Trevor's Last Stand

TREVOR’S LAST STAND

“I’m sorry Wally,” said the vet as he gently handed over the towel wrapped bundle of duck. “But Trevor will never fight again.”

“The hell you say,” snarled Wally ‘The Moose’ Huismann. “He’ll fight and he’ll win!”

A barrel of a man, Wally swore to himself as he kicked open the watchful vet’s door. Karl was a back alley vet: he mostly dealt with fighting ducks, illegal pets’ ailments, what have you.

Wally stood for a moment outside in the cool night air, clutching his duck.

“Let’s get you home Trev.”

Right then Jim Jarmusch pulled up in his ute. Not that Jim Jarmusch: you or I might get the reference but none of the locals of small town Whiowhio really made the connection. Not an uncommon name in Poland, land of his forebears. Most of his mates just called him “Jimmy Jar” anyway. Jim didn’t mind. He did play banjo and brew moonshine after all. And he was the closest thing to Wally’s best mate, after his ducks maybe. So he pulled up and said:

Hop in mate. Bring the champ with ya.”

Wally got in with Trevor on his lap.

“Champ eh. He’ll be champing at the bit to have another go at that bastard.”

“He won’t get a chance mate.” Said Jim. “Harry will have taken his purse and split town already. Looking for the next sucker - ah, sorry. Didn’t mean it like that.”

“Kinda true though.”

“Nah, you were blindsided mate. Nobody thought this was anything but a friendly. That’s the guy’s ah, modus operandi apparently.”

They drove on in silence, while Wally reflected. He could remember the evening vividly, down to the sounds from the crowd and that awful crack.

It had started normally enough: around four o’clock, in the park, on the clear space next to the playground, with a verge around it so it acted as a sort of amphitheatre where people gathered on a Thursday afternoon, after the regular park goers had dispersed. It was after pension and benefit day, so people were there in a betting mood. The warm up fights were already underway, with small bets being placed for small returns. Nothing too serious; the fights only went until one duck turned.

Wally set up in his usual spot, Trevor’s enclosure by his side. He nodded to Jim, and to Neville, the Self Appointed Referee, and waited for Todd “The Barker” Barclay, a burly man, to say his piece, which he did:

“AND NOW, FOR THE MAIN EVENT.” He shifted his makeshift suit uncomfortably and gestured.

“ON MY LEFT, SEVEN TIME CHAMPION, WALLY ‘THE MOOSE’ HUISMANN AND HIS DUCK TREVOR - “ He paused to cough, emphysema you understand. He resumed:

“TERRIBLE TREVOR, THE MIGHTY MALLARD!

Wally opened up the cage so people could get a glimpse of Trevor, to scattered applause. The Barker continued:

“TO MY RIGHT, A FRESH ENTRANT, WITH HARRY ‘HANGDOG’ KRUSE, AND HIS SERIOUS CONTENDER, SSSSERPICO!

And out came Serpico. Wally immediately yelled, “That’s not a duck!”

Harry smirked. “He’s a muscovy duck.”

Now Harry looked like he’d been shaved clean and coated with vaseline. In his khaki shorts and short sleeves he almost shone in the early evening light. Almost like a lizard, but basically slimy you would say if you weren’t being polite.

Wally looked over at Nev, the Self Appointed Referee, who said “I’ll allow it.”

So Wally summoned Trevor, who came out and looked quizzically at his strange opponent: body like a duck, breast like a turkey, neck like a bloody snake. They squared off, and Serpico hissed at Trevor.

“He doesn’t even quack!” Yelled Wally, to deaf ears,

As they circled each other, Wally became somehow acutely aware of conversation around him:

“Well, he’s the champion.”

“Yeah, my money’s on the big one.”

Further up the verge, Priscilla sipped her chardonnay and commented.

“It does seem rather brutal.”

Alex, reclining next to her said, being knowledgeable in such matters,

“Ah, they love to fight.” He lit a silk cut and adjusted his boater. They looked like they walked out of a Monet painting.

“It’s in their blood.” He made to sit up, then decided against it.

“Besides, when they’re not fighting, they’re treated very well of course. They’re like…gladiators.”

Priscilla didn’t quite snort, but you could tell. So could Alex, amused, as he watched the fight progress.

Trevor edged around Serpico. A few exploratory darts told him that there was no point in attacking the breastplate: it was like a leather cuir boulli, so he focused on that long snakey neck. A few nips here and there, while Serpico for his part tried to rain some pecks down, but Trevor was agile enough to dodge clear mostly.

