Two guard dogs, on the other hand, raced across the yard to render their opinion of my performance. Both had started life as rottweilers, but had been tricked out with enough chrome to make most street samurai jealous. Glowing green bars running from one side of their heads to the other replaced their eyes. Razor spurs gleamed from front and back paws, and the spikes encircling their necks weren't studded on any collar. The spring-steel coils running along their jaws combined with their titanium teeth to give the mute beasts enough bite to pierce cast iron and tear whole pieces out of me that I didn’t want to see gone. I let my throat give voice to the Old One’s howl of challenge. One dog decided that a desire to compete in the ’52 Games in Tokyo beat gnawing on whatever the hell I was. With stubby tail tucked between his legs, he ran off to practice being scared. The bitch kept coming, however, deadly in the way she ran, yet eerie in the utter silence of her approach.