I wrote this next part before the Vick dog fighting fiasco occurred (in case you're not in the U.S., a famous quarterback for an American football team has been accused of running a dog fighting ring). It's amazing how timely this part became in light of that current event!
Either way, the adventure to find Harry continues, and Mac gets into more trouble! Read on!
Memories of Life and Death Part Four
Rated: PG
Despite the pain in his leg, MacGyver continued to walk and hitch rides to his next destination—California. Harry had once stayed in Northern California for a brief period, but the last driver to take MacGyver to the state could only take him as far as Los Angeles. As he limped along the city sidewalks, feeling the warm sun on his skin and admiring the tanned girls, he stopped outside a bar where raucous laughter could be heard inside. He wasn’t a drinker, but his sore leg needed a break and he needed to call his mother.
When he stepped inside, the pungent odor of stale cigarettes and beer hit his nostrils hard. The rough looking patrons glared at him with murder in their eyes or snubbed him, turning away from him to return to their drinks, looking annoyed by his interruption. He was about to leave, thinking it was a mistake to try to use a phone in a place like that. Maybe he could find a shop or something. Then he saw the bartender and decided it wouldn’t hurt to ask for a phone. If he was gruffly refused, he could continue on until he found someplace more hospitable.
He was about to approach the bartender when out of the corner of his eye he saw several people disappearing behind a door. Thoughts of calling his mother quickly evaporated as he turned to watch several more people vanish behind the door. Wondering what was behind it, he followed the next group of people to head in that direction. Curiosity compelled him to continue. He couldn’t leave it alone. Anytime there was a secret door in an establishment like that, he thought back to his favorite western and spy movies, just knowing there had to be something nefarious going on behind that door.
It was easier to gain access to the hidden world behind the door than he expected. Unlike in the movies, there wasn’t a burly, menacing bouncer who looked like he had just been released from death row waiting to toss him into the street. Instead, the secret world behind the door was more inclusive, inviting him to participate in it. Smoke clung heavily to the air, giving everything a hazy atmosphere. Loud shouts and cheers filled the room, and it was crowded to the corners with people. MacGyver had to push his way through the mass of people just to see what exactly they were cheering and getting so excited about, rubbing against sour-smelling men and nearly spilling their drinks.
Once he got closer, he wished he hadn’t come into the room at all. In the center of the room was a makeshift miniature boxing ring. Inside were two dogs, lunging at each other, snarling and biting mercilessly, fighting cruelly and barbarically for the pleasure of the sick people in the audience betting money on the winner. Disgusted and appalled by the spectacle, MacGyver knew he had to do something to stop it. He couldn’t stand to see animals treated this way. He knew something about abused animals, how they either shrank away from human contact or angrily attacked those trying to love them, showing how a life of hurt and mistreatment had turned them into mistrustful and sometimes dangerous beasts.
Dog fighting proved to MacGyver how low the human species could stoop to satisfy their basest desires, and it angered him, making him lose confidence in the capacity of the human race that something so evil and heartless could be cheered at and encouraged. Digging inside his knapsack, he found the dog whistle he had once made. Hoping it would work, he blew on it. The sharp, piercing noise it made caused both dogs to cease fighting, their bitten and bloodied ears pricking in attention, their wild eyes growing wider. MacGyver continued to blow on the whistle until one of the dogs ran out of the arena, whimpering.
“Hey, what’s going on, here? What happened to the fight?” Someone asked.
The loud cheers soon turned into dissatisfied and very vocal grumbles. MacGyver didn’t care. He was glad something had stopped the senseless violence. The other dog appeared to be too weak to run from his whistle, lying on the floor, bleeding and bitten in several places. Not being able to stand by and watch the poor animal suffer, MacGyver jumped into the center ring and cradled the dog’s head in his lap, gently stroking him where he wasn’t injured. Tears came to his eyes when he saw how badly the dog was hurt, making small whining sounds and curling up in pain. The brutality of the event showed itself fully in the dog’s broken and jagged skin, looking almost as if he had been eaten alive by the other dog. He couldn’t understand how anyone would enjoy seeing an animal tortured like this. Someone noticed him in the crowd and pointed a finger at him.
