I step in, and Graken hops onto my outstretched arm. The place erupts in wild applause—the hicks ain’t ever seen such a show. Even the wetback takes his hat off to me, while holdin’ with his other hand the bag of skin that once was his proud possession.
We wait our turn again, while the number of matches reduces the participants down to fifty, and then we go again, this time against a golden rooster whose spiky behavior tells me it’s just been hopped up on a coke-and-vitamin cocktail. Graken prances around this one, duckin’ in for a peck or a slash, slowly reducin’ this one to a bleedin’ mass of moving chicken flesh. The golden don’t give, though, and finally Graken blurs himself and slashes with his feather-blades until he’s choppin’ the bird to bits and swallowin’ chunks of raw chicken flesh. The crowd’s nuts again, and I think Jerry’s doing real well with the side bets—and we got nothin’ to worry about on the way to the purse. It’s been about three and a half hours, and there’s about a dozen birds left.
I feel Graken humming on my lap, almost like a machine. He lives for these nights, and I gotta say, I like the money just fine myself. Guess we both get somethin’ outta this, and Jerry, too.
Next few matches go by fast and furious, with half the birds showin’ their exhaustion by layin’ down. They end up in the loser’s barrel, lumps of bloody meat ready for boilin’ and fryin’. The winners get to go to the cock doctor, who stitches ’em up and pumps ’em full of painkillers so their owners can still put ’em out to stud. The ultimate reward for a winner.
But Graken don’t need no doctor, ’cause he’s just shreddin’ the competition—making Chicken McNuggets out of ’em, truth be told. He’s on the verge of grabbin’ the championship, and guys in the gallery are cheerin’ him like a feathered Lancelot and small fortunes’re bein’ made—some pessimists figurin’ he’s gotta lose sometime, but he ain’t about to.
He’s hummin’ on my lap like a battery that’s charged to the max, waitin’ for his turn to zip in there and show some poor dumb bird the truth about livin’ and dyin’.
About four in the mornin’ it’s just down to Graken and this steroid-monster rooster with a wicked curved scythe fastened to the back of his left leg. I been watchin’ this bird disembowel most competitors with that powerful leg-slash of his, and when he and Graken square off, man, there’s a hush falls on the place—even the most crazed fans wouldn’t make a sound now, not with so much cash money at stake in purse and side bets.
They circle each other like bull and bullfighter, measurin’ and takin’ stock, then each fakes once and pulls back. Somebody in the crowd hisses, like they’re takin’ too long already, and I swear Graken turns to the hisser, raises a wing, and salutes ’im. Then he lunges in and becomes a blur, wings blazin’ like blades through the air and blood squirtin’ from the pumped-up rooster like a gusher oil well. The enemy rooster’s faster’n he looks, though, and pulls back enough to get outta range for a second—just before drawin’ Graken off-balance and duckin’ in for a vicious bite-and-stab combo that leaves Graken stunned.
I’m in the corner and I can’t look—ain’t never seen Graken take a hit before. My pulse is poundin’ to burst outta my neck, and an itch-like worry creeps up my back.
But I oughta relax.
Graken fakes to the left, then blurs again, and later I hear people swearin’ they saw him attackin’ from the right while others are sayin’ from the left, and it looks like both are right. Blood and feathers rain down on me and the other handler and on the first rows while Graken demolishes this thing that was a bird, leavin’ behind not even enough to sling into that overflowin’ bucket o’ death. By the time Graken’s done with the claws, the beak, and the wings, the rooster’s nothin’ but a lumpy stain in the middle of the pit.
Graken struts back to my side and hops onto my arm, lookin’ mighty pleased with hisself.
The crowd goes wild, and Jerry and me make good our escape in the commotion—angry handlers and bettors ain’t a new thing in this line o’ work, and why give ’em a chance to ruin a perfectly good night?
“My God,” Jerry’s shoutin’ a few minutes later, when we’re climbin’ in the Volvo with Graken. “I think we made forty grand tonight!”
“That’s right, partner,” I says as I squeal us outta there before any of the pissed-off cockers can round up a car. They can be meaner’n shit and less honorable than gut-wounded scorpions.
“They always get this rowdy?”
I’m laughin’ my ass off. “Wherever Graken fights we ain’t generally welcome back.”
“Well, damn,” he says.
