A/N After becoming a fan of the movie, Osmosis Jones, I made an OC: a pet hyena for Thrax, named Almira. I decided to introduce her by telling her life story. Her picture can be found in my DeviantART gallery; I go as DarkraixCresselia there.
I own only Almira and any other characters you won't recognize. The ones you DO recognize from OJ are owned by Warner Brothers.
RavageThyCorpse: Hey, you found this :D XD I'm glad you like this. I like the name Almira too.
The next day, I woke up and began walking around again, keeping in the shadows, of course. Cell children would occasionally pull their mother's hands and point at the "pretty doggy", but I was already gone by the time they looked.
As I trotted along, I heard a low growling. Looking towards I was going, I saw a vicious-looking dog cell. He was big, with hard muscles and sharp teeth. He was a dark green color with pale green eyes.
Behind him, holding him by a leash, was a tall, thin germ. His skin was green, and his eyes were yellow-green. He wore a purple and blue plaid sweater, a red vest, dark brown pants, and black boots. He held a cane in his left hand, the dog's leash in the right, and wore a cowboy hat on his head. His name was Mr. Preemer.
"Now whatcha suppose a beast like this's doin' in the city of Jack, eh Hirschhorn?" He asked in a slight western accent.
The dog called Hirschhorn just growled at me. Summoning my courage, I arched my back and growled, showing my sharp white teeth. "You think you can best my best fightin' dog, Hyena?" Mr. Preemer unhooked Hirschhorn from his leash and pushed him forward. "Get'er! Get'er!" He snapped.
Before I could prepare myself, the big dog tackled me. We went rolling as he bit at my legs and neck. I scratched at him with my claws, drawing plasma, which was the cell/germ/virus equivalent of blood. Pushing back with my hind feet, I rolled Hirschhorn over onto his back. Pinning him to the ground with my right paw, I raised my left front paw over my head and lit my claws up. I lit the claws on my right paw as well. I scratched at the poor dog over and over. I was scared and fighting for my life, mind you. Mr. Preemer sicked his dog on me, and I was only defending myself.
Finally having enough, I held Hirschhorn down with my paws, claws smoldered out, and held my mouth around his neck. Before I could deliver the fatal blow, I heard…Clapping?
I looked up, confused. Mr. Preemer had his cane leaning against his hip and was slowly clapping his hands, smirking. I let Hirschhorn go and stood over him; he was still alive, but not for long if he didn't get medical attention. But I wasn't worried about him; why was his owner applauding me, when I had nearly killed his dog? It made no sense.
"Yer a real fighter." He said, slowly ceasing his clapping. "Hirschhorn was a tough fighter. But you got yer firepowers t'help ya. I think you can make me twice, maybe even three times as much money as he did."
I didn't understand how I could make him money, but I was smart enough to put two and two together, assuming he meant I could fight other dogs. Before I could fully comprehend, he grabbed me by the scruff and tied the forgotten leash around my muzzle and neck. Growling, I tossed my head around. But I couldn't get it off.
Holding the leash, Mr. Preemer pulled Hirschhorn onto his shoulders and stood up. "Wait til' th'boys see what I got." He chuckled. I already didn't like him.
Soon, we came upon a warehouse I'm the back of the right hand. Outside was a pen made of crates. There were also cages with leftover meats for the dogs. Mr. Preemer pushed Hirschhorn into one and dragged me into the warehouse. "Puncher! Hangnail! C'mere an' see what I got!"
Two germs came in. One, Puncher, looked very strong. He had big hands and wore a brown holey shirt and pants, black boots, and a black eye patch. He was an average green, with pea-green eyes.
Hangnail was tall and thin. He wore a black shirt, shiny leather jacket, black jeans, brown boots, and a dirty bowler's hat.
"What's that?" Puncher asked with a tough-guy's attitude.
"This is what I wanted you guys t'see. She beat up ol' Hirschhorn, she did." Mr. Preemer laughed. "Ya'll shoulda seen it!"
"So why did you bring her here?" Hangnail asked in a Spanish accent.
"'Cause I wanna train 'er t'fight. I think she can make us a lotta dough. Now, c'mon, an' help me get'er into the stall."
Puncher walked up and began helping to drag me into a stall. Once I was pushed in, they shut the door. I scratched around, trying to find a way out. While I did, the germs laughed at me. Growing frustrated, I turned and ran as fast as I could in the small stall towards the door. Lighting my claws, I leapt at the door, burning it. I leapt over the germs and turned to them, arching my back and baring my sharp teeth. "Whoa, Nellie!" Mr. Preemer exclaimed.
"Easy!" Hangnail said, holding out his hands. "Easy, girl!"
I growled deeply, pumping up the heat in my claws. Taking a deep breath, I roared, causing a stream of fire to billow out.
"Duck!" Puncher pushed Mr. Preemer and Hangnail down, narrowly avoiding the fire. Sighing, Mr. Preemer adjusted his hat. "We're gonna have t'pull out th'big guns, boys."
For months afterwards, they trained me to fight. They'd tie me to posts with chains and tease me with sticks and rags, jumping back and forth. "C'mon, Girl!" They'd exclaim. "C'mon, get it! Get it, Girl!"
Growling, I'd snap at the sticks and rags. Sometimes I grabbed them and snapped the sticks and tore the rags. They'd do it day after day until my throat was too sore to growl. I still snapped anyway. Soon it came to the point I snapped at anything that came to close.
They also made me run laps to build up my muscles. Sometimes they'd put shoes on me to prevent me my use of my claws; other times, I ran barefooted. They'd run me ragged so I'd collapse in my cage, which happened to be fire-retardant.
If you think this isn't so bad, I wasn't finished. If I didn't do something right, they'd beat me. Most of the time with a whip. It stung badly. Sometimes I bled. When I finally tore the stinging torture device apart, they used something worse: Mr. Preemer's cane. It hurt so badly! I'd have bruises that stayed for days. I was lucky they never broke my bones, of course.
This training and constant beatings changed me. I became so vicious, I growled and snapped at anyone who came too close. But it was only because I was scared. The constant beatings made me think anyone wanted to beat me. So I kept them away. I was never petted or scratched behind the ears or loved. I used to feel miserable, but my heart hardened and guarded against those emotions. All I knew of was hatred.
Soon, while training me on the chains, I managed to get a tiny taste of revenge. Mr. Preemer was teasing me with a rag again. He jumped back and forth, wiggling the white object in my face. I grabbed it and held on as he pulled. His hands inched up the rag to my mouth until I let go and quickly bit him.
"Ahh!" He jumped back and gripped his hand. I was worried he would beat me, but didn't show my fear; instead, I growled, showing my sharp teeth and flaring my fiery yellow mane. I had developed three big flame-like bangs on my forehead. The front two flared around, while the third curved back and pointed at the back of my neck.
Instead of beating me, Mr. Preemer nodded to his pals, "I think she's ready."
A/N Almira's past, especially this part, is based on White Fang. He was trained to fight dogs after he beat a Saint Bernard. So I decided to use this for Almira, showing how she became aggressive.
Mr. Preemer's name was inspired by the hyena disease, or premature physeal closure, which effects cattle. I can't remember where I found the dog's name. Puncher and Hangnail are just tough-guy names.
I can't promise that Thrax will be in the next chapter; he'll debut in at least the fourth, that I can promise.