Sean E. Britten

I’ve always been inspired by music (I know, super original!) and music has always been a part of my writing. Way back in the days of burnt CDs, my mates and I used to put together CD mixtapes and I came up with the idea of a series of short stories based around pieces of music. Mixtape is all short stories sharing their titles with different songs and inspired, to various degrees, by their lyrics, artists, and vibe.

Currently Playing: Werner Thomas – The Chicken Dance

Trigger Warning: Cruelty to Animals, Cruelty to Humans (But They Suck)

Tonight, Vaugh is going undercover to expose a sadistic cockfighting ring that’s been operating in secret for months if not years. It’s the most dangerous assignment he’s taken on as a self-trained journalist, but the real danger is coming from a very unexpected direction.

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Vaugh checked the pouch he’d sewn into his shirt to hold his phone. The lens of its camera peeped through a hole the size of a button which he’d snipped in the flannel. Pushing and prodding, he adjusted its view until it was mostly unobstructed. After a moment, he opened his shirt again and made sure that it was recording. Beneath it, through his t-shirt, he felt his heart fluttering like a bird in a cage. He was nervous, scared. And worse, he couldn’t reassure himself that he was overreacting and it was all going to be okay. He knew, with perfectly clear logic, that he could be in very real danger. More danger than during any other story he’d reported until now.

“I’m a journalist, remember? I’m a journalist,” Vaugh said, to hype himself up. “Some people, they do this shit from warzones. This is nothing.”

Motorcycles howled as half a dozen bikers pulled past. Vaugh jumped and pulled his head down. They stopped in a staggered row near the barn where tonight’s action was taking place. Men, almost exclusively men, massed around the barn. Hard, dirty, poor, all either white or latino, they looked like bikers, labourers, farmhands, and criminals.

If he was lucky, maybe he would be turned away before he could even get inside. Vaugh felt like he was dressed in a cosplay of one of these rednecks. He’d let his beard grow for a week, resulting in a rash of stubble. A flannel shirt he’d bought specifically for tonight, his phone sewn into the lining over a badly faded t-shirt. Old, torn jeans he’d deliberately damaged further and a pair of hiking boots he’d borrowed from a friend. A trucker cap he’d battered and scuffed pulled down low over his forehead. But even if he’d dressed the part he didn’t feel it and he didn’t know how to act it. And he was sure men like these could sniff out weakness like a pack of wolves sniffing out an orphaned baby deer.

Vaugh considered himself a journalist although he had no formal training. He didn’t work for any kind of publication but he did make enough money from views and sponsors to get by. His most popular videos usually involved a hint of danger, or sometimes more than a hint. He’d been in the thick of some major protests. He’d been teargassed and struck by a police horse and arrested. He’d explored abandoned buildings and tested the security at several corporate and government facilities. He’d had himself placed on a seventy-two hour psych hold. Once he paid a guy who tried to mug him two hundred dollars to sit down for an interview instead, his identity protected. But tonight would be walking into the belly of the beast and placing himself right in the sights of a cockfighting ring that had been operating, as far as he was aware, for months if not years. Recording their faces and the whole operation engaged in illegal animal abuses.

Gulping several deep breaths, Vaugh did his best to steady his nerves before stepping out of the truck. He’d borrowed the vehicle from the same friend as the hiking boots, worried that his inoffensive little hybrid would have given him away before he even got out of it. More beaten up trucks and cars as well as hulking motorcycles were parked haphazardly across the field. Dark as it was, he staggered through muddy pits and tracks between the vehicles. It was only as he got closer to the barn that he could see where he was stepping. Some kind of work lights have been set up in and around the barn, their yellow glow spilling across the rutted field.

A knot of men chugged beers near one corner of the barn. Not far away, Vaugh was pretty sure a couple of men and one dirty, rail thin woman were openly smoking meth. No one appeared to pay them any mind. Holding the side of his flannel, Vaugh tried to get a panning shot with his hidden camera.

Beside the open barn door, a big man with biceps swelling the sleeves of his black t-shirt sat on a couple of stacked crates. Vaugh tried to walk past him, face neutral, but the man heaved to his feet to intercept him. One big hand came to rest against the centre of Vaugh’s chest, perilously close to his hidden phone.

“Where do you think you’re going, kid?” the bouncer asked.

“Uh, inside?” Vaugh said.

