Cockfighting is legal in Puerto Rico, and since I had this morning free while KLS finished her seminar, I headed on over to the local arena to watch the birds. It was a rough crowd, which obviously meant I fit right in, so I wasn’t intimidated.
As luck would have it, I ventured into the arena on the day of an apocalyptic battle – the showdown between two (apparently) legendary birds: ‘El Diablo Pollo’ and ‘El Fuego de Jesus’.
Before the match I inspected both of these titans, and felt a deep connection with El Diablo himself. His grizzled face framed strangely sad eyes, which told of a life of last-minute comebacks against a legion of also-ran birds. Fuego may have had the more spectacular plumage, but my heart was with Diablo, and I truly hoped the match would be his.
The ref blew his whistle and the feathers flew. These birds wasted no time! Each alternately tested the others defenses with a few low jabs, before Fuego whipped out with his left wing and momentarily stunned Diablo. Fuego then flapped up on the turnbuckle and let lose with a Five Star Frogsplash! But Diablo’s experience served him well, and he rolled away just in time.
Diablo was then on the offense, ruthlessly pecking Fuego before he could rise, and effortlessly connecting with a mighty one-two combo of a Swantom Bomb followed by a Figure Four Leg Lock. Fuego was crowing in agony! My heart was racing: Had Diablo already won?
Unfortunately not, as was immediately evident when Fuego broke the lock and delivered a perfectly executed Spinerooni on the still prone Diablo. A hush fell over the crowd in that hot dusty room. Diablo was on the ground, gurgling sounds coming from his beak. Fuego stood over him triumphant, even flashing his fans a People’s Eyebrow. Could Diablo rise?
The seconds passed, with the only sound the referee’s count. Uno…dos…tres. The man next to me – clearly a fellow Diablo admirer – wiped away a tear. Cuatro…cinco…seis. He stirred! I bit my lip as Diablo wearily rose a battered wing! Siete. He was up on one foot! Ocho. Diablo fully stood and face Fuego! The crowd roared! The battle was not yet lost!
Or so I thought, for as quickly as my hopes had been raised, Fuego was back on the attack. Impossibly, Diablo managed to withstand an initial beating that would have felled any lesser bird, but Fuego was barely tired, and it was all Diablo could do to protect himself much less fight back.
El Fuego de Jesus delivered unto our hero a flurry of pecks, jabs, kicks, roundhouses and even the occasional eye-gouge. Diablo took it all. He knew he had lost and so did I. But his bravery in the face of certain defeat was a sort of victory of it’s own, and I like to think that the instant my eyes and his met, in that split second before Fuego finished him once and for all with a Stone Cold Stunner, we shared some sort of strange human-chicken telepathic link.
“Your bird may be cooked”, I imparted to El Diablo Pollo, “but your legend will live on in my heart for ever.”