I got to admit, I agree. I check the mirror, but this time the road’s all clear behind us.
In the back of the dark Volvo, I can hear Graken watchin’ his TV.
So we hit a buncha dinky derbies right after that, keepin’ a low profile and playin’ some of the other cocks so not too many folks’d see Graken doin’ his thing. We pay off some creditors—Jerry owes everybody from here to Shitsville—and before you know it, it’s bad times again.
“I think we’ve got to find a big derby,” Jerry says one night after a shitload of bad Chink takeout. “We’re running low on cash, and there’s no sense to it with this natural winner.”
He starts raisin’ his voice a little when I pay him no mind.
That’s when Jerry first notices that Graken’s been lookin’ at us, watching us with them crystal slit-eyes of his. See, his eyes don’t really look like chicken-eyes at all, more like those on a bug—like with tiny little angles, making ’em look like diamonds in the light. So he’s been watching us fight prob’ly more than we noticed. Now he turns away from the TV screen completely and struts toward us, like he means business.
You’d think this would look funny, two men being approached by a struttin’ rooster-thing. But I can assure you, we both seen those metal feathers of his slice and dice a number of critters, and we neither of us want to get slit up by that walkin’ Gillette display. So we step back and immediately feel this solid wall behind us. Jerry nudges me—hard!—with a bony elbow, and I take that to mean I should be smooth-talkin’ the homicidal bird thing we hung our fortunes on.
“Hey, Graken,” I croak out, “we’re okay, man! Just havin’ us a discussion, see?” I grab Jerry’s hand and pump it a few times, buddy-like. The bird looks me straight in the eye and makes a couple of them Graken sounds. His metal feathers flutter like knife blades bein’ sharpened. Then he just stands there, and so do we.
“I think he’s sending us a message,” says Jerry-boy.
“Yeah, he don’t like us fightin’. He wants to do the fightin’. We better find some action pretty quick.”
“As soon as he moves.”
“Got that right.”
An hour, that bird keeps us there. Not movin’, his eyes shinin’ like diamonds in sunlight. Then he just turns around and heads back to his TV, making soft little Graken noises like he’s mutterin’ at us.
Jerry and I head for the car. Before I can swing the door shut, Graken is through it. He’s goin’ with us, I guess. I look at Jerry. There ain’t much we can do if Graken wants action, and I figure he can help us find it. I swing the back of the Volvo open, but the bird ain’t havin’ none of the cage. He shimmers, and next thing we know, he’s in the backseat. Like the cage don’t even exist.
“Where to?” Jerry asks, turnin’ the key.
“Shit, just drive around. Try the warehouse district. Not gonna be any action in the fuckin’ suburbs, d’ya think?” As Jerry gets the car rolling, I’m thinkin’ about the Glock I got stashed in the glove box, and wondering how many of the Teflon slugs it might take to blow a hole in Graken. Saving one for Jerry-boy just for bein’ a dork.
Behind us, Graken is shimmerin’ from side window to side window, like a retriever ready to hunt. This is a new one on me. I’m measurin’ the distance to the glove box, when suddenly Jerry pulls off this road that cuts through the middle of an industrial park. These buildings are newer than the wa
rehouse district. I figure he’s just an idiot.
“The fuck you doin’?” Then I notice that Graken’s acting like a pointer, for Christ’s sake, aimin’ right at a fenced-in lot behind a two-story red-brick. “You’re both nuts.”
“No, look,” Jerry says, pointin’ at whatever the bird’s lookin’ at.
I stick my head forward so’s I can look past Jerry’s noodle, and then I see ’em. Three of them low-rider pickups, painted hot pink and purple just like hookers’ lips—sure sign that some wetbacks are cockin’ tonight. Before I can say anything at all, Jerry’s pullin’ the Volvo through a gate and headin’ for the door. Why the hell not? When we stop, Graken’s sitting in his carrying cage, and I swear he’s almost smilin’—there’s a weird kinda uptilt to his razor beak, and his eyes are sparkling even more than before. I swear he’s humming when I half-cover the cage as usual and carry him to the side door, where a tall Latino with a cell phone and a bulge in his coat looks us over, makes a six-word call, and waves us in. Just down the hall there’s a table with a guy and a cash box and a black guy standin’ guard. The sign says $50, but the guy says “Seventy-five,” and who the fuck are we to argue? Must be a special for Caucasians tonight.