The man was no taller than Vaugh but his massive shoulders surged and made him look titanic. Bald on top, he had a greying beard that nearly reached the centre of his chest. Vaugh couldn’t help scanning up and down, taking him in, and noticed a club hammer casually shoved through a loop of the man’s belt.

“I’ve not seen you around before, where the fuck did you come from?”

“Carl sent me, he said I should come and mention his name,” Vaugh said.

“Who the fuck is Carl?”

“Uh, uh, I met him online.”

The bouncer prodded him again. “Twenty dollars entry.”

Vaugh felt relieved but tried not to show it. Removing a folded twenty from his pocket, he pushed it toward the man while trying to keep an air of indifference. He hadn’t noticed anyone else paying but he wasn’t going to question it. The bouncer snatched the money and made it disappear before pushing him into the barn.

Vaugh scanned the barn while trying not to be too obvious. There must have been forty to fifty people in the space, almost all of them men. In spite of the open doorway, it was uncomfortably warm. Music pounded from a stereo across the barn. The natter of loud conversation blended with the squabbling of a wall of caged chickens stacked to one side, becoming indistinguishable. He was already composing the script he would use in his head.

The air was so thick with sawdust you could almost choke on it. But it still wasn’t enough to cover the other smell in the air and that was the smell of blood. Like, it set off something in the back of my head telling me to get away from there. Something primitive.

In the middle of the barn was the ‘pit’. A flat section of ground covered in scattered sawdust and hay, eight foot by ten, surrounded by thigh-high wooden fencing. A couple of men who seemed to be in charge stomped around the pit. Others massed in close, securing their vantage for the main event. Beside the chicken cages there were benches and oil drums and makeshift seating.

A man in coveralls and a baseball cap was selling cans of cheap beer out of a cooler. Vaugh bought one, hoping to fit in, and sipped it as he circled the room. The can was cold, ice clinging to the metal and freezing his hand. He didn’t want to be too close to the action so instead he stood on top of one of the benches as some of the other men were doing. They all looked like the sort of illegal labourers you’d see hanging around outside a hardware store. None of them paid him any attention. 

“Ladies and gentlemen, your evening’s entertainment is about to begin!” A booming voice echoed through the bar, drawing a few laughs and cheers. “Gather around and get your wallets ready, betting is about to start!”

The announcer stalked the pit like a circus ringmaster. A big man in a battered leather jacket, long, greasy hair swept into a ponytail. While he talked, another couple of men brought over a pair of caged chickens, stepping over the fence.

Individually, the fighting cocks were weighed. These were no barnyard chickens but large, fearsome, vicious-looking roosters. Dragged out of their cages, they were shoved into a plastic bucket one at a time and weighed on a kitchen scale. The numbers were shouted to the crowd and betting began in earnest. Men shouted over one another, waving wads of money in people’s faces. A couple of men at the edge of the pit were in charge of the betting. The tension in the room ratcheted up several gears, the air getting heated, the rafters closing in. One man, Vaugh thought might have been one of the methheads, got into a shoving match with one of the men in charge of betting. The bouncer with the lump hammer in his belt lurked around the outskirts.

Vaugh tried to look casual and sipped his beer. He still felt false in every stitch of clothing and every gesture. When he remembered, he used his hidden phone to pan over the crowd. Suddenly, across the room, another passive observer locked eyes with him. He immediately felt a chill down the back of his neck. It was like the stranger could see right through him. Sitting on an oil drum near the wall of chicken cages, the man was dressed entirely in black. Tall and lean, he also looked pale and completely hairless. His missing eyebrows gave him a slightly uncanny appearance. The eyes drilling into Vaugh from across the barn were almost colourless. Amongst the chaos, he was unmoved. In a room full of snarling and barking dogs, he was a lounging jaguar, calm, relaxed, but lethal. Realising how long they’d been staring, Vaugh pulled his eyes away with some effort and forced himself to take a sip of beer as casually as possible. When he glanced back, the man in black had moved on. Pale eyes swept the room.

“Bets are finished, bets are finished! Shut the fuck up!” the announcer yelled. “Let’s see some blood!”

The crowd roared. The announcer backed out of the pit leaving only the two owners and their roosters. People closed in tight. Vaugh felt the bench rock under him as the men he was sharing it with leaned forward. The roosters weren’t released right away. Both were big birds, one brown, one a dirty, speckled white. Their owners circled the pit, holding them outstretched in front of their bodies. Avoiding their beaks and claws, they lunged and stabbed the birds at one another to piss them off. There was something almost ritualistic about it. A name came to Vaugh for the report he was putting together. ‘The Chicken Dance’, it was perfect. He almost laughed. It was like a dance, a ceremony, some kind of weird religious rite.

