Chris Leben recalls being force-fed rotting deer meat to the delight of a drunken uncle

The following is the second of a series of excerpts released exclusively to MMAjunkie from Chris Leben’s soon-to-be-released autobiography, “The Crippler: Cage Fighting and My Life on the Edge.” Penned by Leben and co-author Daniel J. Patinkin, the book chronicles the often rocky career of the legendary cast member of the original season of “The Ultimate Fighter,” who retired in 2013 after an 11-year professional career that included 22 UFC appearances.

Previous excerpts include Chapter 1, “Vs. Cote.”

“The Crippler: Cage Fighting and My Life on the Edge” will be released on Jan. 5 and is currently available for pre-order at Amazon, Barnes and Noble and IndieBound.

Chris Leben (third from left) and friends

Chapter 2, “AWOL”

One day when I was 12 years old, my brother Tyler and I got in trouble for breaking yet another window. As punishment, my mother grounded us and demanded that we clean the kitchen. This was a futile assignment, however, because the house never remained tidy for more than a few days. So, despite our protests, we spent a whole Sunday afternoon sweeping and mopping and scrubbing the countertops while my mom and a couple of aunties and uncles got their drink on at the Brightwood Tavern. (When you grow up in the backwoods like I did, everyone your mom knows – friends, neighbors, coworkers – are known as “aunties” or “uncles.”) By sundown, the kitchen looked decent — not great, but decent. We had done the best a couple of unrefined school kids could do without any instruction. Sh-t, the kitchen would have even smelled OK if it weren’t for the fact that not far away, out on the porch, hung a skinned deer carcass.

The carcass had been there for two weeks. It was covered in patches of white and green fungus, and it smelled like the assh-le of hell. Uncle Gene and my cousin had gunned down this doe and its fawn on a recent hunt in the backwoods. Actually, Gene did all the shooting. When my cousin didn’t have the nerve to kill the fawn, Gene took care of it. Of course, they didn’t have the foresight to plan transportation for the game once they bagged it. All they had was a rusty Honda Civic. So they stuffed one of the deer into the trunk and strapped the other to the roof of the car. Because they did not have a permit to bag two deer on a single trip, they decided to drop one of the carcasses off at our house before getting on the highway. They skinned and gutted the thing, wrapped it in one of my bed sheets (thank you very much), and strung it up on our porch.

Apparently, Gene forgot about this particular trophy until he and my Uncle Tiny returned from the tavern the night my brother and I had finished our cleaning duties. At around midnight, Tyler and I awoke to loud thuds and the sounds of drunken laughter. We walked out onto the porch in our underwear. Uncle Tiny had the deer carcass laid out on the gravel and was unsuccessfully attempting to hack the limbs off with a splitting maul. Uncle Gene held the deer steady while my mom, clearly f-cked up, leaned against the house and laughed.

“See!” Gene announced, “This here is good meat, boy! We ain’t letting a spot of this go to waste.”
“No, sir!” Tiny echoed before taking another bloody whack at one of the haunches.

Soon it became apparent the axe method was not going to get the job done. So Tiny scooped the thing up in his arms — its filthy juices soaking into his Levi’s jean jacket — and lugged it into the kitchen. Meanwhile, my mom retrieved our Sawzall sabre saw and the food processor. The men dumped the rancid deer onto the freshly scrubbed kitchen table, gore splattering onto the spotless linoleum floor. My brother and I looked at each other with helpless shock. Uncle Gene plugged in the electric saw and began buzzing off chunks of moldy, disgusting meat. Flesh and rot sprayed throughout the kitchen, sticking to the refrigerator and stove I had taken so much care to disinfect.

“We gonna eat good fer a week!” Tiny shouted over the hubbub while firing up the stovetop burners.
My mother scooped up the chunks of deer carcass with her hands and dumped them into the whirring food processor. When the meat was sufficiently chopped, she poured the mess onto the countertop, where Junior formed it into patties. He then flopped the patties into a greasy pan on the stovetop and voila! Venison burgers.

Tyler and I quickly retreated to our bedroom in the hopes that the adults would forget about us. We turned out the lights and pulled our blankets up tight. “Pretend you’re sleeping,” Tyler advised. So I did. But, sure enough, Uncle Gene soon swung the door open and staggered in. He grabbed me by my feet and dragged me out of my bed and onto the floor.

Resistance was futile. He sat me at the kitchen table, the remains of the carcass under my nose, and forced me to consume a sizable, medium-rare deer burger. I spent the rest of the night taking turns with Tyler, heaving into the toilet. Ah, the memories.