perhaps Hilton, who was close to the pit with a cock in a crate.
‘He got Starburst. That is a real champion in the making. One wicious chicken. It’ll be in the Battle Royal too.’
‘Perhaps I should have bet on that instead?’
‘No, skinny man, you chose wisely. Don’t put no bets on Starburst. Now watch.’
The eight handlers came into the pit with the cocks in their cages and there was a final furious laying of wagers in the crowd, accompanied by much waving of betting slips and hollers and cat-calls, and then the referee, a gaucho in a checked shirt, raised a red handkerchief and flung it down furiously. Then the handlers grabbed their charges by their legs and threw them in the ring.
Cormack had his eye on Killing Machine, which alighted on the sawdust with a startled ruffle of feathers and then proceeded to strut about disconsolately, as indifferent to the opposition as they were to him, so he missed the first kill which was almost instantaneous. Starburst, living up to the Bosch’s billing, went straight at Mr Fantastic and had his head off with a bite to the neck. Mr Fantastic, being a chicken, wouldn’t fall at first and ran about headless, dribbling blood on the sawdust and confusing the spread-betters who were timing the kill.
Next to go was a fragile orange thing, another victim of Starburst, who this time had it with its clawed talons, ripping it all about until it lay in the sawdust, wrecked like a piece of road kill. Then there was an indecent amount of sparring, as the chickens considered their options, and they seemed for a moment settled on peaceful co-existence within the sawdust pit, until the referee, sensing the crowd’s anxiety, gave Starburst a swift kick, and he turned on the cock that he suspected of having done it. It was brutal and horrifying. Killing Machine, with a naivety that Cormack suspected came from never having been near a cockfight before in its entire life, lay quite still while it was pecked about the body and neck relentlessly as though it hoped, if it were quiet enough, Starburst might think it were dead already.
Soon another cock came by to join in the action, and Starburst turned on that.
Cormack could see the damage that had been done to his chosen chicken. It was dead, sure enough.
The wager was lost. Proton, who hadn’t clocked what had happened yet, being caught up in the action and from the looks of him as he snarled and dipped with the fighting, zoomorphised to a killer chicken, would be furious when he realized what had happened.
‘It’s dead,’ said Cormack. ‘Killing Machine is dead.’
‘It surely is,’ said Stanton Bosch.
‘I lost the bet.’
‘No you ain’t,’ said Stanton Bosch. He gave a signal to his brother, Hilton Bosch, who was near the pit.
Hilton at once got up and pulled at the referee inside the ring. He was whispering in his ear and the referee looked concerned. Then he leant into the pit and reached for the red handkerchief that was still on the ground, raising it above his head. Hilton Bosch grabbed at Starburst, who had just killed another cock, the last still standing save him, and showed him to the referee. There was a confusion in the crowd, and boos and jeers and heckles. The referee gave a final wave.
It was over and no one could understand what had happened.
‘What’s going on?’ said Cormack.
‘Technical infraction,’ said Stanton Bosch. ‘Me brother would have pointed it out to the referee.’
‘Ladies and Gentleman!’ shouted the referee. ‘The Battle Royal has been stopped. All bets are off!’
There were roars from the crowd. Betting slips were flying in the air. Small fights were breaking out.
‘I am so sorry. But I must have order. As I said, all bets are off. There has been a major technical infraction – Starburst is disqualified!’
‘Disqualified for what?’ said Cormack
‘Impersonating a cock,’ said Stanton Bosch. ‘She’s not a cock at all. She’s a hen. She got teeth. Hens
‘He got Starburst. That is a real champion in the making. One wicious chicken. It’ll be in the Battle Royal too.’
‘Perhaps I should have bet on that instead?’
‘No, skinny man, you chose wisely. Don’t put no bets on Starburst. Now watch.’
The eight handlers came into the pit with the cocks in their cages and there was a final furious laying of wagers in the crowd, accompanied by much waving of betting slips and hollers and cat-calls, and then the referee, a gaucho in a checked shirt, raised a red handkerchief and flung it down furiously. Then the handlers grabbed their charges by their legs and threw them in the ring.
Cormack had his eye on Killing Machine, which alighted on the sawdust with a startled ruffle of feathers and then proceeded to strut about disconsolately, as indifferent to the opposition as they were to him, so he missed the first kill which was almost instantaneous. Starburst, living up to the Bosch’s billing, went straight at Mr Fantastic and had his head off with a bite to the neck. Mr Fantastic, being a chicken, wouldn’t fall at first and ran about headless, dribbling blood on the sawdust and confusing the spread-betters who were timing the kill.
Next to go was a fragile orange thing, another victim of Starburst, who this time had it with its clawed talons, ripping it all about until it lay in the sawdust, wrecked like a piece of road kill. Then there was an indecent amount of sparring, as the chickens considered their options, and they seemed for a moment settled on peaceful co-existence within the sawdust pit, until the referee, sensing the crowd’s anxiety, gave Starburst a swift kick, and he turned on the cock that he suspected of having done it. It was brutal and horrifying. Killing Machine, with a naivety that Cormack suspected came from never having been near a cockfight before in its entire life, lay quite still while it was pecked about the body and neck relentlessly as though it hoped, if it were quiet enough, Starburst might think it were dead already.
Soon another cock came by to join in the action, and Starburst turned on that.
Cormack could see the damage that had been done to his chosen chicken. It was dead, sure enough.
The wager was lost. Proton, who hadn’t clocked what had happened yet, being caught up in the action and from the looks of him as he snarled and dipped with the fighting, zoomorphised to a killer chicken, would be furious when he realized what had happened.
‘It’s dead,’ said Cormack. ‘Killing Machine is dead.’
‘It surely is,’ said Stanton Bosch.
‘I lost the bet.’
‘No you ain’t,’ said Stanton Bosch. He gave a signal to his brother, Hilton Bosch, who was near the pit.
Hilton at once got up and pulled at the referee inside the ring. He was whispering in his ear and the referee looked concerned. Then he leant into the pit and reached for the red handkerchief that was still on the ground, raising it above his head. Hilton Bosch grabbed at Starburst, who had just killed another cock, the last still standing save him, and showed him to the referee. There was a confusion in the crowd, and boos and jeers and heckles. The referee gave a final wave.
It was over and no one could understand what had happened.
‘What’s going on?’ said Cormack.
‘Technical infraction,’ said Stanton Bosch. ‘Me brother would have pointed it out to the referee.’
‘Ladies and Gentleman!’ shouted the referee. ‘The Battle Royal has been stopped. All bets are off!’
There were roars from the crowd. Betting slips were flying in the air. Small fights were breaking out.
‘I am so sorry. But I must have order. As I said, all bets are off. There has been a major technical infraction – Starburst is disqualified!’
‘Disqualified for what?’ said Cormack
‘Impersonating a cock,’ said Stanton Bosch. ‘She’s not a cock at all. She’s a hen. She got teeth. Hens
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