hen there're a lot of legends where we're goin'.  It's part and parcel of hikin'.  The country sweet fresh air will dae us both a world of good, hen.  Free as a bird.  No schedules tae keep dae our own thing, hen.”  He added flashing a big smile.  “It’s a wonderful feelin'.  We wont be cooped up indoors all day workin', hen.”
       “Oh ay Peter, fir two whole weeks our lives will not be ruled by the clock.  No sweat or dirt of industry.  No smell of leather shoes, handbags, wallets.  No ramblin’ tenements tae look at.  No smell of coalsmoke. No smell of City life.  We’ll be around mountains, glens, forests, rollin’ hills, lochs and rivers.”  
     They giggled in joy amongst hundreds of people, heading to Railway Stations, Ferryboats, and Coach Depots.  Marching through the ancient heart of Glasgow, which is a famous engineering City and a bustling merchant City.  That’s in her best prime of producing big heavy material, and men with skill craft to perfection.
     When they got to the Depot it was choc a block with holidaymakers, talking, waving and nodding to friends.  This was Glasgow’s fair fortnight; industry comes to a stop for two weeks.  Glaswegians head for their own fun filled well-earned holidays, booked in advance. Long lines formed to get on horse drawn coaches. That waited patiently to dispatch them to destinations of their choice, coach-drivers wearing long scarlet uniform frock coats, respectively. Took traveling tickets from their passengers.  Then, Depot officials dressed in, dark green uniform jackets cut to their knees, matching trousers, and white shirts green tie.  On their heads matching peak hats.  They’d count the tickets and people—everything in order.  Coach drivers were given permission to leave. Inspectors wrote down the time of departure.  Those had to be on schedule en route to Stable Stations.  Which are spread across the countryside for horses to take an hourly rest.  There, porters would groom feed and water them.  These animals were highly respected by everyone.  Efficiency, discipline, correctness and smartness are the code of conduct.  Is the cry across the land.
     A porter had tied their haversacks onto the luggage rack of the painted, green and orange coach.  Which carried a maximum of fourteen people pulled by four horses.  On each side of the coach embedded into the wood, The City of Glasgow Corporation Transport.
     Both were inside at the rear of the coach, sitting shoulder-to-shoulder looking at passengers in front.  Peter chuffed that he’s on holiday, said quietly rubbing the palms of his hands together.
      “It wont be long till we leave Glasgow behind, hen. Then we’re in the countryside of sweet smellin’ flowers, forest, and hedges.”
     “This is excitin’ Peter, a new experience, first time in a different part of Scotland.  We always headed south when we went hikin’, now we’re headin’ north tae Dundee.”
     “Ay Maggie, I feel like an explorer waitin’ tae discover a new land.”
     “Well Peter that’s whit we’re goin’ tae dae.  In our eyes it will be a new hikin’ experience.” They smiled at one another, clasping hands together. Delighted by their unexplored adventure. 
     Upon reaching Edinburgh that was full of life with cobble streets steeped in history.  Peter and Maggie were on a delicious high followed the intended route threaded their way through pedestrians.  Their smiling faces captured the spectacular views of, Edinburgh Castle, Palace of hollyroodhouse, The Royal Mile and Grassmarket.  Which would eventually lead them to the ferry.  That left every half-hour on the hour to the Kingdom of Fife, Dundee.  When they reached open road, Peter ejaculated his favorite verse.  “Okay hen let's go.  Rumble tumble.”  Their pace quickened, Maggie always giggled unto herself at rumble tumble.  She had always thought rumble tumble were cute words.  It also made her aware not to trip and tumble.  Both side-by-side were experience fast-walkers—power-walkers, with strong backs, strong legs, and all eyes straight ahead cautious not to stand on an object, which might cause an ankle injury.  An injury at this stage would definitely mess up their holiday.
     There was a road sign up ahead, as they walked past it. Their eyes read,
      4 MILES.
     Peter and Maggie smiled at each other.  The distance to them was a piece of cake, he remarked.  “We’ll be there pretty soon, hen.”
     They stopped for a moment to adjust the straps on their haversacks--fairly light, packed extra clothes.  Peter had brought small necessities tea, sugar, milk, bread, cheese, and a wee-pot for boiling water.  Extra food he’d buy along the way.
