Beneath a Gibbous Moon (Cockfight)(story Twenty-one,"Voices out of Saigon")

Beneath a Gibbous Moon
((Cockfight in Lima, Peru) (Story Twenty- one))


Preface: this is a story about death, written by a robust sixty-year old man who had his fights in life over death, seemingly an imminent road we all have to go down, and not return to our heroic days here on earth, leaving youth and vitality behind. But a live dog is better than a dead lion, or so they say? And added into the stories of this book “Voices out of Saigon,” the author adds a moment at a real cockfight, which he has been to many, as well as bullfights, boxing matches, and other combat sports, and we can add war, Vietnam. This is life engaged, a tremendous adventure, where in the crowed you hear the whispers, and the roars, devoted human beings to their sport. Here is a sport equal to any, and in some cases beyond most.
To the artist, the imagery in a cockfight, knifes or no knifes hooked onto their legs (ankles) which sentences the loser to a quicker death—here the people come to see this small, animalistic gladiator show of blood, a mimic of one out of the days of Rome, all the spectators wanting their hunger for blood to be satisfied, a reality perhaps more for the male soul than the female, one they no longer can produce without a penalty by civilization; not murder, but perhaps close to it, misuse of God’s creatures absolutely, but not the unpardonable sin, and to some painfully watched as one cock attacks another, as one cast its shadow over the other.


The Story:

Beneath a Gibbous Moon
(Cockfight)


“We come to see,” said Morgan Carter II, with his wife Ming Ho Carter, “a cockfight, I hope they are using knifes attached to their ankles, it makes for a quicker and bloodier death. So make up your own mind if you want to come in and see the fight,” Morgan told Zuxin.
“To what purpose?” she asked.
“To kill any lingering reminders that we are still savages reviewing, suspiciously reviewing the taste of a kill, the blood of the wounded. The thrill of the truth, that we refuse to lay down and die like a dogs, we want to go out like a lions.”

The trip to Lima, Peru, was paid for by a man named Kha’n Koea, it was his way of doing things before he killed his prey, give them something, a tribute, and Zuxin Ho was with Morgan Carter friend, as well as Ming on this trip, and so four tickets were sent. His intentions were to murder Zuxin when she got back to Cambodia, Phnom Penh, for abandoning his Great Grand Children, as simple as that.

Zuxin, she was having a hard time walking through those doors to the cockfight. But all three made it, and they sat right behind two couples, seemingly two happy couples, a man with a white beard, white beard and mustache, called Dr. somebody they didn’t get the last name, and Rosa, Peruvian, Armando and Martha, one Japanese Peruvian, the other Peruvian only.
Ming had been to bullfights with her husband, but never a cockfight, there was a gibbous moon out tonight she noticed, and she felt it, as if there was a marvelous ritual dance of death to be performed.
The crowed slowly gathered around this small arena, likened to a bullring, miniature size. The animation of it all was not much different than an American Football game, or baseball game.
Behind her two owners of cocks were standing, holding their animals, ready to bring them out into the glorified arena for battle, colorful they were, with long wide wings, and stern eyes, stiff necks, there was little mercy in their looks, they were battle ready; there was no music like at the bullfights, with the brass horses, but the arena had no space to offer one more body, or horn or cock, a 1000-people, in a room that fit 700. Some of the cocks had dreadful reputations, first-class ones.

The following fights would be breathless, Zuxin starting with the skimpiest of protests with her murmurs of please stop the fight, to 998-others (for the woman in front of her was on her side) screaming at the cocks to fight on, fight and kill the opponent, heavy voices, old timers sitting in the front seats, gathered to talk to watch, to pat each other on the shoulder as friends do who know each other for years, some with expensive suits, others badly worn servants of Lima, all screaming to undo the opponent. Chusco vs. Aji Negro, were now fighting.

Armando won the bet, the gentleman in front of them with Doctor somebody, Chusco vs. Aji Negro, the white and black spotted cock.

