Chicken Man

His friend, John Kelso, had lost the ear, and the doctors had put some shoulder muscle up there and covered it over with leg skin, said Jimbo. Still, the cancer "went mobile." Last April, Kelso died.

The keeper of the Kelso cock was presented with a problem. Kelso's heirs would soon be wanting the land. Aside from any personal grief Jimbo may suffer but doesn't express, he and his chickens would have to endure the hardship of finding a new home.

And everything grew more complicated recently when Jimbo discovered that he, too, has skin cancer. It goes without saying, perhaps, that he has no health insurance. The doctors bored a dozen tumors out of Jimbo, before asking him if he would be financially responsible. "Hell, no!" said Jimbo. He complains now that he could have stitched up a chicken better than the doctors stitched him. Jimbo has added doctors to his long list of persecutors.

He figures what he needs is money. If he had money, he could find a new home and get better care. At that moment Jimbo's greatest hope for money was a red rooster with two combs sticking up like horns. Diablo Rojo, the Mexican cockfighters had named it, for Diablo had won four backyard fights. He had nearly lost a wing in the last one, but the wing was healed now, and Jimbo's bird was back. He was only a mongrel, but Jimbo liked his style. He planned to breed Diablo after one more fight.

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Diablo's brother was called for the second fight. "Keep him breathing, Javier. Keep him warm," said Jimbo, but Jimbo's chicken was hemorrhaging from the neck. All of Javier's sucking could do nothing to stop it.

The rooster's demise put Jimbo out of contention for the prize money. The rules required that losers keep their birds available to fight the winners, and so two more of Jimbo's birds were carried forth and slaughtered. As they lost blood, Jimbo lost $400, a month's income, betting on the side.

He would not go home this way, with his best weapon undrawn. When the derby was over, Jimbo stood and announced that he still wanted to fight. Was there anyone out there man enough to fight chickens with Jimbo?

Another man in a cap mutely nodded. Jimbo had $200 left and bet it on Diablo. He strapped the knife on his bird and injected it with the adrenaline. Javier was soon in the pit, standing face-to-face with the foe. Three times the men waved their chickens at each other. When the birds seemed truly angry, the men stepped back and let them go.

"Come on, stupid!" Jimbo shouted from his seat.

There was a flurry. Diablo was certainly aggressive. There was another flurry. Diablo, dear Diablo, staggered. He looked positively Shakespearean as he walked slowly to the glass and stared quietly out.

Javier would not let Diablo die alone. He picked the rooster up and cradled it out, the blood gushing down his arm. "Do you see that?" he said, parting the feathers. It was a view of the warrior's still beating heart. Javier was fascinated. Jimbo told him to put the bird in the trash.

"Damn," said Jimbo. "I thought we were going to beat that chicken."