     Maggie took this opportunity to exercise her arms and shoulders, saying.  “My parents brought me tae South Queensferry, when I wis a wee-girl.  Tae watch the ferry fair with floats and parades, dating from the 12th century.  There is also a strange annual procession—pagan ritual of the Burry Man who is dressed in sticky burrs from head tae toe.  Jist two wee slits fir his eyes tae look out, it wis a site fir sore eyes. When children saw him.  They start cryin’, clingin’ tae their parents shakin’ really afraid of it, I wis one of them.  I thought he wis a monster.  He walks very slow, stiff and straight as if he wis a plank of wood, very scary.  I also read about the village, which is named after Queen Margaret, the wife of Malcolm III who was King of Scotland in the 11th century.  There are four ferries continuously sailing the narrowest part of the Fourth, which takes yea tae North Queensferry.  It’s the Busiest Sea crossing in Scotland."
     “Ay hen, the village is like Edinburgh steeped in history with ancient stone buildin's.  In fact the whole of Scotland is ancient like one big history book.  A lot of good things that happened and.”  He twisted his upper lip.  “A whole lot of bad things that happened,” he added smiling.  “Okay hen let's go.  Rumble tumble.”
     Coming round the winding road Peter and Maggie met, a panoramic sight of the sea and cobbled streets run down to a large harbour.  Their faces cheerful both breathing in fresh sea air.  It was marvelous with seagulls squawking and swirling and diving, gentle ocean waves splashing on the beach, and breaking against the granite quay.  They were now walking along High Street, eyeing the stone buildings of medieval design.  A church, a Castle, a mansion, an old quaint inn, fisherman’s cottages, and more stone buildings of interest, Maggie shrilled.  “Oh Peter . . . there’s a butcher shop.  Let’s hive somethin’ tae eat, before we catch the ferry.  We can also buy extra food fir later.”
    “Ay hen, just for starters.  A couple of nice, juicy mince pies.”
     She smiled at him licking his lips and rubbing his tummy.
    Peter bought pies, and cold cuts on Maggie’s choice to take away; there were benches and tables on cobbles for leisure comforts.  They sat down and started to eat amidst a soft warm breeze, Maggie commented.
     “The butcher shop wis immaculate, Peter.  It’s funny how the servers wear white coats, black and white aprons, and straw hats.  Dressed like that I always think their goin' tae burst out singin’.”
     “Ay hen, I agree.  More like entertainers than butchers.  Shops that sell food have tae be very clean.  If not they’d be closed down.  There hammered by hard, health inspectors checkin’ fir faults, and.  Those that handle meat and food hive tae wear the code of dress, hen.”
     “Everyone is in the same boat, Peter.  There’s no escape from rules and regulations.  I’m glad we’re on holiday.  Nice their’s no one tellin’ yea whit tae dae.”
     “Ay hen, that’s life.  Follow the rules till the day yea die, hen.”
     “I suppose, Peter.  Without a discipline society there’d be a lot of problems.”
     “With a discipline society there’s a lot of problems, hen.”  He rolled his eyes.
     Both laughed, and carried on eating.
     When finished, they cleaned up and went to catch the ferry.
     At the harbour, ruddy-face farmers were active, whistling, waving hand signs to their border collies.  These sheepdogs knew all the right moves.  Sleek and swift nipping hoofs herding livestock onto the ferry’s lower deck.  It was a weekly pilgrimage of coming and going for farm animals, those to be slaughtered or sold or bought at the auction houses in Edinburgh. While other ferries took aboard, horse drawn carriages walked on by porters or owners, staying with them.  Peter and Maggie went up to the top deck admiring the breathtaking scenery around them.
     Within schedule, ferry’s siren blasted out.  Everyone was on board deckhands raised the landing platform. Thick ropes removed from capstans. Again the ferry blasted its siren. Easing off the granite quay sparkling in the sun. Sailing away on a glassy sea.  Followed by squawking seagulls’ swooping down at passenger’s with hands to the air, snatching bread between their fingers.
