GUTS

Axle looked down at his shaky feet, his socks filthy and tattered. His hands bound by rusty handcuffs. He wanted to cry out for help yet he knew that would only bring on more pain. Probably by his annoyed captor and most definitely by the shock collar tightly wrapped around his neck, silently threatening to shock him should he so much as raise his voice. The sudden creek of door opening was pretty much the only thing that could snap him out of the haze he seemed to always be in. A moment later the smell of boiled Broccoli and canned meat filled the air as he heard the approaching footsteps. Axle knew what that meant. Right now, Dinner. A few hours later, an unconventional method of conversation.