Locked in, the cocks started screeching and pecking at the air in front of one another. Legs peddled underneath them and Vaugh got his first good look at the birds’ spurs. Glinting in the light, wicked, inches long shards of razor sharp metal had been attached to their heels to maximise the damage they could inflict with their freewheeling kicks. The cruelty of it turned Vaugh’s stomach. He tried to hold his camera steady on the pit. The crowd howled. A wing got free and flapped, spilling dusty brown feathers.

As the excitement and bloodlust peaked, both men flung the birds forward and scrambled out of the pit. The cocks only had eyes for one another. Flapping, squawking, they crashed together in midair and tumbled to the ground in a ball of churning feathers. Hitting the floor, they broke apart. They spun to different corners of the pit then launched back at one another. Beaks hammered forward, stabbing at their faces, and both birds raked at their opponent with their taloned feet. Madly flapping wings drew a curtain over the action at times but Vaugh saw a streak of blood cut across the floor. He narrated inside his head.

To be real with you, it’s almost impossible not to get caught up in the excitement of it all. The whole crowd becomes one big, dumb, angry animal screaming in one voice and you feel like you want to be part of it. But then you see these two innocent animals being forced to rip each other apart and you just feel sick again.

The only person not getting carried away by the crowd was the man in black. He watched the fight from the top of his oil drum, although it was hard to tell if he could see much past the backs of those in front of him. His face looked neither excited nor disgusted, he looked like a man just passing the time. Other spectators screamed for one chicken or the other. Bets were still being made, no matter what the announcer had said, money being flashed and shoved in faces. Someone tossed a beer can into the pit, splashing the two roosters, and he was tackled by those around him.

The fight went on for much longer than Vaugh would have thought possible. Blood stained both birds’ feathers. Again and again, they skittered apart then renewed their attacks. They inflicted most of the damage with their beaks rather than their claws and spurs. Jackhammering, they tore open one another’s faces and slashed at their eyes. Every so often one of them would get in a good strike with their spurs though, raking through feathers, laying the flesh open with a bloody spray. The pair were like boxers or MMA fighters going at one another with absolutely everything they had. But unlike any legitimate sport there were no rounds, no referee to call out an illegal move or decide when one of them fighters had had enough.

The white cock staggered, its fleshy comb shredded, face swollen and pecked, and one eye literally dangling from a thread of nerve tissue. Silently, Vaugh gagged. It tried to strike at its opponent but it was too exhausted. Hate seemed to be the only reason it didn’t just lay down and die. With a final lunge, it snapped at the brown one. The brown rooster, also exhausted, sensed victory and fell on the white one, pecking and raking with its claws. The dangling eye was torn away. In a final mercy, one of the brown rooster’s spurs gashed open the side of its downed opponent’s throat and blood fanned from the wound. Wings out of rhythm, the white bird fell to the ground, flapping, spasming, and went still under the continued assault of the brown one.

A roar went through the crowd. Some sounded their approval while others booed and jeered, throwing things into the pit. The brown cock snatched at its downed opponent, plucking feathers, but slowed and calmed. One of its wings dragged. Gashes between its feathers bled and its battered head was leaking. Vaugh wasn’t sure what to feel other than glad it was over. The excitement of the rest of the barn now left him cold.

Money swapped hands and a few arguments broke out. The bench rocked under Vaugh’s feet as one of the men sharing it with him argued with someone in front of them. The two men who owned the chickens re-entered the fighting pit. The losing owner looked annoyed but not upset as he scooped up the white rooster’s limp body. He turned and tossed it into a nearby bucket.

Vaugh wasn’t sure what he expected for the winner. Its owner was paid, money shoved into one of his waiting fists. The brown rooster had earned some kind of reward, he thought. Some feed, a warm nest, a little bit of kindness. But as badly wounded as it was, it would have to be stitched up and treated first and to these men it wasn’t worth the effort. As the brown rooster calmed, the winning owner stood over it and put one hand on its back, pushing it slowly but firmly to the ground. He forced its head to the bloodsplattered floor then raised his boot and brought it down just as slowly and firmly on top of the creature’s skull. Vaugh felt his stomach roll. The beer he’d drank soured. He couldn’t hear the pop and crunch beneath the man’s treads but he could imagine the sounds as the rooster’s one working wing fluttered then went flat.