     Gracefully it cut through the smooth summer sea with harbour porpoises routinely appearing.  Swimming closely on starboard and port sides simply for the fun of it, their sleek performance.  Caught the attention of passengers that were thrilled to pieces.  Watched the glossy mammals slicing through the glassy water, racing the ferry, darting across the ship's bow, making passengers roar in joy.  Followed by more cheering, as they’d leap acrobatically out of the glassy water creating, a fun filled crystal splash.  The ocean was a show of entertainment.  Gulls and cormorants bobbed on ripples of waves.  Basking sharks rising and submerging; jellyfish and small fish carried by the current.  Different kinds of fish could be seen just below the surface.  Fishing boats heading for the open sea, passing Atlantic seals on rocks, and then disturbing everyone’s pleasure.  A blast of the ferry’s siren echoed out to an air of cattle sounds and screaming seagulls.  Its gusty noise was an order to crew.  Deckhands made ready to dock, as it slowly sailed into North Queensferry.  A guideline, one aft and one forward were thrown to port workers waiting on the granite quay.  Their strong blue-vein hands--caught it.  Those men quickly hauled in thick ropes securing it to capstans.  The captain gingerly pulled the ferry over to dock--once secured.  Deckhands quickly lowered the landing platform.
     Border collies, instructed by their masters went into action herded the livestock onto dry land.  Followed by passengers watching the sheepdogs nipping hoofs to get them into iron pens.  They were people returning home.  They were salesman going to see clients.  They were cyclists out for the day.  They were happy campers heading for the camping grounds and.  They were Peter and Maggie hikers extraordinary who’d hike till they dropped, a breed of their own.  Their strong legs were itching itching to take off, sashaying with the crowd.  Peter saw the cobble road ahead was clear, his voice cried out.  “Okay hen let's go. Rumble tumble.” With a burst of energy both went into top gear, walking side-by-side in a fast pace.  Their eyes glimpsing at the quaint stone buildings leaving the village far behind.
     Over rolling hills that was a blaze of colour.  They went in self-contained ease set amid the grandeur of mountain scenery.  Passing mountain streams and waterfalls rushing with water, across heath land, disturbing rabbits, hares, and birds chirping excitedly to flight.  Their faces were of a delicious high, thrilled by the beauty that was around them.  “Ay hen," he drew in a deep breath, exhaling.  "Good tae smell Highland air. Yea cannae beat the great outdoors,” Peter remarked.  “This tae me hen is God’s country.  Wonders will never cease.  Yea cannae get better than this.  The breathtaking beauty of nature, hen.”
     “Ay Peter, I agree, a land that’s calm and beautiful.  There’s a sense of wantin' tae stay here fir ever and ever.”  She added sweetly.  “When I’m laid out.  I would like tae be reborn as a deer, right here, Peter.”
    “Dream on hen,” He said dismissing it as mere fun, and then asking.  “Why is that hen? In this part  of Scotland, they say.  Tae believe in reincarnation of an animal is regarded as Highland Legend.  Mystical stories from long ago that are still told today."
     “And I say. I've faith in the existence of Highland folklore magical powers of the spirit, the rebirth of  a soul in a new body.  Which has passed through generations by word and mouth.  Ay . . . it can make yer wish come true after death.  Cryin’ out loud Peter use yer imagination, whit w’d yea like tae be.  Go on big yin.  Yea jist don’t know if the spirits are listenin'.  Let it be known after death.  I yearn tae enter the spirit of a stag.”  At this moment Maggie looked up to the heavens.  With her arms stretched to the air.  In great happiness she shouted out loud.  
     “Ay . . . dae yea hear me spirits in the land beyond.  Let it be known after death.  I wish tae be free as a deer hoofin' around here.  Oh ay . . . if only I could be a deer after death.  I’d never leave these surroundin's.  It’s breathtakin' and mysterious.”
     “Ay hen, there’s a magic magnet inside me, which keeps pullin’ me tae the Scottish countryside.  So quiet yea can hear the trees growing.  Yea jist cannae firget how beautiful it is.  I’d give my soul also tae hoof it around here.  Ay . . . the rebirth of a soul in a new body of an animal, why not.  There’s a lot of strange things that happens.”  Peter rubbed his chin with his hand.  “Alright! Alright! Yea got me thinkin' Maggie Maclean, just say.  There’s life beyond the grave? Well . . . I suppose there’s nae harm makin' a wish, whitever.” Peter looked up at a happy sky.  His arms stretched to the air, and he shouted out. “Those who are beyond the grave.  Let it be known after death.  I yearn tae enter the spirit of a great big stag with twelve point horns.  (He made funny faces at her, making her laugh.)  So we could always be taegether. Now, are yea satisfied, Maggie Maclean?”  He dropped it there, collected his thoughts.  “We’ll keep on hikin’ fir two more hours, hen.  Further northeast the better fir us.  We’ll still have time tae make camp, before it gets dark.”
