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"I see So you don’t train, you handle," I said "A handlingthe inside seam of my jeans I’d been handled by Loyd quite a few times since Kinishba The crowd quieted Scratch and Gustavo squared off in the center of the pit, their charges cradled at thigh level, and they thrust their birds toward each other three times in a rhythm that was frankly sexual Each time the men’s hips rocked forward, the cocks dutifully bit each other’s faces Apparently the point was to contrive a fightingaround their own closed circuits, and if they looked away from each other even now they’d probably lose their train of thought and start scratching the dust for cracked corn

But now they were primed, like cocked pistols Their handlers set them down on opposite chalk lines and they shook themselves and inflated their pale ruffs When the plaid-pants referee gave the word, the o The birds ran at each other and jumped up, spurs aimed for the other bird’s breast They hopped over one another, fluttering their short wings, pecking each other’s heads and drawing blood After about thirty seconds the birds’ spurs tangled and they lay helpless, literally locked in combat

"Handle that!" the referee shouted

The handlers moved in to pull them apart They faced the birds off, waited for the count, and let theo at each other once more Within another ain, this time because one bird had his spurs irretrievably eently pulled the time for one bird or the other to die Presue Punctured lungs, for exaan to bleed from the mouths At that point I could finally tell Scratch’s bird from Gustavo’s because it lay down in the dirt and wouldn’t get up Scratch had to place it on its feet and push it back in the direction of combat

"Why don’t they just declare the winner?" I whispered

"There’s rules"

It was a ridiculous answer, but correct A death was required It took thirty or fortytheir mettle, but it was hard to watch The cocks were both exhausted and near death, no longer even faintly beautiful Their blond breasts and ruffs were spotted with blood, stringy as unwashed hair Collie Bluestone would have his work cut out for him here

There see after this point, when both birds really just wanted to sit with their beaks in the dirt If one lay still, the other had no incentive to fight I’ve studied a lot of biology; I quickly figured out that this industry was built around a bird’s natural impulse for territorial defense, and that’s where it broke down No aniht its own kind to the death A rooster will defend his ground, but once that’s established, he’s done After that he tends to walk around ignoring the bizarre surroundings and all the people who have nexton him and he’ll just act like a chicken-the ani the birds firht

"This isme sick," I told Loyd

He looked at ered me Nobody could look at this picture and fail to see cruelty

"I’ve seen little boys do this sa," I said "Take sos over and over again, trying to o a lot faster," he said

"But you don’t like knife fights You like this That’s what you said"

He didn’t answer To avoid the birds I looked at the crohose faces betrayed neither pain nor blood thirst but passive interest It could have been any show at all, not two anied to kill each other; it could have been TV They were mostly old men in feed caps, or black felt cowboy hats if they were Apaches I spotted a few fahting they’d use the e "Oh, we love it," they’d say in cigarette-husky voices, reenish tattoo flowering across her broad back, hoisted a toddler onto her shoulder She lit a cigarette and paid scant attention to the action in the pit, but her child took it in like a sponge

Several people yelled loudly for Gustavo’s bird Then finally, without , its opponent passed over from barely alive to dead Without ceremony Scratch carried his limp loser out by its feet and tossed it into the back of a truck Loyd Peregrina was called up next A rooster was delivered into his arms, smooth as a loaf of bread, as he made his way down to the pit This time I watched I owed him that