Now he piranhas toward the white fowl and shoots his talons forward like grappling hooks. To evade, the white gameco*k beats its wings to double-jump, but its claws entwine with Rex's, and their handshake heaves both down against the pit.
Now, they sit, kicking into each other's heels. Alarm clock. Rex winces. Alarm clock.
Then with a simultaneous surge, both sweep their lapels and skirt in opposite directions. The two balls of plume deflate at the scene.
Until the white rooster erects, though jagged and defiled and his entrails caked in dirt. Rex, void of his vigor but visibly villainous, glooms off the floor like a cape, only to buckle hard like a man stomped behind the knee. The cape collapses.
But his wings root against the ground like fists and hunch him up to where he can stand. His left shoulder slumps. It's because his left foot's fractured back beneath him, and he's resting his weight on his knuckles.
“Spyder's gonna green light' you,” says Pillar to Tick.
“He's fine, puto!”
The white competitor pushes off sprinting blocks toward Rex, who jerks forward but trips over his backwards paw. Still, Rex bayonets his neck forward and crows, and his throat feathers blade around his disease-colored eyes. The cobra tries to spit venom. Space appears below the white rooster, then a thundercloud phantoms over Rex.
The white curb stomps him so his head whiplashes, then it pillages his back. It yanks and yanks and yanks. Alarm clock. And as if it were plundering a pillow, grey plumes explode from Rex's undercoat and float like leaves, swinging down in lullabies.
“IT'S OVER,” Pillar shouts and rushes to swipe the white fighter off Rex. “IT'S OVER.”
Tick slaps his scalp and swooshes the air alongside me. “NO! He's fine. Set ‘em up.”
“If Rex dies--”
“SET ‘EM UP!”