     Maggie thought that was awful nice of Peter.  So we could always be together.  He really meant it.  Her eyes became watery.
    At a rocky waterfall, where the water was shallow, and the grass evergreen, unblemished for Highland fairies to dance on, or, elusive elves with pointed ears to make magic or, weary hiker’s to camp on.  Peter put up the tents, six feet long-by-four feet high-by-four feet wide.  High above the long gloaming sky was a blazing red.
     Maggie, from her haversack pulled out the sleeping bag, spreading it inside her tent.  She had enough room to sit up, took off her boots.  Opened the sleeping bag, slipped inside, calling out.  “Good night Peter.  It wis a grand day.  I cannae wait till the mornin’ comes.”
     “Ay hen, neether can I.  The further north we get the daylight hours get longer.  Good night, hen.  Sleep tight.  Don’t let the bugs bite.”
     She giggled at his last remark, thinking about her surroundings, quiet as a mouse.  Listening to branches creaking, mountain water rippling, animals calling out, and she fell asleep.
     Both of them were early birds up at dawn, which was bright and sunny with birds singing, red squirrels squirreling around on tree branches, and birds splashing about in the shallow water chirping.  Peter automatically collected twigs made a fire.  He added some thick broken branches to it.  Watched the flames lick around the wood.  He then dipped the wee-pot into fresh mountain water for tea, placed it on the fire, Peter rattled.  
     “While we wait fir the water tae boil, hen.  We’ll dae our daily exercise.  Fifty press-ups on hands and fifty uv leg work, up tae our chest and down tae the ground.  The physical effort improves our heart and lung power, hen.”
     He counted out loud "one, two . . . " going from number to number. Their bodies straight as a line with arms, legs, and breathing in perfect rhythm together.  They made it look easy as pie.
     Soon after, Peter made the tea.  Pouring the dark brown liquid into teacans.  Both sat on a falling tree log sipping it, eating cold cuts, and eyeing the rugged land in full view.  They were lost in admiration of the scenery, Maggie expounded.  “I could lose myself here? I’m on a high, a delicious high, my legs are screamin’screamin’ tae explore.  I wonder (pointing her forefinger) what lies over these rollin’ hills.”
     He smiled staring in the distance, he too was on a delicious high, replying.  “Well hen, we’ll soon find out.  That’s where we’re goin’.”
     They washed packed and cleaned up.  Haversacks around strong shoulders, hands at their sides, taking in deep breaths, moving up and down on their toes, Peter uttered. “Okay hen let's go.  Rumble tumble.”  Their muscle legs went into a fast-pace.
     As they hiked up the rolling hills without a soul in sight, their eyes chewed up spectacular views of the landscape. Birds chirping swooping twirling, red deer in the distance, rabbits and hares darting around, and high above golden eagles, hawks, and osprey, all wheeling and screaming.  Maggie was humming to herself as they carried on towards, a vast loch surrounded by a pine forest, Peter remarked.  “Yea cannae see the forest for the trees, hen.  Get behind me in a single file.”
      Amidst the sounds of birds and animals, they followed a zigzagging path through it, disturbing butterflies from the undergrowth that flew gently across sunbeams.  Which had filtered through the roof of the trees.  Capturing the rich colourful wings and, various greens and rust of the forest.  Upon reaching the loch, both went along on the edge of its water.  Their eyes straying on trout leaping out of the water catching insects, and trout surfaced and splashed.  Waterbirds of different colors floated on the surface, some jumping up and taking flight straight out of the water, and others bottoms up dabbling under the water, and others flapping wings skirmishing, and.  Geese came flying down with web feet skimming the surface.  While ducks were pruning their feathers all lined up on a floating log.  On the other side, a herd of Red Deer was drinking at the water’s edge.  Another path took them out of the forest into glorious sunshine, the phenomena of Mother Nature all around them.  Peter and Maggie were in their element of hiking giving both a delicious high.  Strong legs pressed on through miles of wilderness.  Smelling with thyme, heather, and fantastic shows of bluebells.
