Three of us are crammed into the front of the van after finishing our shift.

The drive to the fights is long, and the close confinement does nothing to mask the stench of body odor from a long day's work.

Not even the joint hanging from Matt's lips.

The cheap weed is probably more lawn grass than cannabis.

I don't know why with the windfall of cash we've made that Matt doesn't

pay for some better gonja. To each their own, I guess. I chew on the cigar and puff away,

adding to my own makeshift air freshener to the stinking animal control van. Despite our conditions,

I'm smiling. Lately, I've always been smiling

when I head to the fights. Whoever said money can't buy happiness is full of shit.

They say that dog is man's best friend, probably the same bleeding-hearted pussies that said

that shit about money.

Dogs ain't nobody's best friend. I've been working as a dog catcher since fresh out of high school, and to me, they ain't been nothing but a pain in the ass, or the arm, or the leg,

or wherever else they can bite you. Our town's a small one.

The local animal control consists of myself and three other men,

all present in the van.

Matt, the former local football legend until a pulled ACL,

also pulled out all his scholarships.

Hank, the twitchy man sitting in the middle, also needs the

paycheck to feed his meth habit, and simple Joey, who's riding in the back with Bean.

Joey is the only one that objected when I first brought up the fights. My logic was on point,

I must say. We get all these dogs, right?

Mangy strays that'll bite you as soon as they look at you.

...