The Cock

‘It doesn’t count if you’re already planning your defeat,’ Stuart warned Bernard. ‘Yes it does,’ Bernard tells him, ‘As long as I win the bet. Lose the war but win the battle, or is it the other way around? Whatever Sun Tzu meant.’ He stops preparing to leave the apartment to face Stuart, ‘Listen Stu, me cock fighting isn’t anything like you running a marathon with the razzle-dazzle of inspiration and motivation.’

‘Cock fighting,’ he laughs. ‘You are too immature for someone in their mid-twenties,’ he comments before picking up the car keys and the rooster. They get in on the Crosswind, and buckle up as the Filipino summer heat beams down on the parking lot. ‘Goddamn it’s hot,’ Stuart complains. ‘Just wait till we get to the cockpit.’ ‘Cockpit,’ he laughs while Bernard rolls his eyes. Bernard’s air-conditioning wasn’t as good as it used to be, just puffing out less warm air into Stuart’s face as he leans hard on the semi-transparent window pane. ‘You should really get your car cleaned up,’ muttered Stuart. ‘Not your car, not your problem,’ barks Bernard. As the two stop by a red light in the jam-packed highway intersection, Stuart’s stomach growls, adding to the rattles of the box that housed the poor animal placed at the backseat. It had been half an hour past noon, and the two barely had breakfast that morning.

‘You’re just saying that cause it’s me, you’ll regret it when that hot chick you’re going out with from college complains. What’s her name?’

Bernard stares back with a raised eyebrow, ‘Janette. And we are-not-going-out.’

‘Alright, alright. I’m just saying your car could use the wash.’

‘I will when I get the money.’

‘It’s always the cash with you.’

Bernard jabs Stuart’s left shoulder, ‘It’s better than being a bum, like you.’

Stuart returns the look, ‘I’m still soul searching. At least some of us around here has one.’

Bernard laughs, ‘If I had one, I’d sell it!’

The two drive in on a McDonalds by the road, where Bernard bullies Stuart into “lending” him some cash for lunch. Stuart hesitantly gives up, slowly pulling his worn out leather wallet, tears lining up where the thing typically bends. Stuart was a large man, larger than Bernard, with a physique that stretched shirts in areas not preferably stretched. Bended and flattened wallets by the back pocket wasn’t a new phenomenon. ‘You should get a new wallet,’ Bernard jokingly tells Stuart as he snatches the hundred being clasped between Stuart’s fingers. ‘It’s just where I put my money Bernie, no biggie.’ Bernard slap-pats Stuart’s shoulder as he continues to let out little chuckles before smirking to Stuart’s face. ‘My car’s just where I put people.’ ‘That is creepy Bernard,’ Stuart responds appallingly. The lady by the drive-thru counter interrupts the two’s discussion, handing a large brown paper bag that felt satisfyingly warm as Bernard took it with both hands.

As soon as Bernard places the bag by the center, Stuart dug in to take out a chicken meal and a burger. ‘Hey, hey, hey the burger’s mine,’ Bernard yelled as he drove out back into the burning asphalt. ‘I- ordered- too,’ Stuart complained in pauses as he bit on the burger, now oozing with cheese and ketchup dangling by toasted buns. ‘Hey, hey, hey, watch the sauce.’ Stuart gulps down and sips noisily from the soda’s straw before giving Bernard a response. ‘It’s just where you put people,’ he says with a grin that matched his stomach’s satisfaction. ‘Now for the chicken,’ he mutters on. ‘Cockfighting, what’s so fun about it? It’s just chicken killing each other with one bringing home the cash and the other bringing home dinner. By the end of today, your little chicken could end up like this,’ Stuart mocks Bernard, raising a chicken leg before he dips it into the gravy cup. Bernard smiles, ‘That isn’t a question Stu, that’s a certainty.’ Stuart swallows and taps his forehead before speaking up, ‘Oh yeah I forgot, you wanna lose.’

‘Bingo,’ Bernard nods.

‘I still don’t get it,’ Stuart shakes his head. ‘Run this through me one more time, what’s your plan?’

Bernard leaves one hand to drive, and the other to scavenge into his denim jeans like a raccoon. After a couple of seconds of rummaging he pulls out a pill, and raises it to Stuart’s face. ‘This my friend, is the plan.’ Stuart picks up the pill, separated by red and yellow that reminded him much of the fast food they had just come from. ‘Steroids?’ Stuart asks. Bernard’s rooster shakes in its carton box, visibly rustling through the little holes on top of it. ‘No!’ Bernard remarks. ‘This is what they call a time bomb.’ Stuart immediately drops the pill on the floor, ‘What the fuck Bernie?!’ he screams in shock. The car swerves on the highway as Bernard is shocked just as much as Stuart was. ‘Goddamn it Stu, pick that up!’ Stuart does so, slowly, keeping it at arm’s length as he lifts it up. ‘God, how dumb can you be?’ Bernard mutters. ‘It’s not a bomb Stu, but it will kill old McDonald here,’ he explains with a thumb pointing to the back. ‘You’re gonna kill him?’ Stuart asks, bewildered as his face contorts.

‘You sure got that right,’ Bernard affirms as his rooster rattles a bit more.

‘But you just bought him,’ Stuart argues.

‘I know.’

‘Then why?’

‘Cock handlers can feed their cocks boosters before a match. I’ll be giving mine a time bomb. In less than a minute after taking it, it should be out cold, presumably dead,’ Bernard continues, making Stuart hold down a laugh at the mention of cock.

‘But won’t that mean you’ll lose?’

Bernard smirks, ‘Yeah, but nothing’s stopping me from betting on the other guy.’