Then he saw an eye to the main chance, and lunged at Serpico’s neck, getting a firm grip and worrying at it, hoping to drive him to the ground for the win. But Serpico was not only snakey but wily; he raised a leg and raked Trevor down the front and shook him loose. Trevor fell on his side for a moment, a chance which Serpico took to stomp on the head, then lean down, wrap his bill around the leg, twist, and then snap. Audibly.

Trevor let out a squawk, and stayed down, quivering.

A hush fell over the crowd, as both owners rushed to pick up their ducks. Harry and Serpico were declared the winners; Harry Hangdog picked up his muscovy and his purse and left quick smart, and Wally was left with a lame duck and a ute that had broken down just as he got to the park.

Luckily Jim was on hand to take him to Karl’s all night vet service, and then up the hill to Wally’s place with the promise they’d sort the ute tomorrow. Which brings us home, where Wally puts Trevor to bed. The other ducks come to the door and Wally throws some grain at them and says bugger off, Trev’s not taking visitors and, after sitting up for a while, lies back on the couch and hopes for the best.

Next day was calm. Crickets were chirruping, there was a full sun, high as an elephant’s eye. Wally grumbled his way off the couch and checked on Trevor, who had his eyes open and looked sort of lively. Wally took him outside to soak up some sun. The other ducks came to visit again: he didn’t turn them away this time.

He sat and drank tea until Jim Jarmusch arrived. They went down and checked the ute which thankfully just needed some oil and water. Easily remedied, and back up the hill they went. Wally made a light meal of duck eggs and toasted homemade bread, then reckoned he might try taking Trevor for a walk.

“Not too soon you reckon?”

“Sooner the better I reckon.”

Since the reckoning was done, Jim watched as Wally led a grimly hopping-for-all-he-was-worth Trevor down the garden path.

“You coming?”

“Nah, I’ll sit it out eh.” Jim took a sip of shine, then found a good thick stick of kanuka, happened to be lying around and which, after pulling out a pen knife, he proceeded to whittle down. By the time Wally came back with Trevor, hopping doggedly at his side, Jim had a decent peg. Wally dug up an old leather belt; they attached it to the wood and strapped it around Trevor’s belly, buckled it up and voila, he had a peg leg. Wally took him for another walk with it and he took to it like a duck to - well, you know.

They came back again. “Reckon he’ll be good to go again pretty soon.”

Jim thought the reckoning was over with, but rubbed his chin and said: “There’s a thing next Thursday. A new guy, they say he might be the next big contender.”

“Oh. so you say.”

“Yeah, George Charleston. Giant George, they’re calling him. Seen him down the pub, and he is a big feller. Good dancer too. Says he’s got a duck, Muldoon, who’ll wipe the floor.”

“Hm, big talk.”

“Think he might be up to it by then?”

“You know he will. Sign us up.”

Jim agreed, then headed off, leaving Wally alone with his thoughts, and Trevor, and the other ducks of course. There were a few sheep in the back paddock too, but Wally didn’t think about them too much, there being plenty of good grass and water on hand, so to speak. They didn’t seem to require a lot of attention.

The days on the hill were much of a muchness; Wally didn’t need a lot, and lived off the land mostly. A few trips into town for supplies, and then of course the duck fight club. Even though he looked like an outsize Willie Nelson, he gave up weed years ago thanks to his near terminal coughing habit, and mostly enjoyed the clean air, sunshine and light. No intimate relationships for a man like him: too much of himself in himself, no room. Oh, there was a woman years ago, but she moved away. That was okay.

The days progressed; Jim would come up and play harmonica while Wally put Trevor through his paces, learning to use that peg leg. He’d set up a pole so Trevor could kick it. It was a bit like a Rocky style montage but with hillbilly music.

Jim filled another shot glass. “So is Trevor your only ace in the hole?”

Wally smiled. “I got another one I been training up. She’s going well.”

“She?”

“Yep. She’s a brown teal, small, but pretty vicious. Wait and see,”

“What’s her name?”

“Jolene.”

“Oh, you’re serious.”

“You know it mate.” Wally picked a stalk of wheat and chewed on it, looking out at the setting sun. It was turning the sky gold, then primrose, with charcoal grey clouds hanging over.

The training kept up; and Thursday rolled around.

Around three o’clock, Wally got Trevor into his cage and put him on the back of the ute. He turned up at the park and as usual, the ‘casuals’ were dispersing and the ‘fight club’, if you please, were assembling.

Wally set himself down, announcing his presence, and watched the ‘quail fights’, as they were called. When the dust settled down, and the dusk settled in, Wally rose to see his opponent: a large man with a face like an obituary. Yes, “Giant George” may have been a genial guy down the pub, but he looked like serious business here.

