Something smells funny. Like diesel and iron. Like testosterone.
Look left, look right. It is the men. It is motokar fuel and rooster blood.
This is a sanctuary. It is late night at the Colosseum. Here, roosters either rise to Gods or crumble into caldo de pollo. The men spend months training their warriors for this moment. Their pride and money on the line.
“You know what to do, Kellogg. Go for his throat.”
The men of the world mark their territories, prove their dominion, show their superiority. In the western world, money and material possessions are the most common display of an alpha male’s worth.
A car, a house, a yacht.
Here, in the Peruvian Amazon, it is his cock.
Cock fighting; violence to some, tradition to others.
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