The following column was taken from the May 16, 1974 edition of The News, written by Mr. Charlie Walker.

My name is Bruce. I’m a rooster.  A game rooster by trade.  Bird with high moral standards and if I do say so myself…a fine feathered gentleman with many outstanding characteristics. But I ain’t never going back to Williamsburg County again. I have never been so insulted since I was accused of being responsible for certain illegitimate Easter Eggs. But later I was vindicated when it was proven that John Dean lied under oath. This trip to Williamsburg County was to be a fun thing. Me and several other game roosters made reservations at the Holiday Inn in Gourdine. And I want to make one thing perfectly clear, cockfighting was the furtherest thing from my mind. It started out like any other Sunday morning and I was on my way to church. This fat gentleman with gray hair came riding up on his Honda. He said his name was McFadden, Jack McFadden, and asked if I would be interested in some cockfighting. I explained that only ruffins deal in fisticuffs and that I was a lover not a fighter. But McFadden who is a silver tongued fast talking devil who could sell C. C. Bass season tickets to Clemson football games, soon had me convinced that there was fame and fortune waiting for a champion cockfighter. So that’s how I ended up in the Madison Square Gardens of Williamsburg County (Gourdine) in a pit with another game rooster. And the spectators standing yelling for blood…mine. Jack McFadden, who considers himself the Frank McGuire of rooster fighting, leaned over the pit to offer some pointers and lost his balance and fell on top of me. They say that is is scientifically impossible for a rooster to lay an egg. They may be right. I didn’t lay one, I had a half-a-dozen. And if a bale of cotton wearing a pair of polyester double knit slacks ever falls on you, I think the chances are excellent that you would lay a few “cackle berries” too. But the fun was just starting. Whistles started blowing, people started running and I got arrested for participating in a rooster fight and to add insult to injury, that big old McFadden feller charged everybody $25 dollars for being at the event. And when I tried to get my share of the loot as a participant in the proceedings, Mr. McFadden, always the diplomat, told me to shut up or he would pull all my feathers out and I’d end up streaking in a pileau. Since I felt my civil rights had been violated I demanded a lawyer and they got me LaNue Floyd, who may be an outstanding senator, but when it comes to getting roosters out of jail he ain’t got enough sense to pour buttermilk out of a boot. But I learned a valuable lesson. My next vacation is going to be spent on the French Riveria or perhaps the Bahamas. This is one cockfighter that wouldn’t recommend Gourdine for rest and relaxation on a Sunday afternoon.