Hopper

Part 1: Hopper

Hopper’s got a new dog, and he’s bringing him to the fight. The fighter’s a nine-month pitty with a bad attitude and a broken tail, Hopper’s a young thing from Out South-ways. Some guys have said he still lives with his old man, but Hopper doesn’t tell. He never takes a girlfriend home, so no one knows. He comes in on the train most times when he’s alone, but you can’t take a fighter on the train so Hopper’s going to get a ride with Jackie tonight.

Hopper’s nervous. The fighter’s tough but the fighter’s young, and Hopper’s going to bet real dollars on this dog in the hopes he’ll win big and get out of town for the summer. Hopper doesn’t have a job, he’s stuck on government money in a part of town where there’s nothing but. If he doesn’t win on this dog he’s going to be staying in the city, and there’s fuck all to do here anymore, ‘speshly Out South. There’s nothing Out South these days. Not that there was ever much.

Hopper’s waiting for Jackie in the cul de sac. He doesn’t know what Jackie drives, but he’s looking out for a flat deck or a ute with a cage for his fighter so he doesn’t look twice at the Mira that’s pulling up down there by the dumpster until Jackie honks the horn and the fighter starts tugging on the rope, foaming and barking at fat black Jackie struggling out of the front seat onto the cracked tarmac of this deserted little street Out South, with the dumpster overflowing and the little houses rickety rackety, all falling down. The windows are all boarded and the washing lines are rusting in the front yards that face straight onto the street, no fences nor hedges. Jackie’s beginning to think twice about the ride.

“You can’t bring your fighter in here,” he’s telling Hopper, “can’t bring that dog in this car! No one’s told me you’re bringing a fighter when I said I’d take you to the meeting.”

Well Hopper doesn’t get mad easily. He’s telling Jackie all about the bet he’s laid, how he’s got to be there at the meeting tonight for the fight, but he knows the fighter can’t go in the Mira. You can’t put a fighter in a little wagon like that any more than you can take him on the train. Hopper knows that, and he knows Jackie’s sorry the mistake was made. Jackie’s going to fix it up, too. Jackie’s thinking of a bloke he knows who doesn’t fight his dogs anymore, they all got too old, too broken, and his breeding bitch is dead, but he’s got a cage trailer they can hook up to the Mira if Hopper’s got the gas dollars to get them a couple blocks further South.

“That’s a fierce fighter you’ve got, Hopper”

Jackie’s hoping Hopper’s fighter isn’t so young as it seems. Be a waste of a good fighter to be broken so young, Jackie hopes Hopper knows what he’s getting into at this meeting and he kinda, sorta doesn’t want to get the trailer. Send Hopper home with his fighter til the next big meeting with the big dollars, not til next year. But it’s no big deal, this bloke owes Jackie favours anyway cos Jackie sells crack and most of those breeders and owners Out South owe him something in the way of deals and doings, and its just another fucking dog.

So Hopper’s going to wait here in the cul de sac with his fighter tied beside the dumpster and wait for Jackie to take the Mira down the road to this bloke Arnold’s place and get that cage trailer to get the little pitty to the fight.

Jackie’s driving fast because he knows that Hopper is waiting, and that little fighter shouldn’t really be roped up out on the road. It’s only a few minutes to the house with Arnold and the cage trailer- it can’t be called Arnold’s house because it’s not. It’s a house of old fighters and their masters who feed them in their cages on fighting food, so that they fight their confinement in a futile match against the ticking clock, and their daily deteriorating physical state, the encroaching decrepitude on their fighting bones. True fighters fight until the day they die. These dogs are ugly, some so ruined Jackie doesn’t want to look. In all his forty-nine years he’s not seen beasts so wrecked, so utterly destroyed. If they were his dogs, they’d be shot for meat.

Arnold’s not at home, but his old lady’s there and she’s all too glad to get that cage trailer off the lawn- if it’s a lawn you want to call it. It’s a yard of twisted metal bits and pieces, smattered and scattered about with bones and tools and discarded objects sharp and rusty and nasty under Jackie’s boots. Arnold’s old lady’s a tough bitch, she’s wading right in there with Jackie to disengage the brakes on the cage trailer and haul it over to the Mira where she’ll help him rope it to the tow bar cos the clasp’s all broken. What’s the dog that’s going in to the meeting tonight? She wants to know.

