The Tattoo by Chris Mckinney Page A

landed back onto the pit surface, their stay ended in a flash because they’d leap back up as soon as they possibly could, unsatisfied until one yielded. In this case, surrender and death were the same.
    The first time Koa took me to a derby, before the first contest began, he leaned over to me.“Watch dis.You rememba when you went drop Mike? Da way you went beef reminded me of one chicken. Attack fast. Land. Attack fast.” I thought, if this was true, then it was my father who’d tied the knives to me, he who’d made sure they always stayed sharp.
    Koa looked around. “Look at dis place, Ken, you gotta love it. My kind of place.”
    I looked and saw boys and men of all ages drinking, smoking weed, anticipating the next fight. “See,” Koa said, “on dis side of da island, we no fuck around when we break da law. Look at dis. Gambling, smoking out. And you know no one goin’ call da cops. Nobody like cops come.”
    I watched as two men let their birds go, one had white feathers, while the other wore brown. The roosters charged each other. They were moving so fast and flapping their wings so hard that their feet seemed to barely touch the ground. Right before they met each other in the center of the ring, they lept foward and led with their claws. Koa leaned over to me.“Fuck, good ting still get places dat da tourists no see. Good ting we keep most of dose fuckas in Waikiki.”
    The two birds landed on the ground, seemingly unharmed. They jumped up again. White and brown feathers fell like leaves below them.“You know why it’s good dat da tourists no see dis?” Koa asked. “Because if dey did, da fuckin’ cops would crack down on dis shit.”The birds landed and jumped again, but this time the white rooster jumped higher and the brown one was forced into a defensive position. One of the white bird’s knives pierced the breast of the brown one.
    After the derby, which was held in WaiaholeValley, the valley which sits between Koa’s Kahaluu and my Ka‘a‘awa, we went to Freddie’s place. Koa had won a hundred bucks, so he wanted to celebrate. He told me about Freddie, this guy he knew, who always had stuff. We hopped on our stolen bicycles and I followed him deep into the valley. When we got there, we dropped our bikes in the front yard. I looked at the house briefly, it was this audacious pink, but other than that it was nothing different. Screen door, wooden-planked walls, shingled roof. Old. I followed Koa as he walked toward the backyard.The yard was pretty big.Two plumeria trees dropped wilted flowers on the bermuda grass. I stepped on them as I followed Koa. Before he turned the corner, Koa stopped. “Ken, no talk too much. Da fucka stay kind of mental. Jus’ let me talk to him.”

    In the backyard sat a big square shed, walled and roofed with smoky corrugated fiberglass. It must have been about twenty feet wide and fifteen feet tall. On the way to the front, I saw a few little patches of fur sticking up from the ground. Then I smelled the good smell and knew someone was burning. Suddenly I heard a loud blast of music from inside. It was some hard rock group, maybe Slayer or something, one of those groups whose music never makes it on the radio or MTV. I followed Koa as he stepped inside.
    It was like a thick, reefer jungle inside. Dozens of potted cannabis plants were spread out, many of them growing to the ceiling. In the middle of the hothouse was a workbench with paraphernalia scattered all over it. Scales, mirrors, plastic, ashtrays, tweezers, scissors, spoons. A boom box blasted in the right-hand corner. Next to it I saw a high-caliber revolver, a three-fifty-seven, I think. Freddie’s back was to us, as he was concentrating on something on the middle of the bench. It was a broad, well-muscled back, a twenty-five-year-old back, dark and lumpy. A huge tattoo stretched across his shoulder blades. In jailhouse calligraphy letters it read, Lunatic Click . He wasn’t that tall, about five-eight,