The Killer’s Life

            “Go, Killer, go!” the crowd yelled, although there was no absolutely need to encourage him.  The Killer was plenty ready for a fight, already foaming at the mouth.  Being led to the ring, however, his eye caught the sight of a young lady, who was sitting in the bleachers.  Her dress was very familiar for some reason, though he could not recall why.
            As soon as The Killer saw his enemy for the night, his heart began to jump in anticipation of another gruesome match.  This one was a young boy, muscular and obviously too eager for the hard battle ahead.  An old pro could easily tear him into chunks, The Killer well knew, no problem.  Despite the difference in age, The Killer had the upper hand.  That’s where a lifetime of experience comes in real handy.
            When both dogs came upon each other, all hell broke loose.  Their jaws ripped the other’s fur-covered muscles wide open as the crowd roared with excitement of seeing their blood splattered across the cement floor.  Yet, strangely, it was another ordinary night for The Killer, because that’s what he was trained for all of his life.  His job was to gnaw the opponent from all sides, tearing bits and pieces along, until they finally give up and bled to death in agony.
            As always, The Killer dominated his young opponent from the beginning.  Powerful paws and jaws were clawing and tearing away at each other, amidst the roar of the drunken crowd.   “Go Killer, go!”
            But something captured The Killer’s attention, distracting him.  It was that white dress with a black pattern, the one she wore when she picked him up as a puppy.  She petted him and took him home.  It was that very same dress.  Then a flashback returned The Killer to the time when he was kissed and cuddled, when she carried him and he licked her face.  That’s when the biggest chunk of flesh was torn from his right side.  This one hurt, badly.  It was a serious wound. 
            The Killer tried hard to concentrate, going straight for the youngster’s throat, a trick that sometimes worked wonders, but the kid moved away too fast.  He possessed that youthful agility, which The Killer once used to have.  No, this time, despite the gash in his side, it had to be the old fashioned way, fast and furious, but no more dramatic acts of courage. 
            And so they went at it the long way, biting away each other’s chunks of flesh until whichever winner’s turn would come up.   The youngster was hungry and powerful.  His paws, studded with sharpened nails, left deep gashes in The Killer’s skin.  But those old scars came with hard experience of a seasoned fighter.  Usually, the Killer wasted little energy, suffering the blows of the novices, but whenever the chance arose, he would always go in for the kill.  After all, that’s why he was named The Killer. 
            The youngster was jumping around him, opening the insides for an attack.  Nobody saw the opportunity better then The Killer.  It was a straight shot for the jugular, which could have been done in a fraction of a second.  But something made The Killer pause.  It was the warmth of her touch, the smell of her dress.  It was the only good thing in life that he knew, in contrast to the constant battles and blood.   
            The Killer closed his eyes and waited.  It did not take long for the newcomer to do what comes naturally.  Everyone in the house who bet on The Killer that night lost their money.  But I say, at least he chose to die with a good memory instead living with nothing.

© 2007 Alex Frishberg