His name was Skete. I never knew him by any other name. He never said and I never asked. It would have been bad form because Skete was a breeder of pit bulldogs, bred especially to fight, bred for ferocity, tenacity, quickness, and strength. Fighting dogs in a pit, or anywhere else for that matter, is against the law—a felony if the breeder takes his dog across state lines to fight. I'd met Skete through a girl I'd known about four years before. In the middle of the night the girl called me up and asked if I'd like to go to a fight being held in South Florida. She knew, as everybody does who knows me at all, that I love blood sports. Not a particularly admirable trait, but one that I've always had and one I've never tried to suppress or find the reasons for. |
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