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MINNESOTA COCKFIGHT
This short story was originally published by:
 
 suspect thoughts
: a journal of subversive writing 
is an online magazinethat features exciting alternative writing and artwork that blur the linesbetween genres and aren't afraid to frighten, cause laughter,or confuse, while perhaps arousing sexual desire.
“Throw a hard fucking jab, then a right to the body and a left to the head. That’s allyou’re gonna have to fucking remember in these kinda fights. When they get in close toyou, push ‘em back and bang hard to the body. I can guarantee you that none of theassholes you’re gonna be fighting are in half the shape you are.”I had stopped ripping shots to the heavy bag to stop and listen to the instructions of myuncle. Uncle Billy sure didn’t look like he’d no shit about boxing. He looked more likeTommy Chong, only with dragon and snake tattoos all over his thin but muscular arms, but he had learned how to box in the Army and was now trying to pass his limitedwisdom onto me.Billy had come up with a real bright idea, although I was going along with it, I wassecretly hoping that I just didn’t get killed.Once a year, a guy who owned a farm over by Faribault, Minnesota promoted his ownillegal tough man contest. Twenty four men could enter with a thousand dollar entry fee.The fights would be four two minute rounds. Winner of the last fight would win fifteenthousand dollars. Runner up would two thousand. Everyone else would get jackshit. Itwas an all night affair filled with cockfights, gambling, drinking, drugs, strippers, andhookers, along with the fights. Everything there was illegal in the state.Billy had attended several of these gala events and thought that his young nephew, me,had the moxy to win the tournament for us.Life had been different just six months ago. Then I was senior, an all state cornerback,and had three big colleges watching my every move. Then my dad gets killed drivingwhile drunk with my girlfriend. Didn’t take a detective to figure out what had been goingon. My old man just had that allure. Couldn’t keep it in his pants. Even with mygirlfriend. My mom wigged out and has been in the hospital since then. I couldn’t take
 
the bullshit at school. Everybody laughing at me behind my back. Oh, how the mightyhave fallen. Dropped out and went to live with my Uncle Billy to help with his business.The biggest pot dealer in southern Minnesota.When Billy came home with the idea of the tough man contest I had jumped at it. If Icould get my ass whipped back into shape like when I was playing ball and could pull off a win, I could use my share of the winnings to get my ass on the road and out of NewRichland. Start all over someplace else. Someplace warm.“How do I know that one of the guys that I have to fight isn’t some ex-fighter and I windup getting the holy crap kicked out of me?” I asked.“It’s against the rules of the tournament.” Billy answered with a grin.“Rules? What kinda rules are they gonna have in something like this?”“Listen to me, Jakey boy. The dude that runs this show doesn’t allow any bullshit at all.He knows that if anyone tries to slip in a ringer that he’s gonna get a bad rep and no onewill ever sign up to fight again. And this guy is one bad dude. If anyone is stupid enoughto try any shit they’ll probably wind up in a swamp with cinder blocks attached to their nuts.”For four solid weeks, I got up in the early morning hours to do my roadwork, go to work,make Billy’s weed deliveries, and then come home to pump iron and work out on the bag.I knewI was in good football shape but wasn’t sure about fighting shape. The only fights Ihad been involved in were short scraps during a game or practice that were quickly broken up. My size alone had intimidated most people.We drove to Faribault in Billy’s four wheel drive. I was silent but Billy chattered on like amonkey, wired to the gills on crank, and drinking out of a tall can of Grain Belt.“Just let ‘em come to you. Let them do the work. They come to you, you just unload onthem. Push “em off, and do it again.” Billy was ranting like a amped out Angelo Dundee.“That stick and move shit won’t work here. Just hard fucking shots to the body tosoften them up and then go to the the head.”
 
“Goddamn it Billy. Will you just shut the hell up for a minute so that I can think?”Billy glanced over at me and took a swig of his brew. “Sorry kid. I’m just nervous is all.Shouldn’t have taken that zip.”“Yea, I know. I’m sorry too. I’m just ready to get this thing going.” I replied.We cruised through Faribault and passed by the state mental hospital and continued out of town for about three miles and then turned down a long private drive ending up in a woodcovered natural hollow. Cars and pickup trucks were parked all around a brand new bright red barn. Already you could hear the sounds of men drinking, and men alreadydrunk, emitting from the open doorway. We got out of the truck as a large biker with aclipboard approached them. It was hard not to notice the .357 magnum strapped to the hischest.“Name?” The biker grunted.“Billy Morrow and my fighter, Jake Morrow.”“I.D.?” The biker looked at his clipboard.We showed our state driver’s licenses which the biker glanced at.“Through the door.” He pointed to the barn, obviously a man of few words.When we walked through the door, I was surprised to see what looked like an official boxing ring set up in the middle of the barn. In each far corner of the barn, small stageswere set up, and there were nude dancers on three of them. A bar was set up on two sidesof the barn and men were in a circle watching what appeared to be a rooster fight inaction.The place was packed. It smelled like sawdust, pot, booze, blood, and fear.The fattest man that I had ever seen was waving us over to a card table with a scheduletaped up behind it on an easel. He grinned and shook hands with Billy.
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