Jackie tells it to her straight, the dog’s too young and Hopper’s going to lose his money but it’s the kid’s decision if he wants to ruin his fighter. It could maybe be a breeder if the ruin’s not done right and the dog lives. Jackie’d like to see the pups that come off this one, yes he’d buy one if Hopper’s going to be that broke. Jackie’s sadly sure he’s going to lose his bet, that fighter he’s got’s too young. It’s too small. It’s seen fights, or some other way it’s tail broke, but Jackie doesn’t hold out much hope for a dog that’s less than a year at the big city meeting. That fighter’s gonna be facing down another bully twice its size and weight, and Hopper’s not even taken off its sensitive wee ears.

Arnold’s missus’ name is Val, and she’s sad to hear about this pup that’s going to be so ruined at the city meet, but she’s still attaching that cage trailer and Jackie’s taking it back those few blocks to where Hopper and the doomed dog are sitting on the cracked pavement under the hot, hot sun.

It’s going to take them some time to get to the city now, the Mira’s only eight hundred sicks and it’s got a big steel cage trailer to drag all that way North – East to the centre of town with a fierce fighter trapped inside it, battling with the bars.

They’re getting close to the heart of town, and Hopper’s heart’s beating faster with every turn. His palms are sweating and he’s thinking about the cash he’s put in the kitty for the meeting, about the bet in the book, about the fight that’s coming and about the little fighter in the cage, trailing behind the Mira. He’s wondering if he fed the dog enough, if he’s starved him hard enough this last week, and whether his gamble’s going to set him free or leave him with a ruined fighter and empty pockets at the end of the meeting.

He’s thinking about the blood, about the gnashing of teeth, smashing of bones and snarling in the hours to come. He’s thinking about his old man, sitting at home Out South with the bottle and the brew, waiting for the fight commentary on the pirate radio, waiting to hear about Hopper and the fighter at the meeting. He’s thinking of his baby brother buried shallow by the shed cos they don’t have money for the proper treatment, he’s thinking of his mam gone crazy, hollow-eyed and calling for her baby in the little attic room, he’s thinking of his sister whored out by her own cousin before she was sixteen, the needles boiling on the stovetop in a shallow pan each evening. He’s thinking of another summer watching the ghetto rot around him, he’s thinking of brindled puppies playing in the bitch’s nest. He’s trying not to think what he’ll be free of if the fighter wins.

He’s bet his college grant- the fighter’s got to win.

And all too soon, they’re there.

The meeting’s held in a tall block in the slum down by the port. The dock rats have slunk back to the ships today because they can smell the dogs, so there’s no rodent rattle in the dumpster plot and it stinks of fresh food rotting in the heat.

Jackie and Hopper are pulling up outside the gutted warehouse, timber windows rattling in their aluminium frames with the din of dogs fighting the first rounds in the deep pit inside. Hopper’s leaping out the Mira with his fists balled as if he’s the one who’ll be fighting, his fighter’s lashing against the cage; it can hear the other bullies crying with rage and unrestrained aggression. Hopper’s knees are shaking as he opens up the cage trailer and leads his bucking, snarling fighter through the swing doors into the concrete registration lobby where the beast is swiftly locked away from immediate harm in one of the tow-cages lined against the wall. Beside the other fighters it’s a puppy.

The registration clerk’s looking Hopper up and down- he’s seen him present at the meets before but never with a fighter of his own. He’s looking at Hopper’s pitty with experience and wisdom, he knows this dog’s got no fighting chance in hell of coming out of here to fight another day. That dog is doomed, and the clerk’s got no respect for Hopper’s presented optimism.

“Give that dog another few years to lay down muscle,” the clerk’s thinking, “give that dog the time to learn, cut off that dog’s ears and tail so it’s not going to get so ruined in the ring, and in two meets I’ll lay down a bet on him.” There’s fighting promise in that dog and no mistake, but for a fighter it’s too young.

But Hopper’s seeing right through the clerk and disregarding him. Hopper’s here to fight his pitty, and Hopper’s here to bet.

Hopper’s fight’s going in the heavy betting rounds, late afternoon. The divisions are scaled by the size of the purses, not the dogs. Jackie’s come to sit with Hopper in the stands and cheer the fighter on, but he’s making no secret of the fact that he’s assured it’s going to lose. He’s wondering whether Hopper’s going to have any money to put in the gas tank getting back Out South. He’s wondering whether they’ll be hauling a ruined pitty or a corpse home back in the cage trailer. He’s wondering whether Hopper’s going through with this. He’s wondering if Hopper’s seen a puppy ruined like his fighter’s going to be before. Jackie wants to tell Hopper “Stop!”, but Hopper’s resolutions strong as he can see.

