Pit Bulls vs Aliens (2 page)

“I don’t believe so,” Thomas answered honestly. “But I think they still keep the information from the public.”

“That’s right,” Mr. Smellie said, making a fist and shaking it above his head. “Power to the people. Power to the people. So what is causing global warming? The last three years have been unbearably hot, yet we’re told that the greenhouse gas problem was solved a decade ago. You might be on to something here.”

“Exactly,” Thomas said. “The creation of GHR1101 has done a lot to reduce the amount of greenhouse gases in our atmosphere, so why aren’t the temps normalizing?”

“Ah, so it is the government doing it. Just like the killing of our bovines. Is that what you’re saying, Mr. Freeman?”

“No,” Thomas said. “I think it’s aliens.”

Mr. Smellie threw his stack of papers in the air as the audience went wild with laughter. “I can’t win with this guy. Okay, why would aliens be doing it?”

Thomas could feel the blood building up behind his cheeks, but he fought to contain it. “That’s all explained in my new book. Perhaps you’ve read my books.”

“Ah, yes, the books. No, I haven’t gotten around to it. We’ll get to that later. Let’s pretend that my viewers are also normal people who have never read your books. Why would aliens come here?”

“There are several reasons,” Thomas began. “Hopefully they would come to share technology. If they’re carbon-based life forms like us, they might come for food or water. But since the global temperatures have been increasing at an alarming rate, I believe the aliens are terraforming, which means they will be coming to establish settlements.”

“What?” Mr. Smellie shouted. “With humans still here? That would never happen.”

“It’s already happened.”

Mr. Smellie stared at Thomas. “Aliens are already here? Where?”

“Not aliens,” Thomas corrected. “When Europeans first came to America, there were already people here. It didn’t stop them from setting up colonies.”

“Oh my gosh.” Mr. Smellie turned to the camera with his mouth wide open and his hands on his cheeks on each side. “That is so true.” He looked back to Thomas. “That explains my kid’s Thanksgiving painting showing pilgrims, Indians, and aliens.”

The crowd erupted again.

“So tell me, Mr. Freeman, if this manic-depressive apocalyptic vision of yours were to come true, if aliens were to ever come to Earth wanting to take over and live here, would we have anything that could stop them?”

Thomas thought for a second. “Nothing I can think of.”

Mr. Smellie looked back to the main camera. “And there you have it. That’s all the time we have for today. Thanks for tuning in.”

“Mr. Smellie?” Thomas said, holding up his book and tapping the cover.

“Oh yes,” Mr. Smellie said and held up his copy of the book. “Mr. Freeman’s new book is called
Mark My Words: They’re Coming
. You can find it in most fringe bookstores in the
‘I Can’t Believe the Crap They Publish’
section. Tune in next week when we talk with a woman who claims her tomatoes speak to her.”

And with that the lights came on and the show was over. The audience was dispersed as a woman came over to Thomas to remove the microphone from his lapel.

“That was a great show, Mr. Freeman. You are a natural showman. I believe we’ll hit record ratings with this episode.”

Thomas looked over at Burt Smellie, wondering if anything he said was sincere. After the woman removed the small cordless mic, he walked right over and stood almost up against the obnoxious host. Thomas towered above him.

“Uh . . . it’s just a . . . just a show,” Mr. Smellie stammered. He looked around, possibly wondering where security was. He almost fell off his chair as he started panicking. It seemed he was about to call out for help when he noticed Thomas Freeman’s hand extended.

“Thank you for having me, sir,” Thomas said with his hand still waiting.

“Oh yes, of course,” Mr. Smellie said in relief. He reached out and took Thomas’s hand and shook mildly.

Thomas smiled and squeezed . . . and squeezed . . . and squeezed harder until several cracks were heard.

“What have you gotten yourself into?”

