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,” Chet retorted. “It’s who is saying it. I have a certain panache that really speaks to people Floyd. Hitler had it.”
    “Hitler was a horrible person! He orchestrated unspeakable things,” Floyd said aghast.
    “I’m not talking about what he did or about his ideals ,” Chet said. “I am talking about his style. The dude could give a speech. You have to admit at least that Floyd. He could be speaking about the genocide of the Jews or ordering a large pizza with extra bacon; he would have your complete attention. It was his persona .”
    “You think you have persona? I don’t even know what you mean by that.”
    “Can you feel it radiating from me?” Chet asked.
    “You’re an idiot. How the hell are we going to get out of this mess?” Floyd asked.
    “You call me an idiot Floyd , then in your next breath you want my help. I should let the dogs rip you to pieces while I laugh my head off, but I will not do that. I have already proved to you what I good friend I am and what a bad one you are. Have I not obtained our weapons?” Chet said, patting the frayed backpack slung over his shoulder.
    “Yeah, but only because they laughed at your blunted throwing stars. I bet they think it will just enrage the dogs further and give everyone a better show,” Floyd said.
    “What about your shotgun?” Chet said.
    “What about it?”
    “You still have your shotgun, don’t you?”
    “I don’t want to talk about that Chet.” Floyd crossed his arms and frowned. When the kidnappers were looking through their weapons. They quickly confiscated Floyd’s gun until Chet started laughing and regaling the men with how Floyd made his own shells for the gun and how they never worked.
    Floyd was red with embarrassment as the men looked over his homemade shells and snickered. He almost died when they handed the gun back to him and pretended to be scared he was going to shoot them.
    “I think we should. I should get some due for getting you back your gun,” Chet said.
    “Okay. Okay, I’ll give you credit for that. Just shut up about it,” Floyd said.
    “I have noticed that you haven’t been shooting with it very much since your first…attempt at making your ammunition.”
    “That first time almost blew my face off. I still have those burn and shrapnel scars up my arm,” Floyd said. “But the gun works.”
    “How do you know?”
    “I just know. I know how I messed up the shell the last time, and I know I have set it right.”
    “But you haven’t shot it ,” Chet said.
    “I haven’t shot it ,” Floyd admitted.
    “You’ve just been kind of waving it around a lot.”
    “Shut the hell up about it Chet! The bullets are fine. I just don’t want to waste any. That’s all,” Floyd said.
    “No need to be so touchy about it Floydypus,” Chet said. “Sweet mercy. Look at that!” Chet pointed across the dirt floor, and Floyd watched a small procession of men— all dressed in black with the dog emblem emblazoned over their chests— climb down a lowered ladder and walk to the middle of the pit.
    “I think we’re about to get started ,” Floyd said.
    “They will know our names by the end of this day Floyd ,” Chet said, fishing in his backpack for his favorite wave star. “They will call us the ‘Beast Masters’ or the ‘Cur Killers’ or something cool like that. They will write songs about us!”
    “Shut up Chet ,” Floyd said, loading shells into his shotgun.
    “You know what your problem is Floyd? You just don’t have any zeal for life. You have lost your zest ,” Chet said.
    One of the black clad men in the pit raised his hand and the crowd went silent.
     

Chapter 8
     
    The black clad man lowered his hand when the crowd calmed down and addressed them. He was tall and thin except for a large paunch for a stomach that made the bottom half of his dog emblem swell, giving it the look of a pronounced under bite. His voice was deep and sonorous and would have lulled any suicidal off his ledge, but