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 ga-ga.
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 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 two 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 hi
s 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. Anytime 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.
Then the crowd gasps like fireworks just went off in the pit, and Handlebar and I both turn to look barely in time to see the two Grakens doin’ each other right then and there, you know, doin’ the deed. I ain’t ever seen a Graken mate, but there’s no doubt in my mind that’s what’s goin’ on. Mine’s drivin’ into the other one from behind like a bull on a cow and they’re both screechin’ them Graken sounds louder and louder. All I can do is stare and I can feel that’s what everybody’s doin’ - it’s like the floor show at some skin palace but on some other fuckin’ dimension.
Handlebar turns away, confused, and I have to force myself to keep from sticking ‘im with the dirk anyway just on general principle.
All at once the screechin’ in the pit’s as loud as my ears can stand and then it stops - and my Graken’s doin’ his victory dance over the corpse of the other, which I can see now has been parted from its head. There ain’t no blood, but the smaller bird’s nothin’ but a metallic lump of dead bird, and mine’s crowin’ to the heavens.
Then things get mighty intense.
Handlebar turns to face me again, rage distendin’ his features like a balloon, and Jerry’s next to me and pulling me away toward the door. Making a weird noise.
“What the fuck you doin’?”
“Getting us outta here, Nate, before they tear us apart!”
“Shit!” I turn and show Handlebar the dirk and it’s a good thing, too, cause he’s headin’ for us now, the crowd eggin’ him on. Some guys are startin’ to edge off the risers, makin’ a move at us, when Graken zooms out of the pit and onto my arm like he always does, and then the shoutin’ starts and we’re runnin’ back the way we came in, past where the guards were, and Handlebar figures he’s gotta uphold his manhood, so he gives chase.
I turn over a slop barrel and see ‘im go slidin’ into the guts and corpses, and then I’m out the door.
Next Jerry’s starting up the Volvo and I dump our bird into the back and slam the door just as the crowd starts to boil outta the buildin’.
“Fuck!”
“What is it?” He’s screechin’ onto a side street. He really is an idiot.
“We dint collect the purse, Jerry-boy!” Is he dense, or what?
“Oh shit,” he says. “And I think I dropped the side bet money when we were getting out.”
I put my head in my hands and let the asshole drive us back to hell.
*
It’s about two months later, and we ain’t seen a derby in weeks. Jerry keeps tellin’ me he’s heard this and he’s seen that, but it still comes down to either no action or the action’s keepin’ us out. We been in Missouri over a week now, where cockin’s legal as booze, and nobody’s talkin’.
It’s our rep - it beat us here and no one wants to risk all their birds against a monster like Graken.
Which is all fine and good, ‘cept that my little friend’s gettin’ annoyed at the lack of movin’ breathin’ dinner - and the fun of eatin’ it chunk by livin’ chunk.
I get back from my shoppin’ trip with a gift for Graken, but Jerry don’t rightly appreciate the gesture (which is worth approximately half what we got left in cash).
“What the hell’s that?” he says.
“Graken’s dinner.”
I put the pet-shop puppy on the floor and fetch Graken, whose interest in the sitcom he’s watching is definitely fadin’.
Jerry runs outta the room screamin’ just as Graken leaps in, wings a blur of metal edges.
I turn away.
But Graken’s gotta eat. What else am I gonna do?
I cover my ears when he starts to crow his victory.
Within a month, with no derby to find in all of Missouri and not much money left, we’re snatchin’ dogs off leashes and cats off porches. Jerry helps me with the canvas sack, but he won’t watch.
Funny how bloody chickens don’t bug him much, but little Fidos and Felixes do. I make some fun of ‘im, but mostly let’im be. He spends his days lookin’ for a derby, with no luck. We don’t freakin’ exist.
Sometimes I wonder what he’s runnin’ from, other days I think I know. And he ain’t ever gonna get away.
*
We been arguin’ for hours. We’re in a Arkansas Motel Hell, shortly after havin’ been in an Oklahoma version of the same. We’re livin’ hand to fuckin’ mouth, with only a coupla neighborhood cockfights to tide us over till the World Series, which is supposed to be somewhere in this area. But the hicks - they’ve all clammed up on us, they don’t want us there after some of what they heard about.