Glenda Eagle sat in her car and stared down the narrow road into the darkness, the path her GPS unit was beckoning her to take. Only the light of the half moon gave a glimpse of the structures down that old industrial street on the outskirts of Los Angeles. A once tall chain-link fence surrounded the perimeter on both sides, but the parts of the fence that remained now lay crumpled on the ground. To the left was a seemingly endless row of old warehouse buildings decorated with a mixture of graffiti and vines, the windows now nothing more than jagged remnants looking like vicious teeth in large, square black mouths. On the right were a half dozen old boxcars rusted to train tracks that went nowhere, no doubt home to drifters and homeless people.

Her heart beat faster as she fought back the foreboding creeping into her thoughts and trying to plant roots in her mind.
Think about the payoff
, she thought.
Think about why you’re here
. She took a deep breath and navigated her vehicle into the unknown.

Her headlights offered a temporary reprieve from the bleakness, and as long as she kept her eyes focused in front of her, she felt as if she could continue. The ghostly shadows passing by her peripheral vision told a different tale, and she dared not look. Fighting the urge to turn back, she pressed on.

Something moved in front of her. A large dark figure emerged from an old guard shack to her left. It was a man holding up his right hand. As she neared him, she could see that he was Latino, tall, with a shaved head, large mustache, and unshaven chin. He was scary enough without the butt of the pistol announcing its presence above his belt line.

She stopped the car.

“Good evening,” the man said in a gruff tone.

Glenda nodded, although it didn’t really seem to be a good evening at all.

The man walked around the car looking carefully into each window, shining his flashlight into every crevice. After a full circle, he brought his attention back to the driver. “What’s your business here?”

Glenda tried hard to keep her voice from cracking. “I’m here to pick up a case of spinach for Popeye.”

The man stepped back with a quick, sharp nod. “Turn left at the next entrance and follow it to the end.”

Glenda did as instructed and turned left at the next road. An old sign that read “Keep Out” dangled from its broken metal post. She followed the road toward the end, trying hard to avoid the numerous potholes and debris. As she neared the last warehouse, she could see other cars and a faint glow coming from behind the building. Parking her car in line with the others, she got out and followed the light. It was a clear, humid summer night, and the stars managed to shout their presence away from the smog and lights of downtown.

As she rounded the corner of the building, she saw the source of the light. It was coming from the opening of a large black tent. Several people were standing in line to get in, so she filed in at the back of the line. A young couple dressed in formal wear took their spot in line behind her. Several of the people were well dressed, which surprised Glenda, but she was glad she had borrowed the black dress and high-heeled shoes she now wore. It was also a good thing she had practiced walking in the heels earlier in the day, which proved to be amazingly harder than she thought it would be.

She was a very coordinated woman with the strength of most men, but her calves were killing her from concentrating on walking without falling. She couldn’t wait for this to be over so she could shed the girlie wear for jeans and work boots.

“Place everything in the tray,” the man at the entrance said. He was also a very large man with a pistol sticking out of his jeans.

Glenda placed her small purse in the tray and started to walk forward. The man tapped her on the arm. When she looked back, he was patting his right ear.

“Oh sorry.” Glenda removed her Bluetooth and placed it in the tray with her purse. The man motioned for her to go through the metal detector as he looked inside her purse and saw the three stacks of twenty-dollar bills. He smiled and handed her the purse and phone.

There was a chain-link fence set up in the middle of the tent with one gate on the near side close to the tent entrance. Bleachers adorned the fence on the other three sides and were already nearly full. Glenda saw a bare spot on the top row and squeezed through the seated spectators.

After a few more folks arrived, they closed the entrance to the tent. The man who had directed her through the metal detector proved also to be the emcee. He strolled to the middle of the fenced area.

“Good evening, ladies and gentlemen.” His voice was bold and loud. He didn’t even need a microphone. “We have four bouts tonight, so get ready for a wild ride.”

He’s definitely a showman
, Glenda thought. She placed the Bluetooth back in her ear and turned it on. Moving her head in different directions, she took in her surroundings.

“What are you doing?”

Glenda looked at the man sitting to her right. He was not dressed in formal wear. He was stocky and wore a stained T-shirt that had once been white. Thinking quickly, she said, “I was wondering why they don’t have a hole in the top of this tent for all this smoke.” She coughed and waved her hand in front of her face.

