Adam Karon To be put in contact with
Cha-Cha, the leader of Betta Battles Gambling Syndicate, e-mail
Karon at gianthater@yahoo.com.
Click Here for more articles by Adam Karon
A spectre is haunting Westwood, the spectre of Betta Battles.
All the powers of UCLA have entered into a holy alliance to
exorcise this spectre: faculty and administration, religious
leaders and politicians, CSOs and UCPD.
But they have failed.
Underground unlicensed Siamese fighting fish, or Bettas, are
swimming through the school as you read, bringing with them
hundreds of dollars in gambling profits and a fishbowl full of
controversy.
Bettas can be secured for about $5 at your local pet
shop. Food for a year costs less than a replacement BruinCard,
and the fish require no special filtration system. Basically as
long as you stay out of a coma and are not enrolled at USC, you can
probably keep your Betta fish alive.
When isolated in a plastic cup, they are beautiful, natural
chick magnets. When placed in the same bowl, they tear each
other apart like geriatric women fighting over the last slice of
sponge cake.
Perhaps that is why Bettas have slowly become this
school’s No. 1 gambling attraction. Most students have given
up betting on the Bruins, so they have turned to tiny tropical
fish. Bettas cost less and smell better than roosters and pit
bulls, but you can’t eat them when they lose.
Betta gambling violates California’s Business and
Professions Code, Section 19801j, known as the “Gambling
Act.” According to this code, “Gambling can become
addictive and is not an activity to be promoted or legitimized as
entertainment for children and families.”
Violators will be transferred to USC.
Because of this activity’s illegal nature, those involved
in Betta Battles roundly refuse to provide their true names. Some
even declined official interviews. Still, they meet twice a month
to watch with pride as their tiny two-inch monsters flay each other
in the middle of a crowded ring of students holding betting stubs
and screaming for blood.
One of the most successful Bettas at UCLA is named Master and is
owned by a fourth-year MCD Biology student who calls himself
“Ding Dong.” Master lives in a special bowl topped by a
living plant. He feeds on the vegetation’s roots while
providing the plant with fecal nutrition. This symbiotic
relationship has pumped Master up to nearly twice the size of
normal Bettas.
Master is currently 23-0. After he wins two more matches, Ding
Dong plans to retire the Betta and stud him out for a nominal fee
or free lunch in the dining halls.
Some within the gambling ring believe Master’s training
regimen and diet violate performance-enhancing ritual
regulations.
Competition within the gambling syndicate is fierce. One
second-year biology student called “Omaha” recently
experienced foul play first-hand. His fish, christened Grant after
a friend’s lover, never got the chance to fight Master.
During a party, Grant’s home, a converted Guinness
pint-glass, was knocked to the ground by an over-enthusiastic
guest.
Though he survived the original blow, Grant was found the next
morning looking like USC in the NCAA tournament ““ belly up
and slowly rotting away. He is currently on an involuntary
exploration of Los Angeles’ sewage system.
Grant’s owner is convinced the party guest was a hired hit
man, but he has no proof. Such tactics are not unusual in the seedy
world of Betta Battles. As one of the larger fish in Westwood,
Grant was expected to compete with Master for the title of Grand
Champion. It is a sad story of a promising career cut short by
reckless partying.
Ding Dong refused to comment on the incident.
Owners use a variety of training tactics to bring their Bettas
to a frothy frenzy. Omaha used to poke his with a pencil and pour
him from one cup to another. This may seem cruel, but Grant was a
tough son-of-a-Betta before his death.
Another owner known as “Angus” has gentler
techniques. His fish is named Arnold, and has been toughened
through months of neglect, weeks of forced fasting, and hours of
country music pumped straight into his cup.
Arnold is a rising star, hailing from the Westwood PetCo dojo.
He swims left and bites right, and has a wickedly honed
backhand.
Oddly enough all students and fish involved in Betta Battles are
male, though one first-year student insisted he be called
“Jasmine.” His Betta recently killed one of his Tiger
Barbs, and earlier this month finished off a friend’s Siamese
fighting fish in an exhibition match.
“It’s almost a natural high,” Jasmine said of
the bloody battles. “Sure it sucks when you lose money, but
that’s why it’s called gambling.”
Another owner known as “Scrub” found out the hard
way that gambling does not always pay. His fish, named
“Commander Striker,” was recently upset by Arnold at
the biannual Battle Royal. This cost Scrub his monthly allowance,
leaving him eating day-old Panda Bowls out of trash cans.
What could possibly reduce a seemingly bright student to stoop
to such new lows as spending money on tiny fish? The California
Code is correct when it says gambling is addictive.
Betta Battles at UCLA are spreading faster than low-cut jeans
and anti-Lavin rhetoric. If you choose to participate, please
beware of the danger and take a lesson from Scrub.
This spectre is taking over our school.