I can just tell the whole shitload’s about to hit the fan.
“When we hooked up I thought there was gonna be money,” Jerry says loudly.
I keep gesturin’ at the door - the walls are thin as toilet paper in a whorehouse ‘round here, and we don’t need no cops. Plus, I don’t wanna piss off Graken.
“There was money,” I says quietly, “for a while.”
“Yeah, for a while. But the dream is dying, Nate. Maybe it’s already dead. I’m sick of the stink of death.”
“It ain’t somethin’ you can control,” I says. “You liked it fine when we won.”
“Hell, I liked it when we got to fight,” he says softly and turns in, rollin’ into his blanket.
Graken’s watchin’ Pulp Fiction on the cable and gettin’ all riled up at the scene where Travolta shoots the unlucky nigger’s head off by fuckin’ mistake. Suddenly he starts to make this pantin’ sound, and I realize he ain’t eaten in two days. If he don’t eat, Jerry and I don’t eat.
I head out into the night. Fortunately we ain’t exactly in the plush side of town, and it don’t take me long to find what I’m lookin’ for. Hell, a coupla bucks and I’m headin’ home again.
“Look what I brought you,” I whisper to Graken so we won’t wake up Jerry, who’s crashed out in the other room (he don’t like sleepin’ in the same room as Graken, if he can help it).
Graken and the homeless guy look at each other for a second, then I’m bringin’ the sap down on the old guy’s head - just to stun, you understand - cause the guy’s about to start screamin’. I can tell cause his flabby muscles tense in my hands and there ain’t no way I can get Graken food if this one don’t sit still a minute, so I bash him again and when he goes down Graken lunges in for the kill lookin’ like a bird-shaped lawnmower, blades all swirlin’ and flashin’ like they do when he’s real hungry.
Guy tries to scream once, but I sap ‘im a third time and he’s gone. Graken looks at me, grateful-like, then digs in.
All in all, there ain’t that much left. Still, when Jerry gets outta bed and sees the mess, he turns and barfs his guts out in the kitchenette, his head in a basket. I figure there’s gonna be a scene, but he just goes back to bed without sayin’ a thing. I set to with a mop and pick up the bones and hit Graken don’t bother with, and it’s a single trip to the dumpster.
The tv screen’s a bluish blur in the corner. I don’t look at Graken, cause I know the jewel-studded metal slits he has for eyes are turned toward me.
*
A couple small local fights later, we’re on the run again — this time back toward Baton Rouge. How’d I know the l
ocal mob was involved in cockfightin’? Turned out they did not much appreciate Graken’s special talents, and decided they’d had enough of us.
So now we’re in Buttfuck, Louisiana, and with not a dime to buy anythin’ with, let alone some food for the bird. He’s got the tv on and a Hitchcock movie playin’ - the one about them killer birds, I think, and I’m goin’ ha-ha, it’s like Graken has a sense of humor. I mean, I don’t know what the hell he is, but he sure knows me pretty good.
Jerry comes at me again. “Goddamn it, Nate, there was all this money! What the hell’d we spend it on this fuckin’ bird for? What the hell’s he done for us lately?”
“Yeah, well, he dint go and lose like thirty grand, either!”
Back and forth, him and me.
I tried to shush ‘im, but he wouldn’t lissen. He kept gesticulatin’ at Graken and pointin’ his finger at me and rattlin’ on about the way we’d ruined his life.
“Until we came along, buddy-boy, your life wasn’t looking too spiffy, know what I mean?” I kept my hands calm, cause I didn’t know how Graken would respond if we got into it, and I didn’t want a stain on the carpeting.
Jerry musta got my drift, cause he lowered his voice some. “If we don’t find another big derby soon, I’m gonna retire. Cut my losses. You needed an investor, and I did that. Now I’m as soaked as you are. Winning little derbies ain’t enough - we gotta find another big one. Or you can color me gone!”
“Hey,” I reminded him while he was breathin’, “you never hadda stick around, Jerry-boy.”
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