Thick July air from Lake Pontchartrain drifts through a broken pane of an empty warehouse where old men gather chairs in a circle around a bare 100-watt bulb. Handlers weigh and leg band gamecocks to match to the death. Butzy LeDoux, tattooed Do Not Fuck with Me on his right forearm and Only the Strong Survive on his left, circulates the crowd and shouts the odds in pidgin French. A wad in each hand, he holds all wagers for the final decision.
I drip whiskey and sweat down my chin, arms, chest, and ass. My pride shines under the light. A Roundhead cock in arm, my extension of unfound manhood waits in silence—confidant, secure,
a black-breasted red-hackled gamecock with three-inch steel gaffes strapped secure by nylon floss. Across a chalked circle, Corky La Fontaine wears crawfish boil on his shirt and cradles a pure Sumatra rooster. Green sheen shines from its feathers under the light.
Corky and I circle to offer a peck—the kiss of death—before we lower to pit our pride. Feathered warriors bow. We back away. Hackles flare. The crowd quiets to watch a wing drag circle become a repeated cymbal crash, exploding feathers, gaffs, and blood. The crowd cheers as the Sumatra prevails. I bend down to remove my only value and walk away—bloodied and broke.
Dennis Thompson is a former U. S. Postal Service letter carrier and horse handicapper. He now teaches writing and film at Des Moines Area Community College. His work has appeared in Mississippi Review, Colere Literary Review, Out of Line: Writings on Peace and Social Justice, Literary Orphans, The Rambler, Ascent Aspirations, and many other journals. His fiction “Jesus in the Eighth Race” was nominated for a Pushcart Prize.
—Art by So-Ghislaine
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