These birds are nothing but weapons or toys to these men. Used up and thrown away without a second thought. Some of them might talk about it like a sport, like there’s some kind of glory in it, but there’s no winners and no heroes here. Just cruelty and more cruelty.

The arguing and exchange of money went on for some time. Both dead birds were tossed from the pit and some sawdust was kicked over the gore. The announcer stepped back over the low fence, pacing the space.

“For our next match up, we’ve got a newcomer so make them feel welcome!” the man shouted to a chorus of jeers. “Going up against a rooster with the blood of champions in its veins, Chainsaw the Fourth! Welcome, Mr Black and his fighter, El Pollo Diablo!”

The owner of the white cock stepped back into the pit with another cage. In spite of his first loss, the man wore a slash of a grin. A large, brown, speckled rooster filled the cage he held. The other owner, Mr Black, was the hairless man in black that Vaugh had already picked out of the crowd. He carried a cage into the pit as well. Something huge and feathery and black lurked behind the bars. Vaugh felt weirdly disappointed. He thought he’d picked up something different about the man in black. Dangerous, sure, but above this petty bloodsport. He was no different from the rest of these rednecks though.

They went through the same process of weighing again. Chainsaw IV went first, poured from his cage into the plastic bucket. One of his spurs scarred the bucket’s lip.

“Twelve-point-four pounds!” the announcer yelled.

The crowd cheered. They seemed to be looking for an excuse to yell or cheer or boo at anything. 12.4 pounds was heavier than either of the chickens in the first fight. The brown rooster was pulled out of the bucket, agitated and fighting its owner’s hands. The man in black went next, setting his cage on the ground and scooping out his fighting cock. A kind of hush went through the crowd, or at least as much of a hush as Vaugh had experienced since he got there. Music hammered out of the stereo in the corner and a violent tension still hung over the room. It was obvious though that the onlookers were in awe of Mr Black’s magnificent bird.

The second rooster, El Pollo Diablo, was entirely black. Its feathers were so black they practically absorbed the light around them, making it look more like a chicken-shaped void than a bird. Its comb, its wattle, its face were all black, its eyes like glittering drops of oil. Vaugh remembered, vaguely, a post he’d seen when doing research into cockfighting. It talked about a chicken breed with some kind of pigmentation thing that made not just their feathers but their flesh and organs and even bones black. This chicken must have been of that breed. But there was such intelligence and malice in the rooster’s eyes that Vaugh was convinced the animal must have a soul, and that soul was black as well. Black, ashy legs peddled slowly beneath the bird. Attached to the creature’s heels were spurs, finely crafted talons that looked so sharp Vaugh was afraid they’d cut him from all the way across the room. In addition to all that, the bird was massive. It looked twice the size of the other roosters.

“Damn, that’s one big, black cock!” someone shouted to an avalanche of laughter that eased the crowd’s amazement.

Once they were over their shock, the crowd started yelling once again. Some were already making bets. In spite of its air of violence, the big rooster remained eerily calm in its owner’s hands as it was lowered onto the kitchen scale.

“And El Pollo Diablo, weighing in at 14-point-five pounds!” the announcer shouted.

A new wave of gambling started. Some crowded closer to get a look at the bird. It outweighed the other rooster by two pounds but a few people started yelling accusations that the animal was drugged. That it looked impressive but it would go down without a real fight. Others were willing to chance that bet all the same. Mr Black said nothing, letting the accusations roll over him, his hairless face unreadable.

“All bets are done, let’s get this shit started!”

Everyone abandoned the fighting pit except for Mr Black and the other owner. The two men started to circle, jabbing the roosters at one another. The chicken dance going around and around again. The crowd poured closer, screaming threats and demands. Between the noise, the rough treatment, and the other rooster in its face, the brown fighting cock was immediately agitated. Its legs kicked, spurs flashing. Neck stretched forward, it pecked and snapped and squawked. Meanwhile, El Pollo Diablo remained relaxed. Its black, evil eyes scanned the room, indifferent to the other rooster.

Finally, both roosters were released. The owner of Chainsaw IV hurled the brown cock forward and scrambled out of the pit. Mr Black lobbed El Pollo Diablo more gently then stepped easily over the fence. Vaugh wasn’t looking forward to whatever happened next but he did the best to train his phone on the action.

