Place reeks like 6 day old roadkill.
Splintered, rickety, blotchy-painted wooden stands.
Full’a guys who’s idea of personal grooming is accidentally spilling beer on themselves & wiping it off with the bottom of their torn t-shirt.
Hotter’n shit. A working fan is like one’a those acid-flashback stories Hunter S. used ta spin...stay away from the Brown Acid, man.
Chickens, man, chickens everywhere.
Guys traipsing around, rubbin’ these chickens like they were Pamela Anderson’s tits.
PaleRider, guy what brung me, raises ‘em, fights ‘em, bets on ‘em...a hobby for the ages.
Trike to the famous Angeles Cockpit, over near AUF.
200P entry.
Felt like we were the Last Foreigners on Earth.
Many local guys hangin’ about outside, got that famous stand-by slouch down pat.
Giving us their usual what-the-fuck-you-doin-here, semi-predatory, evil-eye glare.
Which always makes me chuckle a wee bit, since most of 'em are the same size as Pee Wee Herman.
I'm just here for the ambiance, Dude, just here for the ambiance...
Costs 5,000P entry fee to fight. Winner gets the money and to fry up the loser for early dinner.
First comes which chicken is gonna fight which chicken. Fowl matchmaking?
To me, chickens a chicken. Fried, broiled, roasted, boiled, steamed, or used in the “kapparot” ceremony - just a chicken.
Wrong, oh man with breath of sauerkraut.
It’s weight, height, foot size, past record…and color – color is important in determining your chicken got heart. White chickens ain’t got as much heart.
Blades - big, scary lookin sharp motherfuckers - get strapped to legs
Who knew they needed help to kill each other?
In commercial porn they got so-called fluff-girls, do spirited blow-jobs, keep male participants hard during camera changes & like that...
At the Chicken Fights, man, they got fluff-chickens. Job is to peck at the one gonna fight, get ‘em riled up.
Match made and announced, at some mystery-to-me signal, whole place fucking erupts.
Everyone shrieking, screaming, bouncing up and down, flashing some sort of hand signals, bellowing...
PaleRider's right inna thick of it, looks like Krusty the Klown, took a big hit of that Brown-Acid, man...
Sits down all sweaty, visibly hopped up, “we’re good for 5 Large each,” he shouts into my ear, trying to be heard above the colossal din.
Fuck, easier to communicate by text..
“Which chicken's mine?” I holler back. “I get odds?”
“Dark brown one onna right. 5 for 4,” he says distractedly, his attention now laser-focused on the middle of the ring.
Handlers got their chickens in two hands, start slowly circling each other, taunting, posturing, thrusting...
The betting frenzy slowly peters out.
Each handler now stomps closer & closer towards the other, doing an ever-more-spastic ballet of ritual baiting & grotesque posturing.
It's almost as if they have morphed into chickens themselves.
Mysterious go signal from the referee, chickens tossed on the floor of the ring.
It’s ON!
First, though, the chickens do these little power-strut moves. Stride around all cocky 'n shit, each like the baddest motherfucker inna valley.
Suddenly, without warning, they leap ferociously at each other.
Feathers flyin, chickens squawking, humans standing, screaming at the top of their lungs...
I got no fucking idea what’s going on.
None.
Not the faintest fucking clue.
Just a momentary blur of flying feathers.
I'm standin there like Tommy at his favorite pinball machine, when whammo, Pale Rider smashes me ferociously on the back.
“Yeah!” he exults, fist pumping, “we fucking win, man! Got ‘em right inna fucking heart!”
“Win?” I ask, massively confused. “No shit? But I didn't see nuthin, man - shit was over in like a heartbeat, ya know?"
“Really? Too bad. Got him right through the heart. Unusual, that."
Referee meanwhile is picking up both by the neck. Holds the loser up to the winner, let's see what happens. No reaction, no peck?
Game over.
Next.
Dead chicken gets tossed aside like a - well, like a dead chicken.
Broom guys sweep up a few sad-looking stray feathers.
Winner chicken is feted like Jersey Joe Walcott.
Clumps of money start raining down from all over.
People making good their bets.
After 3 fights, shit got old. And sad.
It’s only about the gambling, turns out.
Not much spectacle in an actual fight it's ownself - lasts about 3 and a half seconds.
Not wise for me to bet an amount worth getting excited about if I lost, on what two chickens're gonna do.
Maybe they had instant replay...