    Upon a ridge they stood surveying, a country road, a river, and fields of grass with gaping black holes, Peter said.  “Ay hen, we’ve covered quite a distance.”
     “Ay.  That wis nae bother at all, Peter.  The more I hike.  The better I feel.”  She added curiously.  “How did these big holes get in the ground, Peter?”
     “Ay hen, that’s sinkholes caused by water erosion.  It’s a cavity in the ground that allows rainwater tae disappear underground.  The water softens the ground, which caves-in, hen.”
     “Oh my! Is it safe tae hike near them, Peter? I never imagined the ground cavin’-in, under me.”
     “Nothin’ tae worry about, hen.  That’s a million tae one shot that will happen.  We’ll keep hikin’ across that road past the sinkholes.  And then we’ll camp fir the night. Okay hen let's go.  Rumble tumble.”
     Maggie gave a wee-cackle of laughter at rumble tumble.
     They came to a fence climbed over it crossed the road, and then they saw a sign in bold capitol letters, it read.
     6 MILES
     He said to Maggie rubbing his tummy.  “In the mornin’, we’ll hike there tae get breakfast, hen.”
     “Ay, the cold cuts we’ve got left will be enough fir supper taenight, Peter.”
     Interrupting them was the noise of wheels breaking the rural quietness.  Maggie and Peter moved well away onto sloping grass watching four panting horses, dripping thick gooey saliva around their mouths.   Steam was rising from their harness bodies pulling the shiny coach.  The driver’s face was weather beaten red, glimpsed at the young hikers.  His red frock coat blazed like fire.  He managed a split second wave and a nod, including passengers who were also, waving to them.  Their hands mechanically waved back.
     “Okay hen let's go.  Rumble tumble.” Echoed to the air.
      He had seen she had always a smile for, rumble tumble.
     When Peter and Maggie hiked past two sinkholes, and came to the third that was larger.  Inquisitive made them peer inside.  It was a vertical drop into pitch darkness.
     “Ay hen, just a big ugly hole with bracken, clumps uv gorse, and boulders.  Yea can see where its pitch dark.  The bracken and gorse stops growin’.  Nothing can live down there, hen.”
      Maggie was not her usual cheery self; she had an uncanny feeling that she was being watched from the depths of that sinkhole.  She felt her flesh crawl. “There’s somethin’ wicked down there, Peter.”  She said darkly with her heart beating hard.
     He saw her face was drained of colour.  “Whit dae yea mean, hen? It’s only an empty big hole.  There’s nothin’ tae be afraid of, I’m here.”  He added jokingly squared his shoulders.  “Your prince in his haversack will protect yea.”  Peter laughed at his remark, hoping Maggie would to. 
     She was dead silent, staring into the hole, which suddenly turned darker.  An inky cloud sprung up.  It had covered the sun, and them to.
     Peter pulled a face at the heavy cloud that hung over their lives.  “Ay hen,” putting a hand through his hair.  “A black cloud appearin’ directly above us.   Strange, how it came out of nowhere tae hang over us.  I s’pose, the weather in The Highlands is different? Whit dae yea think hen?” 
     Maggie was tense, exclaiming.  “I’ll tell yea whit I fuckin’ think.  This sinkhole gives me the fuckin' shivers wait . . . Did yea hear that?”
     “Hear what? I can’t hear anythin', hen.”
     “Shhh, quiet. Fir god sake listen.  It’s comin’ from down there.” Stabbing her finger repeatedly in that direction.
      His eyes wide staring into the sinkhole’s pitched darkness, he cocked his head to one side listening, and then Peter uttered.  “Ay hen, yer right.  I can jist here it and no more.  Somethin’ is there, maybe a dyin’ animal.  Which has fallen down or.  It might be gusts of wind whirlin’ around, hen.  A lot of weird noises happen in sinkholes, hen.”
     Maggie mouthed. “Animal, wind, my ass, by the sound of it.  It’s more like rats.”