Todd “The Barker” stood and opened up:

“HEEERE WE ARE, AT THE FINAL FIGHT, LADIES AND THE REST OF YOU. FEATURING A LONG TIME CHAMP, INJURED BUT SOLDIERING ON, WITH WALLY “THE MOOSE” HUISMANN - THE TERRIBLE TREVOR, THE MIGHTY MALLAAAARD!

He checked his notes.

“AND ON MY RIGHT, A NEW ENTRANT: “GIANT” GEORGE CHESTERFIELD AND HIS CONTENDER, THE…CAYUGA (did I say that right? okay) DUCK, THE MONSTROUS MULDOOOON, AH!”

Wally opened the cage door for Trevor, who duly trotted out, with his peg left leg. Right there the trouble started. George immediately went to Todd and Nev and grumbled urgently. After beckoning Wally over, Neville said:

“I’m afraid there’s a complaint about the...artificial leg, Wally.”

“Um…It’s a wooden leg, Nev. Without it, he’s only got the one.”

“It’s considered a…possible weapon Wal”, said Neville. “Against the rules.”

“Wal” exploded.

“Rules? What effing rules? It’s a blinkin’ duck fight!”

“We have to have rules, Wally. Or else we’re no better than-”

“Ducks?”

Nev sighed. “Just lose the leg Wal.”

Wally took a second or so to give Neville and George a good glaring before stomping and swearing back to his corner. He bent down and unstrapped the leg from Trevor, who gave him a quizzical look.

“Sorry mate,” said Wally, maybe to Trevor’s right leg.

“You’re on your own.”

Trevor gave him another look, and then something akin to a shrug, and then hopped out to meet his fate.

Which was a large, and when we say large, we mean close to twice Trevor’s size, coal black duck of some American extraction. He stomped out himself, looking not at all concerned about the match, just confident he could trounce Trevor in a heartbeat.

Which was never going to be that easy: even on one foot, Trevor could still dance, and keep an eye for the main chance. He used his usual tactic of darting and ducking and weaving and nipping at Muldoon’s neck. Seeing if he could get a good grip. Muldoon quacked and swirled around, trying to retaliate but was too slow for Trevor.

Priscilla rose excitedly.

“Do you think Trevor has a chance?”

“Wouldn’t put it past him.” Said Alex. “He’s pretty tough, and wily.”

But it was starting to tell on Trevor; even with all the training, he was wearing down, while Muldoon didn’t seem to be tiring so much as getting angrier. Then, as Trevor paused for a crucial moment of breath, Muldoon seized his opportunity and charged with full force, bowling Trevor and trampling him into the dirt. He wheeled round for another trampling, running forth and squawking like a victorious warrior.

Trevor was imprinted, cartoon-like in the ground, but he wasn’t quite done yet. As Muldoon thundered toward him, he rolled aside, leapt to his feet and into the air, delivering an audible duck fu roundhouse kick to the side of Muldoon’s head. The big black duck stopped in his tracks, shook his head, and toppled sideways to the ground.

Trevor also went down next to Muldoon and lay flat. The crowd roared as both owners ran to their respective ducks. They each made their inspections, and there was some urgent discussion with the Self-Appointed Referee. It was looking like Wally was getting the win, but after a minute Trevor, who had been breathing, gave out a small squawk and a shudder, and breathed his last.

At the same moment, Muldoon rattled his head and lurched to his feet. Bit wobbly, but seemingly sound of mind and body, he and “Giant” George were proclaimed the winners. Wally cradled his duck under an arm and graciously shook George’s hand, and as he turned to leave, the crowd rose to applaud Trevor.

As he went back to his cage, Jim Jarmusch was of course there. To give him a light punch on the arm and suggest maybe going to the pub.

“Nah.” Said Wally. “Let’s go home and have some dinner eh.”

Back up the hill, Jim filled and lit the wood burner, then sat down, filled shot glasses, played long slow ballards on the banjo while Wally did the prep. Crickets chirruped in the background.

Later, a tender, succulent roast, with a homemade orange sauce, potatoes baked in fat, some greens from the garden, a nice wine. Both men sat back, replete.

Slumping in his chair, Wally felt some palpitations, and a little numbness on one side. He wondered if he might be having a stroke like the back alley vet had warned him of.

He wasn’t too worried though, and managed to raise a glass of pinot noir in a trembling hand.

“Here’s to you Trevor.” He mumbled.

“Best mallard I ever had.”