The crowd bellowed as the brown rooster charged. Vaugh could see the announcer and his cronies looking on with curiosity. Rather than fight back with the same dumb savagery, however, El Pollo Diablo appeared to sidestep the brown rooster. One wing flapped and batted Chainsaw IV to the ground, decisively but harmlessly. The brown cock leapt upright and shook it off then launched itself at the black one again. El Pollo made the same movement, stepping calmly out of its path and batting it aside.

So it went, again and again and again. Vaugh gaped. The crowd was at first amazed and amused at seeing something they hadn’t seen before but frustration rapidly mounted as the black rooster refused to follow through. There appeared to be no aggression in it whatsoever and they hadn’t come here to see stupid pet tricks. They wanted to see blood. Vaugh looked up and searched for the strange bird’s owner but could no longer spot him. The hairless man in black had disappeared.

The brown cock lost momentum. It had no pride to injure, only instincts. As every attack it made landed on empty air yet it remained unhurt, its instinct to fight faded. The two birds circled the pit, wary but slowing even as the crowd pulsed with rage and bloodlust around them.

“Come on!”

“Fucking do something! This is bullshit!”

One of the men who’d been taking bets alongside the announcer stepped over the low fence. Apparently he had some sort of authority to interfere. He swept around with one foot, catching the brown rooster in the side. It flew a short distance, flapping and squabbling. He moved to the black one, trying to push the two of them together. And that was when the strange, black fighting cock struck.

Screaming, El Pollo Diablo launched itself off the sawdust-covered floor. One moment it was calmly strutting the pit and then the next it was an explosion of black feathers and squawks. Claws catching, it climbed the man’s legs and then the front of his shirt. Next moment, it was hacking at his face with its cruelly curved beak and the silver spurs on its heels. Blood flew, human blood this time. The man tried his best to protect himself but the rooster batted his hands away.

“What the fuck?”

Vaugh almost lost his footing as the men sharing the bench with him recoiled. A ripple of shock went through the spectators. Some laughed, some screamed, others acted like it was all part of the expected spectacle. The brown rooster, Chainsaw IV, waddled underfoot, forgotten. The battle was now man versus chicken and man was losing badly.

Another man jumped into the pit to intervene. He hooked one hand under the rooster and managed to shove it away from the first man’s face. Wings flapping, El Pollo twisted in the air and one of its spurs whipped around. Impossibly sharp, it sliced through the base of the second man’s fingers. His pinkie ripped free, spurting blood as it spiralled to the ground.

“Fuck!”

El Pollo’s first victim reeled, clutching the side of his neck. His face was badly shredded, flaps of skin hanging off his cheeks and forehead. Blood sprayed through his fingers. One of the rooster’s spurs had caught the artery in the side of his neck and he was losing blood fast. He stumbled and his legs lost power, dropping him to his knees.

El Pollo landed on the fence surrounding the pit and chaos ensued as several men in the front row threw themselves backward to get away from the seemingly rabid bird. They crashed into those behind them. One, however, drunker and braver than the rest, lunged and tried to tackle the fighting cock. El Pollo Diablo leapt straight up, away from his grasping hands. Its beak drilled forward and snatched one of the eyeballs right out of the man’s head. He shrieked, jerking back, and the optic nerve stretched between his face and the bird’s beak. It bore down, crushing the organ as it flapped back into the pit.

The rooster’s first victim collapsed. The second staggered, cupping his maimed hand in his armpit to stem the blood. The announcer and a couple of other men, the owners of the fighting cocks in the first fight, jumped into the pit to try to regain control. Chainsaw IV ran panicked rings underfoot as the pit became crowded.

The black cock shot around behind one of the men, one of the owners, as he tried to grab it. One of its spurs lashed out. Watching at a distance, Vaugh could see there was more than animal intelligence guiding El Pollo Diablo’s actions. Big as it was for a bird, it was much smaller than the men trying to catch it and it had to use strategy as well as savagery and almost unmatchable speed. The spur sliced into the back of the man’s left ankle. His Achilles tendon gave way with an audible snap, blood fanning across the ground behind his foot. The leg went numb instantly and he cried out as he fell. The rooster circled and threw itself at the man’s face. With another kick, it opened the fighting cock owner’s throat.

