Gristly Orion trots out into the middle like this is old hat. The other dog—Omar, apparently—circles right, still panting, still wearing that giddy, dumb dog’s face, oblivious to the thrashing that Atlanta is now certain he’s going to get. Omar’s handler gets off to the side, starts yelling at the dog and waving his hands like he’s trying to telekinetically move the animal. Handler gets too close, and the ref taps him: “Back up. No touching, no touching.”

Karl stands back, arms crossed, showing a broken-toothed smile.

Omar turns back toward his handler and the ref yells out: “Turn!”

“Shit!” the black dude says.

Karl just laughs as the ref whoops out: “Handle your dogs!”

Both handlers grab the dogs and head back to their corners.

“That’s a turn,” Guy explains. “Dog faces away from the fight, that’s a cur move. Curs are losers. Winners are champs. Dog makes a turn—meaning he turns away from the fight—three times, match is over. Dog loses. Bonafide cur, yo.”

Atlanta’s stomach flutters. That’s what needs to happen here. Omar isn’t up for this. He’s not a fighter. Keep turning, she thinks. Keep. Turning.

The ref whips his hand around again, calls out the same as before: “Face your dogs.” Dog head and shoulders show again through handler legs. “All right. Let go.”

Once more the dogs are free.

Again Orion boldly steps into the middle. He knows the drill, and Karl doesn’t have to do anything to egg the animal on. But the black dude—Atlanta hears someone in the audience tell him to “Whip that bitch, Deshawn!”—stands behind his dog, clapping his hands and snapping his fingers.

It works. Atlanta grips the plywood as Omar moves to the middle. But not like a fighter. The brindled pit’s got a lean, slack posture—a happy doggy face like he’s going to greet an old friend and maybe tussle in the dirt over a chew toy. Orion just stands there, head low, shoulder hair starting to stiffen. A hellhound ready to pounce.

The crowd is whooping it up. The skinheads cheering. Everybody else gasping or booing. It’s like watching a lamb bobble off toward a waiting lion.

Orion moves. Fast. Scary fast.

His jaw wraps around Omar’s muzzle and he pushes the smaller pit bull down into the dirt. A plume of brown dust rises. Omar squeals, cries out—a sharp, keening whimper. The crowd is loud now—Atlanta’s own strangled cry is lost amongst all the catcalls and monkey hoots.