     Peter stood still, heart hammering.  The word rat says it all.  It made his skin crawl.  Shivers ran down his spine.  He knew like everyone else.  The vermin was highly capable of killing, especially in rat packs.  Always searching for cripple bodies. Which live and hunt in the cities, and rat infested coalmines, he thought frowning, there’s no fucking coalmine here.  No way is these wee-bissims fucking here, and he twittered.  “Och awey with yea hen.  Yer bum is oot the windae.  Don’t be daft hen.  You don’t get them wee-bastards in the countryside.  Look around nothin’ but great open spaces, hen.”   Peter was foolish to say that.
     Beneath the surface of the ground is, a necessary evil that searches for cripple bodies.  Black rats brown rats with long wormy tails unmanageable numbers, slithering over under each other.  Those behind quarrel with those in front nipping and pushing, desperate to get a peek at the delicious prey.  Poisonous, needlepointed teeth flashing with snouts sniffing to the air and whiskers twitching.  Their red eyes skillfully penetrate the pitch darkness.  Those red-eyes see their favorite delicious food, humans.  Them wee-bastards acute sense of smell has found, a delicacy of delicious flesh.
     Maggie wasn’t going to wait around here a minute longer, uttering.  “Let’s get the fuck out of here, Peter.  That fuckin’ sinkhole gives me the fuckin’ horrors.”
     He had seen her upset before but her swearing was heavy that told him.  She got the fright of her life.  Hoping to make her laugh, and he chirped.  “Okay hen, let's go.  Rumble tumble.” 
     Peter notice Maggie was very quiet.
     Their strong legs went into top gear hiking in a fast-pace on top of hollow ground.  Unknown to them below the surface was a labyrinth of abandoned, rat-infested tunnels. These tunnels in the past had produced coal.  Which did coal companies exploit until there was no more. 
     Soon as they left that sinkhole, an unusual thing happened.  The sun burst through that black cloud.  Turning into a blue happy sky. Giving the countryside sunshine colors of purple heather, and fields of flowers.  Bushy fern and tree leaves glittered, in the horizon.  Awe-inspiring mountains glowed in the sun.  Maggie smiled at the jaw dropping scenery.  She felt relieved by its beauty, and she yelled.
     “Greetin's tae heaven.  Good riddance tae hell.”  Smirking at the sinkhole.
     Peter thought, better to humor her.  “Ay hen, everythin’ is goin' tae be alright.  That sinkhole gave yea a bad fright.  Whit yea need is.  A nice cup of tea with cheese and cold cuts.  Ay hen.  That’ll put the spring back intae yea.” Added pointing.  “These trees ahead.  I can see flowin’ water.  We’ve covered enough miles fir the day. We’ll camp there.  Can yea put the tents up.  I'll get the fire goin'.  Okay hen?”
     “Righty oh, will do.” Maggie replied, giving him a worried glance.   “The tents, I’m puttin’ close taegether.  I want yea near me.  If I get scared I’ll shout fir yea.  Dae yea know, Peter.  Something jist came tae my mind.  If only we had a fightin'-dog or Terrier.  I'd feel a lot happier.  Nobody know rats better than Pit Bulls or Terriers do.  These dogs are killin' machines against rats.  Them wee-bastards can't tolerate that type of dog.  I’ve got a bad feelin’ that screechin’ squeakin’ squealin’ is fuckin' rats.”
     “Don’t be silly hen.  Them wee-bastards thrive in urban areas.  The closest creature tae a rat in the countryside is, a wee-dormant mouse.  Never fear.  Nothin’ is goin’ tae harm yea, yer jist overreactin’, its yer overactive imagination runnin’ wild.  When yer like that yea expect the worse.  Them wee-bastards are crawlin’ all over yea.  Jist close yer mind tae rats.”
     Again, rats were a word of warning gave her a cold shiver of fear.  She gulped, stroking repeatedly her cheeks with the palm of her hands, uttering.  “It’s these long wormy tail's, snake like.  Give me the fuckin' jitters.  I can picture them in my mind slitherin’ across the ground, eeh.  I cannae stand that.  Oh Peter, these creatures give me the fuckin' willies.  Everybody is afraid of them wee-bastards.”  Maggie moved on.  She had taken a turn for the better.  “Ay, maybe yer right Peter, I’m overreactin’.  After all we’re hikin’ in the great open spaces.  There is only breathtakin’ beauty around us.”
