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With Alipato imprisoned and the rebels defeated and the nation at peace, Jejo resigned from his post at the AFP Eighteenth and returned to Lingayen, the tolerable port town in northern Luzon where his life had begun, to raise chickens. Back then he could reckon how many pesos in a wad by glancing at the edges of the dirty bills rolled together and tied with jute. The cock would judge Jejo with his yellow eyes, wary and fearless at once, and tense his strong wings. Beautiful, ragged, wine-black wings.
Blood-black wings, hardboiled in the cauldron of war, brought now to the dirt pit of a squalid village cockfight. All across the islands it was a time of recklessness and seeming plenty.
The new democracy had seeped like alcohol into the blood of the people, given them hopes of self-determination. It was irksome and uncalled for, and on impulse Jejo reached into his pocket and pulled out the thick roll of bills. Give this to Old Titan, he said, stretching out his arm to Lamar.
But Lamar shook his head. That one looks smart, he said. I heard he beat every cock in the Villasis sabong , to say nothing of Bayambang.