I am no chicken, mayne. Never call me a chicken, ok. I might run, but not from fear. There is a cockfight, tonight, in Hialeah. I am showcased in the main event. I will win this match because I am a killer. Just so you know, bro--Miami has turned me into this monster. This environment, this Magic City. Miami has made me a killer.
As a young chick, I was learned and inquisitive. I would walk the streets of my home in Little Havana, near 12th Avenue, wondering about the deeper things in life. Like why did I want to cross the road exactly? And what was I going to do on the other side? I wondered which came first, me or the egg?? I was philosophical, yet spirited and feisty, an activist. I protested Pollo Tropical, vandalized that giant chicken in Calle Ocho, and boycotted McDonalds only to learn they do not use real chicken anyway.
I have always been a free-spirited warrior. Until the day of my kidnapping. The Chicken Busters,
mayne. Do you know about them? They kidnapped me, threw me in a bag and
sent me to a farmer in Homestead. I was one of the 16,000 unlucky ones
captured by the Chicken Busters, bro. And let me tell you. Life on the
Homestead farm broke my spirit. It was slavery. Indeed. Worse than
Guantanamo.
We were cooped up in tight quarters, sick and diseased. It
took strength most cocks don't have to survive the 10-month ordeal until
eventually I was sold. To the cock-fighters. They trained us to fight.
The conditioning was hard, like eye-of-the-tiger Rocky-hard. The
cock-fighters made me drink eggs. That's just cannibalism, mayne.
Plus I
didn't want to fight. They forced me. I am a lover, not a fighter. But I
had to. I had no choice. When the day came and they threw me in the
ring I knew if I lost, I would be a drumstick. So I fought and killed
and tore to pieces quickly anyone they put me in the ring with. I am a
cold-blooded murderer, mayne. I am undefeated. 37-O. A champion cock!!
They call me Ahorita! because of the quickness in which you will meet
your demise.
I have made much money for my handlers. And I have
fans. And now there is a big fight, scheduled in Hialeah, tonight,
against a champion from Mexico, the West Coast--they call him the San
Diego Chicken. I know of this cock and I could kill him--but my handlers
are insisting I take a dive. They want me to throw the fight. Me? Throw
the fight? If I throw the fight, it means my death. Plus I have pride. I
am half-Cuban. I will not take a dive. I am half-Cuban, half-Jewish,
ALL-chicken, bro. You remember that.
However, they will kill me if I
don't take a dive. The stakes are high now!! I have only one option. To
defeat the San Diego Chicken and then run to escape a certain death by
the chicken mafia. I must run. But not from fear. I will run for
freedom. And if I don't make it, I want my story told for all the future
chickens who are forced to fight. It is not right! Liberta!! Liberta!!
Liberta!!
The time has arrived for me to approach the New Times readers,
understanding their total obsession with cock--and say remember me,
remember Ahorita!, as a brave and loyal cock, a victim of this loco
environment, this Magic City, this place you call home, your Miami.
Remember my name and scream it wherever there is injustice! Ahorita!
Liberta!!
Follow Cultist on Facebook and Twitter @CultistMiami.
