The auditorium is alight with ambience and colour as the frenzied faces of the crowd bellow on, chanting “Kill da bulli, kill da bulli”. The matador, a man in his 30’s nicknamed “EL CID” meaning “the knight” struts around the ring. He wears the traditional skin tight costume which is frilly and full of buttons and completely black. His motions are extravagant and graceful almost making him look gay but in some weird way very manly because of his bravery and rebelliousness almost like a male ballerina.
The bull, a solid, black, unit of an animal snorts and beams anger from its eyes. Its “musckles” bulging and its veins popping, this animal is truly something out of hell itself. The horns are as hard as nails and as sharp as the sharpest tool in the shed. Its brain however, is probably nothing more than the size of a pea as how stupid this animal is to go after the cape every single time.
The bull grunts, and couriers towards the cape of the matador. It’s stumpy and small but very muscular legs shifting their way across the dirt. The head and center of the bull’s body stay perfectly still as the legs around them are a blur of dust black muscle and vein. The disproportionate head bays up to catch the cape but the matador is too fast and swings majestically away. The matador turns his back for a second time and walks calmly away as if in control of this beast knowing that it’s too tired to charge again straight away. However the matador underestimates the bull’s determination and…
The bull charges straight at the matador to the horror of the crowd! The matador curves his head to see the bull and tries to run away to safety but the bull is too fast. A horn impales into the ass of the matador and carries him up. A yank (American) in the crowd shouts in trepidation “oh sweet Jesus of Nazareth!” as the silhouette of the matador continues to rise. His arms flailing like a Wendy-doll as the horn propels him 20 feet into the sub-stratosphere like a candy wrapper caught in an updraft. Then down. The matador meets the earth as his body bounces across the grit of the sand. His legs slipping beneath him as he tries to grip the sand like a hamster running inside a hamster wheel. The matador scrambles to his feet as the bull, charges towards him, one, last, time.