“He did it! He stopped the fight!” He shouted.
The crowd began to close in on MacGyver, desperate and enraged, prepared to fight him instead, focusing their bloodlust on something since their fight had been spoiled. MacGyver looked up at the angry crowd and frantically thought about what his options were for escaping. He wanted to take the dog with him, but he didn’t know how he would ever get out of that packed and cramped room unscathed. He knew it was the chance he took for stopping the vicious scene, but he couldn’t stand back and watch it happen. As the crowd drew closer, he waited, knowing he would have to make some sacrifices for saving the animals. Even if he didn’t get out of that room alive, the risk was worth it if he managed to save at least one of the dog’s lives.
“Stop!” Someone shouted.
MacGyver closed his eyes in relief, hoping he had received a reprieve. Instead, when he opened them again, he saw the angry and sweaty face of a man glaring at him, deep hatred blazing in his wild eyes. He pushed his way through the crowd towards MacGyver.
“He’s mine,” he growled.
MacGyver gulped when he looked up and saw the man towering over him. He felt as helpless and crumpled as the beaten dog that lay in his lap, its breathing labored.
“You stopped my fight,” the man said, huffing. “You just lost me a lot of money, kid.”
“Yeah, well I tried,” MacGyver said, instantly regretting his sarcasm. It always came at inappropriate moments and gave him further trouble.
The man sneered at him. “You’re gonna pay,” he said, snarling.
Before MacGyver could react, the man was yanking him off the ground with his thick hands. He slapped MacGyver hard across the cheek, the gaudy, massive ring he wore cutting into MacGyver’s skin. Stunned by the blow but quick to recover, MacGyver began fighting back, punching the man. Cheers once again erupted in the crowd, pleased to see that there would be some kind of fight, after all. They continued to exchange blows, careening into walls and smashing into tables, broken glass from beer bottles cutting into their skin. Despite the incredible strength and endurance of the man fighting him, MacGyver was able to keep up until the man picked up a baseball bat he kept nearby to referee his dog fights and smashed it behind MacGyver’s kneecaps, sending him crashing to the floor in pain. Grinning sadistically, the man stood over him and began kicking him and beating him with the bat. Each heavy and sickening blow weakened MacGyver, threatening to send him into unconsciousness.
The beating seemed ceaseless until several policemen rushed into the room, shouting and pointing their weapons at the crowd, handcuffing them and forcing them against the walls.
“All right, break it up!” One of the policemen shouted above the yells and protests in the crowd. He grabbed the man that was beating MacGyver and slammed him against a wall as well, handcuffing him.
“I’m glad you got here when you did,” a man in street clothes said, flashing his badge. “He was beating that poor kid senseless.”
The policeman that had arrested the dog fight leader and organizer looked down at the pathetic condition MacGyver was in, barely clinging to consciousness, bloodied and battered. He looked worse than the injured dog that lay near him, breathing shallowly.
“What happened, here?” He asked.
The policeman in street clothes shrugged. “He stopped the fight and tried to save the dogs,” he said. “I have to say that he’s either really brave…or really stupid.”
As MacGyver lay on the ground, moaning, the uniformed policeman stared at him for awhile, examining him. Even though MacGyver’s face was bruised and bloody, he thought he recognized him from the bulletin that had been placed across the country about a missing teenaged boy from Minnesota.
“Oh my God,” he said. “I think this is the kid that was listed as missing.”
“Really?” the policeman in street clothes asked. “How can you tell?”
“He looks a lot like the description,” the uniformed policeman said. “I think this is the one. Send an ambulance over here. Tell them he’s in a bad way and needs immediate medical attention. I’ll get in touch with the police in Minnesota and let them know that we found their boy.”
The cop in street clothes nodded. “Got it, Chief,” he said.
MacGyver vaguely heard them, the chaotic scene in the room becoming a blur and a mass of incomprehensible voices blending together until the noise and confusion overwhelmed him and he lost consciousness.
To be continued…
"If a man does not keep pace with his companions, perhaps it is because he hears a different drummer."
--Henry David Thoreau
brains+brawn+beauty+personality=MacGyver
