You Wouldn't Be Dead for Quids (19 page)

‘Come on Grungle,' he said slapping his hand against his thigh again, a strange look on his face. ‘Let's go for a walk, mate.' With Grungle at his feet he walked down the back yard towards the narrow lane that ran behind the houses. He slipped the bolt on the shoulder high wooden gate, set in the wood paling fence the same height, then he and a very happy but very curious Grungle stepped out into the lane. The skies were still leaden and overcast but it had stopped raining; there didn't appear to be a soul around.

Stavros's back gate was the same as Les's; wooden palings closed by a metal bolt with a hole like half circle to put your hand through. Les had another quick but cautious glance up and down the lane, still no one around, so he opened Stavros's gate, put his foot behind Grungle's solid backside and pushed him through, closing the gate quietly behind him.

His adrenalin pumping steadily and a wild look on his face, he dashed back into his place, propped an empty wooden box up
against the fence and with his mind a whirl of avid and excited anticipation, climbed up on it to watch the proceedings. Les couldn't have been any more delighted if he'd been a black ghetto brother sitting ringside at an Ali–Frazier fight at Caesar's Palace in Las Vegas.

Squinty-eyed, Grungle still stood there quietly panting at the back gate, his sloppy pink tongue hanging over those gleaming white teeth, dripping saliva on to the lawn; he still wasn't quite certain what was going on. For some strange reason King still hadn't noticed him. Les hissed at him over the fence. He scowled up at him, then a movement at the back fence caught his eye; he couldn't quite believe what he was seeing. A dog, the cowardly wretch from next door, in his, King's, backyard and half his size too. There would be no mercy, the miserable cur would die for this act of audacious insolence. That was certain.

A deep ominous growl rumbled from King's throat and the thick brindle hairs stood up all over his back as he slithered treacherously out of his kennel, and with his tail tucked firmly between his legs and his stomach almost dragging on the ground he advanced slowly and deadly, like a maleficent great snake, towards the still smiling Grungle.

Grungle spotted King coming towards him and the smile on his face quickly vanished. A ridge of bristly, black hair stood up along his spine but oddly enough he still stood there, slowly wagging his tail. King quickened his advance till he was about two or three metres away, then with one great hideous snarl he raised himself up on his huge hind legs and like some maddened jungle beast leapt on to Grungle in a snapping, biting whirlwind of unbridled ferocity.

King's first strike was straight at Grungle's throat, the sheer weight of the monstrous german shepherd knocking him clean off his feet; only the thick, studded collar he was wearing probably saved him from King gouging half his throat out. Grungle rolled with King's onslaught and came back up about a metre or so behind him. However, instead of taking the fight back to King he seemed to start smiling again and just stood there, slowly moving his head from side to side and wagging his tail. Watching from the fence, Les couldn't believe his eyes, it seemed as if Grungle just wanted to play. But King certainly did not.

He pounced on Grungle again, snapping and snarling in a wild, blood-lusting, maddened frenzy; white flecks of froth and foam flew from his mouth as he repeatedly tried to savage Grungle's throat. Grungle went down under King's fearsome charge, rolled over and came back up behind him again. King immediately spun around and with amazing speed for his size leapt furiously on to Grungle once more; frustration was mixing with his anger at not being able to pin the cross-bull terrier down. From the fence Les still couldn't figure out why Grungle hadn't made some sort of a move. Is he playing, he thought? Well if he is, he'd better forget about it or King will end up making him into dim sims.

This time King's bruising charge was a little more effective and as he knocked Grungle over he managed to rip a piece out of his ear, sending a small spray of blood spattering across the back fence to soak into the rain-dampened palings. Grungle gave a slight, but strange, yelp of both pain and delight and rolled up behind King again. However this time, as he stood there, his tail had stopped wagging and his stubby, black ears were flattened down on either side of his head. His pink, piggy eyes had narrowed into two barely discernable slits, noticeable only by a fierce, sinister gleam, glowing from within.

