We’d seen the egg advertised in the back pages of a magazine. It read, RADIO BREED FIGHTING ROOSTER EGGS MAILED DIRECT TO YOUR DOOR… FOUR TO SIX WEEKS. Making money was about the only hobby Big Mike and I could afford. We’d made decent lunch money overcharging carpet millionaires for yard work in nearby Dalton. However, we’d still been forced to collect and sell all the scrap metal and copper we could find—or steal—to manage the luxuries. We’d heard tell of big money from cockfights further East, so the purchase required little debate. Big Mike and I swore ourselves to secrecy; we weren’t meant to have a Gentleman’s mag in the first place. He already had plenty of hens that could sit and hatch the egg. All it took was mailing the clipping with what dollars and cents we could scrape together. Four to six weeks late—just as advertised—it arrived in a small wooden crate, filled with sawdust. Buried deep, wrapped tightly and tenderly in newspaper, sat the small brown egg.

“How’d they figure it was a boy ‘fore they sent it?” Big Mike wondered aloud.

“Beats my dick… Prolly shined a light n’ asked a vet if it had a pecker.” I responded curtly. I had put in slightly more cash than Big Mike and had no interest in considering hypothetical issues with my investment. The egg had arrived unbroken—my primary source of anticipatory stress the past four to six weeks. Now that the egg was in my care, my only concern was hatching him as soon and safely as possible.

Big Mike didn’t live too far from town, but his house sat far back from the road. You couldn’t collect their mail without breaking a sweat. His family’s lot was full of tall Georgia pines. A rich man might have planted grass in Big Mike’s yard and paid some sickening fee for me and Big Mike to rake the pine straw. We charged folks like that a “disposal fee” to get rid of it. We’d built a make-shift baler out of scrap wood and rusty door hinges. The ill-gotten bales of pine straw could then be sold to even richer folk. Apparently, they used the straw to hide the unsightly roots of expensive invasive flora. Big Mike, however, was wise to this racket, as he’d pioneered it. His yard was more akin to untouched Georgia forest, maple leaves and pine straw lay thick on the ground. The yard felt bouncy, but was a perfect home to a number of burrowing animals, some with teeth.

The coop itself had once been a fort constructed from forgotten pallets the two of us had dragged home from the liquor store dumpster. This was back when the neighborhood obsession was still soaking pine-cones in water and hurling them at each other's heads. After enough kids were sent crying to their mothers, we’d had to find new pastimes, and the fort sat empty. However, last year—while in Chattanooga for court—Big Mike came across a rusted coil of chain-link fencing slouched against a large oak tree in a neglected corner of a municipal parking lot. A pair of well-worn pliers and Big Mike’s truck had rescued the forgotten length of braided steel. With a combination of the chain-link and some well-placed plywood at ground level, Big Mike had transformed our battlements into a half-decent coop. 

Between Big Mike and his two brothers, their home consumed at least a dozen eggs each morning. As the eldest, it was Big Mike’s responsibility to help put food on the table. Big Mike figured raising his own chickens was the perfect solution.

The hens were the easiest piece to acquire, as Tyson chicken had begun to slowly absorb all the local farms. Tyson knew a whole lot about making money, but they didn’t know shit about keeping out hillbillies. I never learned how Big Mike got in; his recounting of the events was focused on the violence he witnessed during the caper.

“Theys got ‘em packed in like sardines in a dark-ass longhouse. Half of ‘em didn’t have beaks ‘er talons.”

“What fer? They ain’t born like ’at, right?” I asked him timidly. 

“Naw,” he shook his head, “it’s to keep ‘em from killin’ and eatin’ each other. When I shined my light in, first thing I saw was a half-dozen cannyble hens peckin’ at a dead’n.” 

Those chickens were more than glad to be off the Tyson killing floor. Laying eggs for Big Mike and his brothers was a sleepy retirement. Although, I doubt the shell shock of watching their sisters kill and eat one other ever really left them. It was these traumatized chickens with which I entrusted my precious Radio breed rooster egg. 