‘You’re throwing away the game on purpose, to win the bet!’ Stuart exclaims.

‘There you go.’

Stuart stares out on the window, ‘But ain’t that cheating?’

‘It isn’t cheating if I’m not caught,’ Bernard brushes off, waving his hand in defense.

‘Where’d you get the idea Bernie? You’re not usually smart enough to think like that,’ Stuart jokes.

‘My father’s friend.’

After an hour or so through a smooth Sunday drive, they get to a spot by the corner of the city where the city’s legal cockfighting derbies take place. The dome stands around two stories high, with tarpaulins decorating the open walls of the building, medicinal enhancers and chicken feed of all brands in different colors. To the right of the arena, the parking lot is filled with cars of every kind and motor bikes huddled together on a corner. To the left, men with chickens and charts. Fighters of game fowl usually size up their chickens before registering fights, finding a match of equal footing. The two find a spot to park, and get out just as the arena started to blast music accompanied by inaudible shouting by presumably the announcer. ‘Goddamn is it hot,’ Stuart complains. ‘Just wait till you get in the cockpit.’

Inside, Bernard fills up the necessary paperwork and does all the other preparations along with his father’s friend that had given him the idea in the first place, all while Stuart looked for a place on the cement bleachers. The place was tight, like the inside of a sardine can. Men, all men, not a single person with a scent of a woman, filled the place to the brim. Polo shirts, tank tops, shirtless, all men of all shapes and sizes turned the place into a mix of sweat, dirty money, and cock smell. Beer was a good addition to the aroma of the place, coming from the small canteen outside the arena. Men with huge beer bottles passed around plastic cups filled to the tips as the fights started. The lighting was no better, dim fluorescent lights that resembled interrogation rooms were the only thing that shone in the place, in addition to the burning sunlight that passed through the grill windows. ‘If this place didn’t have an open gate, it might as well have been a prison,’ Stuart thought to himself. But with all the shouting, the laughter, the betting, the music, and the alcohol, it was too close of a festival to not consider it one.

By the time Bernard had gotten back to Stuart, he was sweating all over, but exhilarated. Smiling from ear to ear, and giddy. This was the look of a winning man. Bernard even tried convincing Stuart to bet on his rooster, but after the tenth time he nudged the man to bet just half a grand, he gave up. Stuart was an easy guy, flexible and easily jamming, but he wasn’t the type to dwindle his savings on another of Bernard’s instant rich schemes. He had learned after the first one.

When it was time for Bernard’s match, Stuart gave him a slap to the back and told him he’d pray he loses. The two exchange a laugh and in less than five minutes Stuart looks on as Bernard steps into the caged ring with his rooster. Stuart leans back on the cement, and relaxes as he watches the match start. The announcer with the low-quality mic muffles the details of the competitors. Bernard’s rooster was up against an Asil, known in the cockfighting community to be the slower breeds of game fowl, but fatally heavy with the punches. Bernard was hoping for these heavy punches to pull off a convincing knockout, helped with the blades they were now putting on the chickens’ legs. The men by the ring call out to the crowd to place their bets, and immediately the whole place became louder, sounding nothing short of mating birds, calling out numbers repeatedly to the counting officials. The referee sets them up, and Bernard makes a sign of the cross before shoving the time bomb down his rooster’s throat. He sweats buckets as he carefully pries the chicken’s beak open, nervously glancing repeatedly at his opponent. For a moment the rooster looked as if it was going to throw it up, but Bernard awkwardly pinch the poor thing’s beak. Should he lose, he’d lose a whole lot of money, this had to work for him. Then just like that the bell was rung with a single strike, and Bernard and the other guy tease their cocks at each other, pushing them on while still holding on to the tails, waiting for the two to take the bite. The roosters start pecking, and the owners pull them back one more time before fully letting them lunge at each other. The only problem was that the birds didn’t.

The opponent’s Asil side steps to the right, and instantly Bernard grew cold pale white. He quickly grabs his cock and starts pushing it on to the opponent’s, but neither chicken would start the killing. The other was hesitant, and his started to grow droopy. This was not good. The time bomb was literally a ticking time bomb, it was designed to trigger death in mere seconds. In a last desperate attempt to scam a win and fake a death, he throws his rooster furiously to the other. It looked nothing short of throwing a lifeless sack of rice, the thing didn’t even spread its wing, it just flopped. The other rooster walked closer at its lifeless opponent, pecking it. The arena grew dead-silent. The referee and the other guy stared at Bernard. The whole arena knew. This was a scam gone wrong in front of more than a hundred witnesses. The other guy immediately walked pass the referee and grabbed Bernard by the shirt, ‘Why you cheating mother fuc-.’ Before the guy’s grip could get any stronger, Bernard bolted out of the ring leaving behind his dead chicken. But on his first step outside the caged ring he was met with a fist to the stomach and a wave of boos and curses. Punch after punch, Bernard went down. When he was lying down on the dirt ground, the kicks came in. The officials of the event tried to stop the crowd from going full frenzy, even having the announcer beg the people to let the officials handle it, but the mob wasn’t going to let up. The people lifted Bernard’s body like a rock star in a concert, and slowly moved him to the nearest gate. When he was at the edge of the crowd, the three or four so men that got to hold him last heaved together, before launching Bernard to the dirt ground outside. He stayed there for a moment, coiling from the pain on his stomach and trying to wipe off the dirt that had stuck to his face.

Stuart emerged from the arena, standing before Bernard who was still trying to sit up, only to succumb to just laying down on the simmering dirt road a bit longer. ‘Did they get your cock?’ Stuart asks Bernard as he lifts a smaller bottle of beer he bought. Bernard sighed and stared at Stuart, ‘Shut up you dick.’