Toro Rodriguez woke up.

The whore resting next to him was exhausted.

He reached for a bottle of wine.

Today was the day of the bull fight—a tragedy, like his life.

Tourists thought it was sport, but the bull would die. It was an unfair contest—there was no cheating death.

Spectators wanted to see death, but death was always behind the curtain,

like the matador’s cape, unable to be seen, flirting with anger.

The bull charges,

but there’s nothing there.

Gone were the days, of the barricaded town squares, and the old bulls that had learned how to kill.

Most matadors couldn’t afford swords. They fought experienced bulls with gardening tools.

These beasts, knew how to kill, and they did it, full of laughter, again and again.

It’s impossible to save a man, impaled on the horns. They go all white, like a dead bed sheet, because the blood is drained out of them.

Bulls brought into the professional arena don’t have experience with the cape.

They are once-used bulls—easily fooled by trickery, and later, shot in head, if they survive.

Toro Rodriguez got out of bed, and felt his balls. They were still there.

It’s embarrassing to be paid for something great, if you don’t have it anymore.

The whore yawned and opened her eyes. It was the 1,000-cock stare, but Toro didn’t mind. A woman has to make a living, he thought.

I kill, and she does the other thing. Both, serve a purpose.

He squeezed his fat body into his costume and adjusted his hat. He picked up his silver sword, resting against his writing desk.

“Will you need me tonight?” She asked.

Toro looked at the woman on the bed. She would live forever.

“No.”

“You don’t want me!?”

“No—it’s not that.”

“Sure, it is!”

If you sleep with a whore, you become a whore, Toro thought.

He walked to the arena, to face himself. He was tired of his own bullshit. He had to look into the bull’s eyes to know who he was.

The crowd was cheering.

The parade was in full glory. Toro walked delicately towards the beast. It was a living artform.

He brandished his cape, and the bull charged. The crowd roared. Was this civilization? If it was, the animals didn’t belong.

Toro Rodriguez got on his knees, and flashed the bull again.

It charged, and his silver sword, like a needle, plunged into its side. The bull doubled-up, as the blood dripped out of its eye sockets, and it charged again.

Toro stood still, like a stalk of corn, waiting to be broken.

The End