“What the fuck is going on?” someone shouted.

The second owner came at the rooster, arms wide. El Pollo changed direction and suddenly barrelled into the man’s crotch like a cannonball. The shock bent him over, face flushed, but the rooster wasn’t finished. Claws and spurs raked right through the man’s jeans, tearing the denim to shreds. One spur caught the man’s thigh and cut through the flesh like warm butter. It caught just briefly on a thick tube, the man’s femoral artery, then snipped it cleanly in two. El Pollo launched itself backward and moments later blood flooded out of the gap under the man’s groin like an overturned bath. The dusty blue of his jeans turned instantly to red and blood, hot enough to steam, burst across the haystrewn floor of the pit.

Some of the crowd poured out the barn doors. Others massed around the low fence of the pit, shouting and swinging. Music thundered in the background. Vaugh felt like he couldn’t move, watching from the vantage of the bench, conscious of the camera recording in his shirt. From across the barn, he saw the big man, the bouncer, forcing his way through the crowd. He raised the lump hammer that Vaugh had seen threaded through his belt. With his beard and hammer and muscles he looked like some kind of dollar store version of Thor.

El Pollo Diablo pinballed around the pit, opening up slices in the surrounding men’s flesh. The bearded bouncer loomed, about to bring his hammer down as soon as it landed on the fence. Another man approached from the other side, stringy and sweaty with clothes that hung off his frame. One of the methheads Vaugh had seen outside the barn earlier. Reaching into his waistband, the man pulled out a stubby handgun.

“Fuck this shit, fucking chicken!”

People were packed tight around all sides of the fighting pit. The methhead failed to take that into account as he raised the gun and opened fire. El Pollo sprung sideways across the fence, wings spread. The first shot punched the man with the hammer in the chest instead. The shooter didn’t even seem to notice, following the rooster’s movements and wringing his trigger. El Pollo’s wingspan looked too magnificent for a chicken, even one of its size. It flapped and half-flew across the pit.

One of the shots cut a hole through one of its wings. The feathery membrane was not enough to stop the bullet of course and it drilled another man in the crowd, ripping off the side of his lower jaw. People screamed and shouted at him to stop but the shooter had tunnel vision now. As El Pollo flew across the pit, soaked in blood, the guy with the gun emptied the rest of his magazine. None of the remaining rounds hit the rooster but almost all of them cut down different spectators in the crowd. They toppled backward. The very last shot found a gap in the crowd and smacked into the stereo across the barn, imploding it and finally stopping the music.

“You stupid motherfucker!”

The rush for the barn doors tripled. People scattered from the fighting pit, leaving the shooting victims behind as El Pollo landed easily on another part of the fence. The wing it had been shot through leaked a dark fluid, maybe blood but it looked too black. Hitting the ground, the fluid sizzled. The bird didn’t look pained. Vaugh felt frozen. The men he was sharing the bench with, however, leapt off and sprinted for the doors. The sudden movement caused the bench to tip backward and Vaugh found himself falling. Behind him was the wall of the barn and some stacks of lumber, nothing soft. Flailing, he hit the lumber and smacked the back of his head.

The announcer with the greasy ponytail reached into his leather jacket and pulled a handgun as well, a scuffed pistol. The methhead trained his empty gun on the rooster and kept trying to pull the trigger, the hammer snapping. Half a dozen victims sprawled around the other side of the pit but he appeared to have no idea what he’d done. The announcer squeezed off several shots that punched the first shooter in the chest, knocking him to the ground.

The man who’d been in charge of the fights swept around his handgun, looking for the black rooster, ignoring the dying men at his feet. El Pollo launched itself off a gutshot man’s shoulder. The announcer yelped and tried to put the gun between himself and the rooster. He fired, missing the flapping bird. Again, its wings appeared too broad and powerful for a chicken. It soared into him, knocking his arm aside. El Pollo kicked out and slit the inside of the man’s forearm with a spur, spraying blood. The gun erupted again then fell from his spasming fingers.

“Fuck!” the ponytailed man yelled.

The black cock ran the length of the man’s arm and slammed into the side of his head. Its beak drilled into his right eye, knifing, twisting, and pulled it out of the socket. Screaming, he tried to bat it away. One of its spurs caught the side of his throat as it was knocked aside and more blood arced from the split artery. He tripped backward, smashing his head against the fence surrounding the pit, and the bird whirled away in a haze of black feathers.