     “Ay hen that’s the way tae go.  Like a breath of fresh air.” Peter exclaimed quickly to change the subject.  “Look at the starry sky.  Is that not a delicious treat?  Glitterin’ like sparks on a fire.”
     She stared up hundreds of stars shining in the sky.  It was almost nightfall.  Maggie replied softly.  “Ay that is a dream.  I feel better now under a happy sky.”
     “Right oh hen here we are.  I’ll get the fire started.  I’ve got some thirty minutes tae collect wood, before it gets dark.”
     They took off their haversacks.  Maggie untied the tents, and she began to raise them side-by-side.
     A full moon lit up all around trees cast long creepy dark shadows.
     The food smelled and tasted good. Peter said munching away.  “Ay hen, sittin’ around a camp fire is real cozy.”
     “Ay Peter, there’s a camaraderie about it that draws people taegether. Its like a candle in the dark welcomin’ people.”  Her eyes moved upwards to the starry sky.  She had never seen so many stars until.  A bank of black clouds was drifting in from the east.  Maggie stood up watching the starry sky gradually, obliterated into darkness.  The glow from the campfire caught her worried expression.  Her fingers were rubbing her open mouth.  She felt a death threat hanging over her.
     Peter trilled.  “Well that’s The Highlands, a sudden change of weather, hen.  I suppose we can expect some rain.”
     “I don’t think it’s rain clouds, Peter.”
     Scratching his nose with the back of his hand, he asked.  “Why is that hen?”
     “Rain clouds bring thunder with bolts of lightnin’.”
     “Ay, yer right Maggie.  I never thought of that.  Yea hear it before yea see it.”
     “Ay Peter, I saw these black clouds movin’ towards us.  No noise at all. Like tryin’ tae sneak up on yea.”
     “Anyway hen, whitever.  Lets get some sleep.”
     “Ay Peter, a decent night’s sleep I’ll feel fresh and a whole lot better."
     He gave a casual remark.  “That’s the spirit, hen.  By tomorrow these sink holes are history.”
      Both went straight inside their separate tents, removed boots slipped into sleeping bags.
     Peter his usual cheery self, called out. “Good night, hen.  Sleep tight.  Don’t let the bugs bite.  See yea in the mornin’.”
      “Ay, at the crack of dawn.” She retorted.
     Maggie thought.  It’s like a grave so quietNot even a bloody sound.  Peter’s words were of comfort.  I need something to cuddle. I could cuddle Peter.  No.  I don’t want to give him the wrong idea.  She whispered. “I’m afraid, I don’t understand.” Her eyes got heavy and she fell into a deep sleep. 
     Peter was already dreaming.
     While they slept peacefully between a black cloud of death and a black cloud of vermin, the power of darkness had slyly sneaked in its army of death.  To cry havoc upon cripple bodies, voracious rat packs with long wormy tails inside sink holes, slithering over under each other, uttering blood curdling, screeching squeaking squealing.  Rat leaders big as cats with backs hunched are moving in circles.  Hissing vermin orders in front of armies of rats in frenzy.  Them wee-bastards can smell the delicious blood and taste the delicious flesh, in a state of uncontrolled excitement.  Rats, rats, and rats pour through black cavities like raging torrents of water.  Bursting out into open fields as floods of muddy water.  Racing across the landscape, screeching squeaking squealing, nipping and tripping to get there First.  Chasing every petrified living thing out of the way.  Rat packs pressing onward onward with the strongest in front First comes First to eat.
     Hundreds upon hundreds of them wee-bastards swept under the tent flaps, horror came over them in waves of rats.  Maggie and Peter with eyes full of terror woke up to blood curdling, screeching squeaking squealing.  The blood had frozen in their veins.  Rats have them by the throat.  Them wee-bastards killer instinct went for the jugular.   Peter was in shock trying desperately to get up.  The sheer number of rats held him down.  It was impossible stretched out on the ground.  The rat, a born hunter and killer were massed together in great quantity. They had the advantage attacking prey lying down.  It was a cripple body.  
     Maggie shaking like a leaf screaming in horror, her heart thump thumping.  Rats are inside her mouth spitting out teeth. Gnawing at her delicious juicy gums.  She could smell the vermin’s stinking slimy bodies, eating her all over.  That's giving her great pain. 