The second fight Peladito vs. Aji Seco, it was a tie; and the third fight, the cocks ran arund the arena, one chasing the other for ten minutes, until the time limit was over. Both Zuxin and Martha seemed to be happy for the cock; if anything, they put on a good show, and gave the folks a minute or two, for the heart to calm down.

(It was strange how they got these tickets, thought Morgan. They had gotten four tickets, Zuxin’s husband could not go, business in Saigon, with his several boutique shops. They simple got four tickets in the mail, saying you won a random contest out of Saigon, that her late husband’s name was registered, and since she and his kids had passed on, they were in search of her, and …
through a kind lady known as Si Minh, found they were in Cambodia, and this led to Phnom Penh. And of course, Zuxin and to give them her address was necessary, to send the tickets forward, and even though it took the post office three months to find the correct address of Zuxin Ho (Jong), they were relentless in giving the tickets to the rightful owner (of course this was a ply of Toai Le; Le, on behalf of his boss Kha’n Koea.
Morgan thought it quite suspicious, but did not put Zuxin’s last name, previous last name of her husband’s into its proper perspective, for there were many Koea’s in Saigon, but only one syndicate family, and that was mostly hushed up.)


It was 2001, Morgan had heard from a friend, Sergeant Gills was being released this year or next, he was going in front of the board, and his name was given to the board to write a statement on his behalf, that he was a good soldier in the Army. The problem was, he had only met Corporal Gills once, and played a trick on him at that, perhaps he owned him something for that watermelon trick—none the less he wrote the board back, and told them, he found the young corporal to be a strict soldier, that under such circumstances, perhaps many other soldiers would have done the same thing. Right or wrong, when it comes to family affairs, we do not remain tourists and standby and watch them get hurt. And this was what he thought of the situation.

—As the cockfight continued, these thoughts were going though his mind. When you watch a battle in front of you, many things come back to mind, death and killing, even his old nightmares of a downed helicopter in the bay of Cam Ranh, our mind seems often to pick at random, what it identify with, it never forgets, it just places items within our life time, into different vaults of the mind, some deeper than others.

“Are you all right?” asked Ming, to her husband.
“I’m fine; I just started thinking about so many things when we have these ten-minute intermissions.”
Ming now looks at the two couples in front of them, they are eating a pork sandwich, drinking some juices, and Martha sticks her tongue out at her brother in law, a protest, Ming gathers, a friendly and cordial protest, that such battles are not her forte.

The fight started again, the two owners each brought their cocks into the arena, pushing their faces into each others face, to get their scent, to punish one cock into other, the one that was soft perhaps, to make hard, no gentleness to it, the average spectator could not detect the long pointed, white nail like knife attached to their ankles wrapped with a tie of sorts, not a knife like the steal ones that would be used tomorrow, to slash and kill one another in a matter of minutes, but just one sticking out enough to aggravate it opponent.
They were bred for speed, and the first cock, the one with a white back, used its wings to lay heavy on its opponent’s back, while he pecked with his beak, into the neck and eyes of him. They are like little horns, stabbing horns that sink through the feathers and into the flesh of the other, once through the feathers of the foe—it is easy to draw blood.
Backwards the cock fell, and couldn’t regain its balance, like a turtle turned on its back, it was now helpless, and the attacker gained the moment, and came back several times to inflict more pain into the abdomen of the cock. It was wounded.
Incapacity was the name of the game, fear was also an attribute, inflict it, and you gain the unrelenting festivity’s glory.

“So,” said Ming, “this is how it is?”
Morgan made no response, it was as it was, a combat sport, cold with fever, soaked sometimes in blood, but today there was no real atrociousness, the knifes would be tomorrow night, the long three inch sharp knifes that would be tied around the legs, the ankles of the cocks, as they slowly, bright eyed, fast as a mouse, feed to its audience, a dazing fight to the finish.