Foodchain by Jeff Jacobson

hung as best as he could, but his fifteen year-old muscles were no match for the backbreaking spinning and popping, and he was flung off into the dust.
    “Three seconds, motherfucker!” Green head shouted.
    Red cape shrugged, pulled out a twenty from his costume, and flicked it into the dust in the ring. “It’s all yours, dickhead.”
    Frank turned away from the gates and slowly ambled around the ring, past Green head, past the announcing booth, until he could see the loading gates. He took his time, peering at the wild bulls, noting their body stance, their breathing, their eyes. He surreptitiously pulled the remaining twenty from his pocket, folded it over, and kept it curled in his fist.
    Several riders tried their luck. Nobody lasted more than five seconds. The clowns thrived on leaping into the ring, catching the bull’s attention, and outrunning the animal.
    Finally, Frank found a bull he liked. He ambled slowly back and got two beers. He brought them both over to the ring and leaned against the fence next to Green head. “Howdy.” Frank nodded.
    The clown nodded back, scratching at his scraggly beard. It had been spray painted orange. Frank suddenly noticed his second beer. He held it out. “Thirsty?”
    “That’s goddamn white of you.” They clinked the bottles together through the bars and drank. “Who are you, some kind of junior G-man?” the clown asked, eyeing the black suit. He laughed, raised his hands above his head. “Don’t shoot!”
    Frank forced a chuckle, let a few moments pass. “Say, I happened to overhear you laying a little money down on a few of these riders. Thought I’d see if you might be interested in any other wagers.”
    “Could be, could be. What are you thinking?”
    “I think this next rider’s gonna hang on for a solid eight seconds.”
    “You think so, huh? Okay. Just how sure are ya?”
    “Twenty bucks sure. For starters.”
    The clown scratched at his beard, then his wig. “What’s the bull?”
    “Uh…it’s called Chopper, I think.”
    “Who’s the rider?”
    “Kid named Garth Ennis.”
    The clown nodded. “Could be close.” He watched the gate for a moment, as the Ennis kid settled on Chopper and the names crackled out of the loudspeakers. Finally, “Okay. You got it. Twenty bucks. Deal?”
    “Deal.” They shook on it.
    The gate burst open. Chopper spun and kicked and bucked, but his heart wasn’t in it. It looked like the bull was tired, tired of the heat, tired of the dust, and tired of jumping and twisting. Eight seconds later, when the buzzer sounded, Ennis was still on Chopper’s back.
    “I’ll be damned. Be right back,” the clown said, dropping from the fence with the other clowns and scrambling at the bull. They got Ennis off safely and lured the bull back through the gate. Green head came back, wiping at his face. Sweat trickled down through his white makeup, leaving streaks of tan skin.
    “Not bad. Not a bad call at all. How’d you know?” He pulled a twenty from his oversize shorts.
    “Lucky.”
    “Lucky, huh?” Green head leaned back and took second, closer look Frank, this time noticing the slack, dead left side of his face. He slapped the money into Frank’s palm through the fence. “Maybe so, but it don’t matter. You still won.”
    “Appreciate it,” Frank said. He went back to the stands and treated himself to a beer. The place suddenly didn’t seem so bad after all. He gulped down that beer, ordered two more, and took them back out to the ring. He handed one to Green head.
    “Name’s Pine Rockatanski,” the clown said.
    “Frank Winter.” He bit his tongue as he realized, too goddamn late, he’d given his real name. He blamed it on the beer and the heat.
    Pine chugged his beer and sprinted out into the ring with his ambling, bowlegged gait as another teenager got bounced into the dirt. Afterwards, he asked, “In town long?”
    “Not really. Just passing through, you could say.”
    “Well, if you’re gonna be