The man stared at her for a few seconds, took a huge puff from his cigar, shook his head, and turned his attention back to the makeshift ring.

“The first fight tonight is between two undefeated monsters,” the emcee continued.

Glenda scoffed.
Of course they’re undefeated, moron
, she thought.

The emcee raised his arms wide above his head. “Weighing in at 105 pounds, let’s hear it for Satan’s Spawn.”

The crowd cheered and clapped as a young man walked into the ring with his massive pit bull on a leash. Glenda clapped and cheered too. The dog was majestic, solid brown with a huge head full of scars. Satan’s Spawn pulled on the leash, growling and flashing his fangs to the amusement of those in the stands.

“Now for his opponent,” the emcee said. “Weighing in at 98 pounds, give it up for Thor.”

Another young man walked into the ring with his pit bull, a beautiful white dog with a million tiny black specks. Like his opponent, his head and face also gave testament to many battles.

“Place your bets,” the emcee concluded as he left the ring and the two guys fought to keep their pits at bay.

Please hurry
, Glenda thought as the bookies walked through the bleachers collecting bets. “Oh, forty dollars on Satan’s Spawn,” Glenda said as she handed the guy two twenty-dollar bills. The man wrote out a slip and handed it to her.

Glenda swallowed hard and her anxiety grew.
Please, please, please hurry
, she thought again.

“No more bets,” shouted the emcee, now outside of the ring, as the bookies worked their way out of the stands. “Let’s get ready to rumble.” He took a whistle and put it to his lips.

The two dogs pulled against their restrainers, their lungs heaving as their flesh expanded and contracted around their rib cages, their mouths starting to foam in anticipation.

The whistle sounded and the dog men unleashed their hounds. The two magnificent creatures met in the middle of the ring on their hind legs as their jaws sought out the other’s weaknesses. Fur flew in this barbaric display, and the barbarians in formal wear cheered them on.

Glenda closed her eyes and tilted her head downward and said a silent prayer. It was answered. The tent became flooded with flashing red and blue lights.

“You’re surrounded,” a voice over a megaphone announced. “Come out in single file with your hands above your head. If you have a firearm, hold it high above your head or you will be shot on sight.”

Fear and panic gripped the inhabitants of the tent as the two men leashed their dogs. Some thought to escape the police by crawling under the tent in the back, but the officer wasn’t bluffing about the tent being surrounded.

Glenda followed the line of spectators out into the opening. The men in charge of the event, including the first one she saw at the guard shack and the two dog men, were placed in police cars and escorted away. The people there to watch and bet on the fights were all loaded into a large police van.

Before Glenda entered, an officer cuffed her, took her phone and bag and put them into a satchel, scanned the bar code on the handcuffs and the satchel, then tossed the evidence to another officer. He grabbed Glenda by the arm, and not gently, and shoved her into the back of the van. Glenda couldn’t help but smile, because she didn’t even know paddy wagons still existed.

A very uncomfortable thirty minutes passed before they arrived at the police station. Glenda, along with all the other spectators, was taken to a holding cell. It was an open cell with a wide-open stainless-steel commode. The walls were painted cinder blocks with ink scribbles all over them. The room was poorly lit and smelled of urine. The front desk was only about thirty feet away, where police officers went about their duties without even a glance in their direction.

“I want my phone call,” one person yelled.

“I want my attorney,” yelled another.

The officers ignored them.

Glenda took a seat on a long bench against the back wall of the cell.

“Can you believe this crap?”

She turned to see her old friend in the stained T-shirt.

“You better have a good lawyer,” he said.

Glenda shook her head. As she leaned forward to place her head in her hands, her long, curly red hair flowed down, covering most of her face. She was a strikingly handsome woman of Native American descent. Almost six feet tall, her tan and muscular body gave her a formidable appearance in the borrowed black dress.

Everyone looked up as the keys clanged against the tumblers in the door to the cell.

“All right,” an officer said. “Who wants to go first?”

Several people raised their hands and jumped to their feet, including the guy beside Glenda.