—

It wasn’t long after delivery that my beautiful boy hatched. I hadn’t been there to see him crack the egg and worm his little head through the thin membrane; but I made sure to be there every day before and after school. I did my best to train my Radio to fight as soon as he could peck for hisself. That mostly consisted of rough-housing with him in the thickest gloves I could find. I spent most of that summer rifling through my mother’s sewing kit each night, administering improvised stitches for the pecks and scratches that pierced the tanned leather. It was Big Mike who first suggested the name: Smokin’ Joe, after our favorite boxer, Smokin’ Joe Fraizer. He said our boy was destined to be a prize fighter.

Within a few months, Smokin’ Joe was ready for his debut bout. Big Mike and I were still too young to attend the cockfights, even as the rooster’s owners. However, our older friend Hunter Wagnon had agreed to be Joe’s cornerman in Chatsworth—on the other side of Dalton. Big Mike and I had met Hunter on the river a few summers back, and had traded tackle and fishing holes ever since. Hunter drove forklifts at the docks of the Tennessee River. But he’d been between jobs ever since he dropped a pallet of corrosives, so he was more than happy to present Smokin’ Joe in our stead.

Smokin’ Joe’s first fight was a success, and Big Mike and I each made twenty whole dollars. Hunter did his best to give us a tipsy play-by-play: “Joe was a killer outchere, cold-blooded. He took his fair share, but yer boy fought to the last damn breath to kill that rooster. I’m surprised he ain’t already sleep.” 

I carried Joe back to the coop on my shoulders, an modest parade to celebrate winning more than double his magazine price. Big Mike and I bandaged up what wounds we could find between missing feathers, and retired for the evening with our pockets heavy. I had my eyes on a new belt, as my own was running out of room for new holes. 

That night, I dreamt of Smokin’ Joe’s name in neon lights. Vegas, Biloxi, Atlanta, Joe was the title fight on every card. Me and Big Mike looked proud holding him up to shake wings with the president. They even let him pardon his turkey girlfriend on Thanksgiving. When I awoke, I decided to surprise Joe with some of my mother’s expensive bird feed before class. Big Mike answered the door in unbuttoned jeans and an inside-out camouflage t-shirt. When we were younger we called that “snow camo,” but I figured Big Mike was just conserving detergent, snow was a rare sight for us valley-dwellers.

“Sammie left the good seed out, got Joe some for ‘is champion’s breakfast.” I hoisted up the small poke that held his reward. Big Mike’s eyes were sealed shut, and it took much rubbing and hard blinking before he was able to process my words or see the paper sack.

“Well, we best give it to ‘em, I figure…” Big Mike seemed unsure of his own words. He buttoned his pants and followed me behind the house barefoot, occasionally wincing when treading on sweet gum seeds or sharp stones hidden beneath pine-straw. As we got closer, I saw Joe lying in a pool of blood-stained pine straw. I broke into a run. Big Mike followed suit, but just out of solidarity, as his eyes were still adjusting to the sunlight.

Smokin’ Joe could fight no more. His broken corpse was missing a wing, and fire-colored plumes littered Big Mike’s homemade coop. I vaulted over the rickety fencing and lifted the champion from the forest floor. Plywood, it seemed, had not been sufficient in keeping predators from wriggling through the fence’s large diamond-shaped gaps. The Tyson hens had taken the high ground and still clucked nervously from atop the stacked pallets. I reckon Joe had been too exhausted to fly, or maybe he’d just stood his ground like we’d taught him. Either way, Big Mike and I were responsible. When Big Mike finally saw what happened, he started punting leaf litter and swearing up a storm. Before I could say anything, he was stomping back to the house with violent conviction.

I removed Joe’s body from the pen, and tried to explain to the hens that the danger was abated for now. They weren’t convinced. The screen door at the rear of the house squeaked, then slammed shut with Big Mike marching forth. Still barefoot, he now carried pliers, a roll of steel wire, and his shaving kit. Big Mike had no interest in discussing a burial, or blame, or a solution. He lept into the coop and dropped the tools at his feet. He snatched the closest hen by the feet and dangled her upside down. The squawking bird flapped violently, but Big Mike was undeterred. From his shaving kit, Big Mike produced several razor blades. With the pliers and wire, he fixed a blade to each claw of the hen’s feet. As he grabbed the next hen, Big Mike began cursing under his breath.