I pull out the last of our cash, and Jerry adds what he’s got, and we got enough left between us for maybe a fried onion. The guard sneers at us as we walk past him and head down the hallway to where another guy pushes open a crash-door and we’re on the loading dock. There’s about a hundred cockers in this huge concrete cave, and maybe twice that many spectators and guests. Mostly men, but there’s a couple hookers and a few girlfriends sittin’ quietly here and there. This derby ain’t for tourists, and I can only spot a couple obvious ones. The seats are tiered into a square, and the pit’s a shallow sandbox on the red-painted concrete floor. Guys with guns are sittin’ at each of three loading dock garage doors, but the crowd don’t care ’cause there’s action in the pit. Even from the edge of things, I can see feathers and blood flyin’ while handlers scream and shout at their birds.
This is a bigger derby than I ever seen, and I been in the biz a while. The cell phones means they ain’t too worried about the local law—paid off, no shit—’cause anybody can lissen in on cellular. Yeah, it’s a big one.
There’s nothin’ like action, nossir, and I can feel Graken vibratin’ in his cage. He feels the same way.
“I can’t believe he led us to this derby,” Jerry almost has to shout in my ear on account of all the noise. He nods his head at Graken’s cage.
“Fuck off and do your thing,” I shout back. He’s an idiot.
I take Graken and our number down the side of the dock area where the other handlers are waitin’ with their birds. Graken’s still vibrating. It ain’t typical—usually he’s settlin’ down some by now. I take my place in line and set down next to the cage, hoping to see some of the other birds fightin’ it out. It’s the usual mix and match, with more Zamboangas here than you usually see—Whites and Blacks, and even a Golden. This means they’re evenly matched, ’cept for the steroid shots an’ drug cocktails. The losers’ barrel keeps getting fuller with bloody carcasses oozin’ guts. The number of cockers waiting keeps gettin’ smaller, though some have enough birds to keep at it all night. Most put their two or three birds through, then disappear when it’s over. One guy I’m watchin’ has, like, twenty fuckin’ cages and keeps ’em covered like I do so’s not to show his wares too quickly. This guy looks at me over his handlebar mustache like he’s gonna rip me a new asshole. His birds for the most part win two or three matches each, keepin’ him in the game a long time. I’m watchin’ him and givin’ him the chin, like, you and how many guys? Then I realize that Graken ain’t vibratin’ no more in his cage.
I check on him, lifting a corner of the cover, but he’s like an aluminum statue.
So we keep this up for a while, watchin’ birds get slaughtered and served up as crispy balls of grease the wetbacks suck right down to the marrow. Me, my stomach’s churnin’, but the sight of Jerry makin’ pretty good early bets is easing my pain.
Then they call Graken’s number, and I take ’im in for his first match. I hear the crowd gasp when I pull the cover. Jerry’s smilin’ up a storm and conductin’ the bets, and I know we’re doing okay long as Graken does his bit. When I set him loose on a Golden with a blood-red crest, it only takes him about fifteen seconds to feed that rooster chunks of his own bloody meat. Crowd goes nuts. Next up, a half-breed puts in some kinda barnyard monster bird, and Graken hums and vibrates around him for a half minute, then zooms in so fast, he’s not even there, his head goin’ in and comin’ back with the monster’s bloody heart in his beak.
Then it’s all a blur, ’cause Graken’s up to a dozen straight wins, two dozen, three dozen. Then we’re takin’ a breather ’cause they’re spreadin’ out fresh sawdust to sop up all the blood. Thanks to Graken’s beak and feathers from hell. Jerry gives me the thumbs-up from where he’s sittin’, and now I can see he’s hired a freelance security guy to bodyguard—by my count, he’s gotta have like thirty grand in side bets in his pocket, and we ain’t gone for the winner’s purse yet.
I look at Graken, and suddenly I’m sweatin’. Somethin’ ain’t right, it’s all fucked ’cause he’s vibratin’ but it looks more like he’s tremblin’, feverish. I look across the dock at Jerry, and he’s too busy bettin’ on our own monster to note my signal. He’s gonna risk a huge chunk of our winnings on the next few matches, and he don’t know the bird’s ailin’.