Part 2 : The Fight.

Hopper’s been coming to these meets for years but he’s not brought a fighter of his own before. He bought his pup from a champ breeder and raised him fierce, raised him wicked. His dog’s a demon but now he sees the monster of an opposition he feels bile rising in his throat. This is a prize-fighter his puppy’s facing down. This is a mongrel terrier, its power’s in its weight and speed, it’s mangy and it’s mean and it’s more than a match for little Fighter. The terrier’s called Bullet for its heavy muzzle, and the handlers wheeling cages into place are stepping back, nervous of its snarl, its hefty jaws.

To either end of the oval pit they steer them, then back away behind the gates and without ceremony let down the guards.

Jackie’s sitting next to Hopper, and he can feel how tense the kid’s sitting, how stock-still, how afraid.

Jackie wants to leap to his feet and scream “STOP!”, but Jackie knows it’s not his place. Jackie wants to stop this fight before they have to sit and watch the Fighter made a meal of by the bull, and more so now he’s heard the stakes read out and learned what Hopper stands to lose. Sixteen hundred; Jackie’s fucking livid in his seat.

The screech of steel; the dogs are loose.

It’s a short fight.

The Bullet lunges at the Fighter with a drooling snarl, and Fighter skips away a fraction faster before leaping for the Bullet’s throat. Bullet’s stronger, shakes it off and grapples with the little pitty til it’s down and bleeding from its side. A paw swipes and Fighter’s tumbing, rolling toward the concrete pit walls, but it’s a Fighter and it’s back for more; mouth to mouth, they wrestle. Bullet’s still stronger but the Fighter’s meaner and wild with terror, it’s bleeding from an ear-stump and the pain has made it mad like Hopper knew it would. It strikes again, and Bullet’s bleeding now from two deep mauls in its thick neck, enraged it swats the pitty down again and pounces with a deep-throat growl. The sawdust in the oval’s become crimson slush, ankle-deep in their own blood the dogs are battling. Both ears gone now, savaged and in pain the Fighter’s fading underneath the Bullet’s weight.

It’s a short fight.

In moments, Fighter’s limping on two broken legs, and the crowd’s collective silence near drowns out the sound of baying dogs. Another lunge, another tussle, and suddenly a howl so pitiful the very air’s alive with pain.

Hopper’s still, so motionless he could be stone. His fighter’s done for now, it’s blind, eyes gouged straight from its pretty puppy face by a savage swipe from the bull.

The little dog is ruined, cowering at the Bullet’s feet. The Bullet steps back, pausing in a momentary victory still-shot before the kill. Still Hopper’s eyes are open, watching, dry.

And in that moment, that pause, somehow through the dark the Fighter rises for one last, malicious stroke at its defeater, and somehow that stroke lands upon its throat and sharp white teeth close firm upon the jugular, releasing a hot, sticky cascade into the little pitty’s caved-in face.

The Bullet’s dead, and all the crowd’s in rapture, stamping, screaming for the blind dog lying still, the prone champion in the ring.

Part 3 – The Winnings

The ride home’s tedious in heavy ghetto traffic. A sheet spread on the back seat of the Mira soaks up blood from Fighter’s broken limbs. His eyes are blind, his ragged panting shakes the car with little puppy sobs and bright blood bubbles blister on his little pitty nose. His fur a mat of mess and sweat, hot stripes upon his flanks are bleeding too. His two back legs are broken, like his tail, in many places and his whimpering’s pathetic in the otherwise unbroken silence of the drive.

Hopper’s keeping him for breeding, when he’s well enough to stand. In the daze after the fight he turned down offers three times what he’d won for ownership of that nine month pitty crawling blindly on its two front legs towards the stands where it could smell its master. He’ll be auctioned to be mated with the finest bitches in the Out South slums. Hopper shivers in his seat, his pockets heavy with his winnings, forty grand he’s taken from his bet of sixteen hundred.

That little dog is fighting for his life again, but he’ll be a breeder if he lives. Hopper has never thought that little mutt could make his fortune in the selling stakes. A ruined dog can be a breeder, sure, if he fought right. The bookies at the dog ring say they’ve never seen a nine month pitty fight with so much spirit, so much spite. Hopper’s sick inside, not proud, he’ll have his blood-stained Summer easy now.

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