“Fucker wuddn’t even hungry… juss wanted a damn wing… I’ll teach ‘em to fuck with my boy…” Before long, all the hens were back on the forest floor. They trotted about cautiously in their shiny new shoes. When I asked Big Mike where to start digging, he sighed before responding.

“Naw, brother. I’m upset too, but, think. What else is gonna lure ‘em back…” I gently handed Joe to him over the fencing, then left. I didn’t know the best way to use a rooster corpse for bait, and I didn’t want to. 

That night, I dreamt of Smokin’ Joe pecking his way through fire and brimstone. He was covering ground fast, slaughtering any sinner or demon that stood in his way. He clawed and scurried upwards, towards a non-existent sky. He was hell-bent on vengeance. The dream ended with a loud banging. This time, Big Mike was the one rapping on my door.

“Yer gonna wanna see fer yerself.” 

I got dressed quickly, and followed Big Mike in silence to the chicken coop. I didn’t know what to expect. Before I could process the scene, I blurted out, “Good fuckin’ God…”

The entire coop was saturated in blood, well beyond the small pool in which Smokin’ Joe had sat. Big Mike had strung Joe’s body from an overhanging tree limb, about a foot above the ground. He was no less battered than when I’d seen him last, but he’d been thoroughly baptized in the blood of the slaughter. Nearby tree trunks and plywood looked like cheap counterfeit Pollacks. Normally adorned with white and brown feathers, the hens were now stained redder than their wattles. Bent and bloody razor blades littered the ground, and the hens pecked incessantly at the flesh of a once rust-colored fox. 

Big Mike spoke next. “I knew them Tyson chicks had fight in ‘em. Juss didn’t expect this’n to get bled to death.”

“Did... did you check ‘em fer bites or scratches?” I asked, still in awe.

He nodded his head before responding, “Nuttin’. They’s right as rain. S’all his blood. Looks like’ey stuck a g’damn elephant tho, don’it? Heh.” 

Big Mike’s voice was filled with sheepish disbelief, eyes wide open. He’d wanted revenge even more than me, but neither of us had expected such swift and exact justice. For a while, the two of us just gawked at the carnage. The fox surely had no blood left inside; inch-long strips of fur and flesh sloped down from his exposed spine like the pages of an open book. Scattered throughout his abdomen and head were the remaining razor blades, plus some sections of the steel wire that once secured them. Even if the fox had been appetizing, there wasn’t a backstrap left that wasn’t sliced to shit or full of steel. 

We decided I’d dispose of the fox. I first tried lifting him by the tail, but it had suffered a crude amputation. In the end, we loaded his pieces onto a loose scrap of plywood. The first garbage can I could find was his grave. I suggested washing the blood from the hens, but Big Mike disagreed.

“This way, Tyson cain’t serve me no damn summons fer shit. They ain’t got exotic red-breasted chickens, now do they?” 

A damn good point, but one that left me feeling queasy. We never did buy another rooster, for fighting or otherwise. Big Mike already had the fiercest chickens money couldn’t buy, and my stomach wouldn’t take another bloodbath. 

Big Mike and I buried him next to the coop that next morning. We invited Hunter too, as he was the only other feller that knew about Smokin’ Joe. It felt silly to lay a rooster to rest, but the circumstances of his retribution left us all feeling like sinners. Hunter placed Joe’s bet slips into the hole before we interred him. He didn’t bother asking why Joe’s auburn plumage was stained black with blood. I wouldn’t have known what to say. A quiet rendition of Nothing But The Blood was all I could think to do. Big Mike outdid us all, cobbling together a small cross from the remaining steel wire and razors. It glistened from the sunrise, and for a few years you could see it shine from the road on clear mornings. After the rust consumed it, I’d sometimes make the trek past Big Mike’s house just to catch a glimpse. We swore never to tell anyone what had happened, partly from shame, but mostly for a lack of explanation. 

That night, I dreamt of blinding white lights. I was approaching Saint Peter at the pearly gates of perdition. When I reached him, I saw he held a book adorned with my gilded name. As he thumbed through my life, he paused on a page soaked in deep red. Blood, feathers, and tufts of fur began to pour forth and pooled around my feet. The rising blood passed my knees, and Peter looked me in the eye with grave concern. He had only one question, “Was Smokin’ Joe worth damnation?”

“Made sense at the time.”