I put my arm out, and Graken sorta stumbles onto it, looking punch-drunk. I ain’t never seen him like this before. Metallic feathers look dull, like he’s been dunked in acid. He ain’t never faced so many birds back-to-back in one derby before, and maybe it’s time to pull out.
The crowd roars, and it’s too late. The last dozen birds have belonged to Handlebar, and he ain’t been happy to see ’em demolished by Graken. These were big fuckers, too, like doped-up Frankenstein roosters that musta cost him a bundle to raise, and Graken took ’em apart like so many sausages. Like they was already dinner before even steppin’ into the pit, so little did they manage against my wild, weird bird. But now the crowd’s reactin’ to something Handlebar’s pullin’ outta the last cage, the one’s been covered all night. There’s a rush of noise, and then a hush settles in.
Fuck’s goin’ down? I look up, and there’s Jerry, smackin’ himself on the head. This ain’t a good sign, you bet. Handlebar’s holdin’ his best bird, and now I know why the crowd’s gaga.
Handlebar’s bird’s just like another Graken, maybe a mite smaller, but the metallic feathers are shimmerin’ and the beak looks like it could cut through a car bumper. The color’s different, too, kinda dull and lifeless—until the shimmerin’ feathers catch the light and turn blue-green and silver. This bird’s struttin’ around Handlebar just like Graken does when he’s bloodthirsty, and for the first time ever since Graken found me, I’m scared shitless I’m gonna lose the one thing that makes me anything at all in this shitty world.
Graken’s starin’ at this bird, too, but it don’t look to me like he’s surprised—if anything, it’s like he’s been waitin’ for the showdown. Suddenly he zooms off my arm and reappears in the pit, like a birdy Mad Max. Them two Grakens face off like Rocky and Mr. T.
Shit, I look up and see Jerry wavin’ at me, like maybe I can call the bird back or something, so I know we just put our wad on Graken before we knew what he was gonna face. Crap, I always thought there was only one Graken in the world, and now he’s evenly matched. What a wash.
Handlebar gives me a snooty look and spits at me from the pit. He’s too far away, but the crowd gasps and mutters. It’s a fuckin’ challenge, a statement of revenge. He’s pissed his birds made Graken-food, but then why did he play ’em? Why not play his Graken from the get-go? I figure he hoped one of his would get lucky against my Graken, then he wouldn’t have to put his up against mine.
It don’t much matter, ’cause the tw
o weirdo birds are in the pit now, circlin’ each other slowly like a coupla bullfighters or over-the-hill boxers. Their metal feathers rotate like the wing thingies on airplanes, and they tilt their heads sideways, lookin’ at each other with them freaky diamond-studded eyes. One takes a step forward, the other back, and then again, and both tilt heads the other way. My Graken’s got this long tail points straight up, but the other Graken’s tail is stubby and it lays down flat. I’m guessin’ this might make my bird dominant or whatever, and we’re gonna cash in after all—so then I hope like hell Jerry’s put the whole boodle on the match.
The crowd’s quiet while these two size each other up, but there’s a murmur as money keeps changin’ hands. They ain’t ever seen a match like this one, and they’re all tryin’ to get in on the action before any blood’s spilled. Come to think of it, I ain’t sure Graken’s got blood runnin’ through him. High-octane rocket fuel, maybe like that.
Now the two Grakens look like they’re doin’ one of them slow tangos, every few seconds nippin’ at each other with razored beaks. Anytime now I’m thinkin’ my Graken’s gonna go in for the kill. One thrust right at the heart, and Handlebar’s gonna be eating fried metal flakes tonight. That’s all’s gonna be left of his star bird. Sure as shit.
Graken starts shimmerin’ around the enemy, pecking at him and pulling back, over and over. By this time there’s usually blood spraying everywhere, but now it’s like he’s holding back. Hell, they’re both holding back, and it’s been a minute, so the match should be over and done with and somebody’s bird a winner and the other a mangled mess ready for the slop barrel.
Handlebar’s Graken sticks up his wings, and damned if my Graken don’t do it, too, and then they’re zoomin’ around each other, smacking metal beaks. Any time now, they’re gonna go for blood. You can feel the crowd’s expectin’ it, too, and I look over at Handlebar and smirk. He takes a step toward me, fists aimed in my general direction. I stretch my hand down toward the dirk I got in my boot. Bring it on, I spit out under my breath.
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