King charged furiously into Grungle once more but this time, instead of rolling over, Grungle ducked under King's rush, got his jaws around one of the german shepherd's front legs, and bit it straight off. As neat and quick as someone snapping a carrot. King let out an agonised howl of pain and shock, he crashed forward and the jagged stump of white bone dug into the lawn; pink arteries and blue nerve ends dangled loosely as a torrent of blood spurted out on to the wet grass.

Before the horrified King knew what had hit him, Grungle spun around and with one mighty crunch of his massive jaws ripped about two kilograms of flesh from one of King's back legs, but instead of spitting it out, he gave the huge bloody lump of leg a quick chew and swallowed it, fur and all. Grungle gave a strange, primeval howl of excited delight and with another awesome snap of his jaws bit through the remainder of King's rear leg. It flopped on to the lawn not far from the front one.

King was now screaming with terror and agony as thick, dark red, almost black blood spurted from his torn arteries and
shredded tendons, soaking the grass on Stavros's lawn in a sickly fusion of red and green. The huge german shepherd was now down to two legs and losing blood rapidly. In the betting he had just blown out from even money favourite to 500/1. In fact as the race callers would say ‘you could write your own ticket'.

Howling with pain and fear, King rolled over on his back and tried frantically to kick away from Grungle's relentless attack with his remaining rear leg. His screams were cut off into a stomach-churning gurgle as the smaller black dog sank his gleaming fangs deep into his throat, biting straight through his collar. Rising up on his stocky hind-legs, Grungle lifted the huge german shepherd bodily off the ground and twisting his head viciously flung him over his shoulder, tearing half his neck out. King crashed to the ground and lay there writhing in agony, almost paralysed with fear, watching in terror as the huge piece of his flesh was chewed up to disappear quickly down Grungle's throat also.

Watching from the fence, Les's eyes were sticking out like two soft boiled eggs, he could hardly believe what he was seeing. Grungle wasn't content with just destroying King. He was eating him alive. There was blood and fur everywhere, the noises emitting from King's tortured body were dreadful; even for a man who had spent years working in a meatworks Les found the spectacle quite horrendous. He was going to jump over the fence and stop it but he thought; oh well, Grungle only gets a chance to come to the city now and again, so why not let him enjoy himself.

The wretched King lay there in a state of shock, pain and confusion; he still couldn't believe this was really happening to him. His life's blood was pumping out of him and as Grungle kept savaging him he could see it being splattered all over the backyard, even landing in his kennel. He put his remaining front leg up in a pathetic attempt to protect himself and the wild eyed Grungle bit it straight off. He tried to scream but his scream turned into a rasping, bloody gargle as Grungle sunk his fangs deep into his throat once more. Blood gushed out of King's nose and mouth. Grungle then switched his merciless attack to King's body, crunching noisily through his ribs like someone crushing up a wicker basket. King's tongue lolled loosely to one side of his mouth and the whites started to show as his eyes rolled piteously back in his head. The big german shepherd knew it was only a
matter of time now and death would be the only thing that would relieve him of his terrible agony. The last thing he saw was Grungle's head rip through his breast and tear his still beating heart from his body, chew it and swallow it. King twitched a couple of times, then a hideous rattle came from his throat and he lay still.

The big german shepherd's agony was finally over.

Grungle still continued to savage King's mangled remains, chewing his body in half, then ripping his head off. Les watched as King's liver and kidneys went down Grungle's throat, plus a large portion of rear leg and decided it was time to put a stop to Grungle's gory afternoon tea.

‘Righto, Grungle,' he said, leaping over the fence. ‘That's enough, mate. Come on.' Grungle chose to ignore Les and kept chewing on King's decapitated head. Les took hold of the head and tried to prise it from Grungle's jaws. Grungle set his jaws like a vice and refused to budge. ‘Come on,' said Les ‘give me the fuckin' thing will you.' Grungle kept his jaws clamped around King's head, defying Les to take it off him.

‘All right Grungle,' said Les indifferently, seeing he wasn't going to get anywhere in the tug-o-war with his brother's dog. ‘That's the way you want it, is it.' He stepped behind Grungle, drew back his foot and kicked him solidly fair in his promiment balls. Grungle yelped with pain, let go of the head and ran to one end of the yard where he sat licking his throbbing scrotum and looking at Les in bewilderment.

