Swear. That's the story. I'm not saying it's true, but it was told to me as the truth and it was given to the teller as the truth. If it did happen, I have no idea where this took place. North, South, East, or West. But it got the story wheels turning. My thoughts about dog fighting, boxing, and this supposed incident, all came crashing together, and became "The Pit." This was about 1982 or 1983. I sent it out, and no one bought it. They didn't know what the hell it was. All the standard honor markets — there were a number of them then — thought it wasn't horror, and they were probably right. Some wanted it to have a twist ending, or another ending. One editor wanted me to give it a positive spin. I wouldn't. I pulled it. It lay in a file drawer for several years.

By the mid-eighties I was beginning to develop a name, and when I was asked for a story for a crime/mystery anthology being published by Black Lizard, I sent the editor this. He accepted it and later it appeared in my first short story collection, "By Bizarre Hands". That's been many years ago and though it's been reprinted several times, it still hasn't gotten the exposure I modestly think it deserves. Maybe this collection will help.

SIX MONTHS EARLIER THEY HAD CAPTURED HIM. Tonight Harry went into the pit. He and Big George, right after the bull terriers got through tearing the guts out of one another. When that was over, he and George would go down and do their business. The loser would stay there and be fed to the dogs, each of which had been starved for the occasion.

When the dogs finished eating, the loser's head would go up on a pole. Already a dozen poles circled the pit. On each rested a head, or skull, depending on how long it had been exposed to the elements, ambitious pole-climbing ants and hungry birds. And of course how much flesh the terriers ripped off before it was erected.