Silence settled over the barn. Outside, truck and motorcycle engines turned over as the spectators fled. Their vehicles howled across the field, a couple crashing into one another, and they retreated into the distance. A dozen men were scattered in and around the pit, covered in blood, dead or dying. Groans from the dying ones rose into the air and petered out like deflating balloons. In their cages, fighting cocks that had been waiting their turns to die clucked and pecked at the bars. The brown rooster, Chainsaw IV, climbed on top of one of the dead men. Flapping to the top of the fence, it hopped over and wandered off between the bodies.

Woozy, Vaugh tried to pull himself upright. Having come alone, he’d been abandoned as everyone fled the barn. The back of his head throbbed and it took him a few long moments to get his arms and legs working in the right order. When he sat up, he found himself staring right into the black and evil eyes of El Pollo Diablo. Black comb wobbling, its head jerked. For a few moments, the two of them regarded one another. Vaugh was too dazed and surprised to remember to be scared. El Pollo made a soft and inquisitive clucking sound. Vaugh let his eyes wander to the metal spurs attached to the chicken’s legs, both them and the rooster’s feet coated in blood.

“No! No, I’m not one of them!” Vaugh said. “I’m a journalist! I’m a journalist, see?”

Vaugh fumbled with his flannel and ripped out the hidden phone. It was still recording. He held it out to the rooster as if fully anticipating it would know what a phone was.

“See? I was trying to stop this! Like, I was trying to get some views too, but I was trying to stop it!”

The black rooster studied what Vaugh was holding, eyes glittering. He couldn’t really tell if it understood him or if it was just attracted to the shine of the screen. Suddenly, El Pollo lunged. One wing flapped and knocked the phone out of Vaugh’s hand. Its beak drilled into the lens of its camera, again and then again, shattering it and then cracking the body of the phone. Satisfied, it backed away and retreated back over the upturned bench near Vaugh’s feet.

Waiting until he felt it was safe, Vaugh grabbed the broken phone and stuffed it into his pocket then looked over the bench. The rooster had vanished. Just like its owner, or collaborator, whatever they were, it had slipped away into thin air. Other than a few feathers as black as an abyss, and all the dead bodies, there was no evidence it had been there at all.

“Where did you go?” he asked aloud, and silently he answered his own question.

The other side.

Vaugh knew he should run, like most of the surviving spectators. However, he caught sight of the brown rooster pecking away between the bodies. The far wall was still lined with fighting cocks crammed into tiny cages. On impulse, he picked his way through the bloodshed and grabbed the first cage. Quickly, he tore it open then moved on to the next one and the next one. Most of the roosters were peaceful and slow to risk climbing out of their cages but none of them attacked each other and none of them attacked him beside a few pecks at his fingers.

When he was done, Vaugh moved toward the exit. He planned to run to his friend’s truck and speed home but red and blue lights filled the night. Several police cruisers howled down the pitted road toward the barn and pulled up hard. The first few police jumped out of their vehicle and raced in his direction, drawing their weapons. He raised his hands, framed by the entrance to the empty barn. A few freed fighting cocks pecked at the ground around his feet.

“It was the chicken!” Vaugh offered as an explanation. “I didn’t do this, I’m a journalist! The chicken did it!”

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Sean: Thanks, as always, for reading! I’ve been thinking about writing a story featuring cockfighting for a while. I put up a picture on Instagram of a painting I bought in Bali over ten years ago now, which was hanging on the wall in my home office until recently! Had to shift rooms for the baby and I probably prefer things in the new office to be honest but I haven’t got wall space to put it up, will have to figure that one out. Anyway, it’s certainly helped inspire this one!

Speaking of the baby, all going nicely there! Thank you for asking. The due date is getting very close, less than a month away now. And that’s a month if all goes to plan, of course. Very nerve wracking and doesn’t feel quite real. My wife is doing an amazing job with the whole being pregnant thing which is, of course, a nightmare of body horror and very physically taxing. Our little girl appears to be particularly active, constantly booting at the walls of her stomach around the clock. The room is looking very organised and we had a baby shower last weekend so it’s all very exciting!

The next story is very much on a Halloween theme so if you like these creature features and a bit of fun horror, come back for that one! And remember for more updates you can find me on Facebook, Twitter, Bluesky, Reddit, and Instagram.

Next Track: Andrew Gold – Spooky, Scary Skeletons