‘Come on, inside,' said Les, taking Grungle by the collar and leading him back into his own backyard. He locked the gate and dashed into the kitchen, returning with two large, green plastic garbage bags. He vaulted over the fence and started to clean up the carnage Grungle had left behind, hoping he could get it finished before Stavros returned from the wedding. If Stavros asked him where King was he'd just have to lie to him and let him think it had got over the fence and been picked up or run over or something.

Stavros's backyard looked like Homebush abattoirs. There were blood, bones, fur and pieces of dog meat and intestines scattered everywhere. Blood was splashed all over the lawn, the fence, Stavros's barbecue and the late King's kennel; next to the remains of his torso lay his leather collar, bitten cleanly through.
Les felt like he was taking part in some sort of cheap horror movie as he started hurriedly picking up the pieces and stuffing them into one of the plastic bags. Part of King's smashed ribcage tore the side of the bag; he pushed it down with his hand, blood smeared the sleeve of his track-suit and got in his watchband. Finally he had the remains of the german shepherd in the plastic garbage bag, he sealed it with a small plastic tie, dropped it into the other bag and sealed that too.

‘Don't you bloody go near that,' he said to Grungle as he dropped the sodden, squashy bundle over the fence. At the sound of Les's voice Grungle retreated to the other side of the yard and sat there rather apprehensively. He wasn't in any hurry for another one of Les's Woolloomooloo uppercuts.

Les uncoiled Stavros's garden hose, turned the tap on full and started hosing away the blood; fortunately it had been raining most of the day so it washed away easily without leaving any trace. He had it all done in less than ten minutes. A quick check around revealed a few spots of blood inside King's kennel, he wiped them off with the sleeve of his track-suit. He had another check around, while he replaced Stavros's hose exactly as he'd found it. Everything was in order so he jumped back over the fence. He looked up and down the other backyards, there still wasn't a soul around so despite all the noise nobody had seen or heard a thing; luckily the rain must have kept everyone inside also. Thank God for that, he thought.

‘Righto Grungle,' said Les. ‘You're next.' He unhooked his own hose, took Grungle by the collar and started to hose the blood off him, giving him a final wipe over with a wettex. When he'd finished Grungle shook the remaining water off and sat there staring at Les, a rather flummoxed look on his face. He still couldn't figure it out. He's beaten up the neighbourhood bully and his own master's brother turns around and kicks him in the nuts. It's all very confusing, especially if you're only a bloke down from the country for a couple of days.

Les could read the look on Grungle's face. ‘All right mate,' he said, reaching over and patting Grungle's horrible but sad big head. ‘I suppose I shouldn't have reefed you in the Niagras like that. Here you are.' He opened the plastic bags, took out one of King's front legs and tossed it to Grungle, who caught it in his mouth, wagged his tail and trotted over to the other side of the
yard to sit there crunching it up noisily. He was quite happy now.

Les resealed the garbage bags, picked the bundle up and took it out the front, putting it in the back of his brother's panel-van. I'll get him to drop it in a river somewhere on the way home he thought. Back inside the house he changed out of his rain-dampened, blood-smeared track-suit into a pair of jeans and a long-sleeved sweat shirt, then settled back on the lounge with a can of Fourex to have a think about what had just happened and wait for Murray to return.

Poor Stavros, he's going to be broken hearted for a while he imagined, but, what he don't know won't hurt him. Besides, King had a good run, he had every dog and just about everybody in the street terrified, especially those just across the road.

But like they say, all good things to an end must come and King, your end was a rather sticky one. Picking a fight with Grungle is like bleeding in front of a shark. So here's to you sucker wherever you are. Les raised his can of Fourex in silent toast to the late, but unlamented King, and drained it in one go. He was on his third can and really starting to see the funny side of it when the phone rang.

‘Hello,' he said, picking up the receiver.

‘Hello Les. It's Price, how are you?'

‘Hello Price. I'm good mate. How's yourself?'

‘Couldn't be better.'

‘That's good. How did that business with Murray go?'