Short tales of moral ambiguity

Chapter one: in which Rusty breaks out "Here Old Ripper. Here. Guided by quite magnificent nostrils, the prison's prized sniffer-dog rounded the corner. He sauntered past the masked figure and delicately pawed at the beckoning aromas. Medium-rare. Peppered. Served with the appropriate garnish and a glass of full-bloodied red. Just how he liked it. "Good boy. The dog turned. But. Too late. The masked figure brandished a canister of sleeping gas. Old Ripper bellowed an odious riposte and passed out.