TIGHT PARTNERS
McCarron, 3:55 a.m. Sunday Morning—Me and Big O came to a stop at the twelve-foot-high chain-link fence topped with razor wire. I set down my beat-up guitar case near the gate, which was secured with a thick chain and fastened with a heavy-duty Master lock. It wasn’t the imposing fence or locked gate that had actually stopped us, though. No; it was the big-headed pit bull glaring back at us through the gate with his malevolent tiger-yellow eyes. Ole Rufus didn’t growl or bristle, just peered back coldly at me as I edged a step or two closer. Just daring me. Come on in, pal…and I’ll tear you a new bunghole.
I shook my head and chuckled wryly, thinking, No way, not this time, Bad Ass, because I have brought you a tasty little snack. I unwrapped the ball of raw hamburger and