     Peter's of the same overpowered by rats choking him to death, long wormy tails in his mouth, ears and nose. Eating his delicious face, eyes, lips, tongue, and delicious organs.  
     Both were stiff with fear smothered in rats deliciously eating them alive.  
     Poisonous, needlepointed teeth had ripped apart tents, sleeping bags, and clothes. Puncturing skin that stretched and stretched snapping like a pluck bowstring. Tearing out shreds of delicious red flesh.   Eating as if every delicious mouthful were the last.  Human screams of the highest pain echoed into rural countryside, and then.  Somehow Maggie managed in her dying breath, cried out in horror.  “Peter . . . help me.  In God’s name help meeee . . .” The drop of sanity that she still had.  It was enough to crawl her rat-covered hand across the ground feeling for him.
     Peter’s protective nature made an effort to touch her.  He summoned up every ounce of strength.  His blood-drenched hand fighting against rats almost stripped of flesh rippled across the ground.  In a cruel twist of fate his hand found her hand, the strength they mustard for each other.  Their bloody fingers intertwined with one another togetherness.  Both faces blood red, fleshless, eyes nose devoured, and ears half eaten.  Their skull crammed with a delicacy of soft delicious food--covered in rats.  Those are screeching squeaking squealing.  The skull hard as stone kept the brain intact, made it difficult for rats to gnaw through.  But the vermin's poisonous, needlepointed teeth tough it out.  Greedy rats screeching squeaking squealing gnawed away at it, them wee-bastards gnawing habit are aware when through.  First comes First to eat, a delicious organ of  soft delicious tissue.  
     It  was impossible to understand they still had voice.  He struggled to speak with his last breath.  
     "I'm--so--sorry--Maggie.  I--love--yea--hen--always did." 
     She heard him while gasping her final words.  
     "I--love--yea--tae--Peter.  See yea . . . ay, in--the--land--beyond."
     Then, their blood red delicious bodies went dead stiff. 
    While Maggie’s cry of terror had travelled through the still night air to disappear into a canny silence.  Rat packs still kept coming voraciously attacking the skeletal remains.  Poisonous, needlepointed teeth are voraciously, gnawing and grinding great quantities of delicious bones to taste the delicious juicy marrow.  Followed by packs of youngish rats their voracious appetite is there when born. Desperately screech squeak squeal whiskers twitching, and snouts sniff swiftly across the ground only.  There’s nothing left of the delicious cripple bodies.  Intriguingly pass their tongues over blood-soak tattered sleeping bags.  Deliciously licking the delicious blood to the last delicious drop.  Searching the delicious bloodstain grass for anything, anything that’s deliciously left.   Gobbling up delicious bone crumbs, and bits of delicious flesh between remnant strands of human hair.  Is all that remains of Peter and Maggie.  Which showed the horror of the tragedy.
     Strange as it may occur, those who had believed in life after death, were in the powers that be of Highland supernatural wishes between body and soul, it had entered into spirits of a deer and a stag.  Whom appeared as if like magic close by.  Those were baying excitedly on a test for the very first time, learning to stay upright on unsteady legs.  That wobbled in different directions then.  Strong legs got that familiar energy; itch itching to hike day after day from dawn to dusk.  Both young at heart strong haunches reared in joy, forelegs pawing the night air, and uttering bays of triumph.  Maggie and Peter's deep love of open spaces.  Their ghost to nature was present, which spirited through the night air.  "Okay hen let's go.  Rumble tumble."
     The deer's apparition glowed on these cute words she bayed at the moon and stars. 
     They trotted off side-by-side across the heather to haunt their paradise.  Hoofing across countryside roaming eternally together with the Wind God. 
Chapter 2.  Inspector Marshall's Urgent Visit
Please scroll down Terror Pit Bulls Chapter 1. Satan Appears


Tuesday, August 3, 2010


Published by John Duncan amazon.com kindle 
ISBN 9780615393377

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.
    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.

(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.
     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.
     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.)
     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.
     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 
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.
     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.
        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.”
     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.”
     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.
     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.
      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.”
     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.
     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
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.
      “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.”
     (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.
     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.
     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.”
     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.
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