Dark Transfer: Barcelona

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Dark Transfer: Barcelona

Post  Mammona on Sun Aug 23, 2015 8:30 pm

Spain is known far and wide for its Bull fighting. A seven-hundred kilogram bull is pitted against a group of men in funny clothes and red capes. People say that the colour red antagonises the bull, forcing it to get angry and attack. I, however, know better.

The bull’s behaviour has nothing to do with the colour red. The cape could be blue, yellow or green. It’s the sudden flash of colour the matadors use to distract the bull. The bull charges at the cape, and not the matador himself. By waving the silly red cape, the matador is effectively preventing the bull from hitting him and crushing him under its hooves.

I’m sitting in the front row of the arena, watching the bull charge, stop, snort, shake its massive horned head and charge again. It looks like it’s getting tired. Except I know that the bull has been tired ever since it stepped into the ring. No sane matador gets in the ring with a fresh, healthy bull. It’s suicide. So the bull is ran around. It is tired out. In some cases, it’s even wounded before it ever steps into the arena. Anything to give the human the edge.

I frown at the sight. This is a rigged contest. I despise bullfighting. Even though it’s a significant cultural thing in Spain, I just can’t bring myself to see the point in teasing and torturing an unknowing animal. What makes things worse is I know the bull will be killed after the fight.

If you don’t like it, why are you there? I hear you ask that. Why don’t you leave? Well, the answer is that I want to, but I can’t. While I am not interested in bull-fighting, I am interested in bulls. Actually, I am only interested in one particular bull. The one in the ring. This bull is different. It’s special.

The crowd gasps are the bull storms towards the matador once again. The trained bullfighter sweeps his caps in a wide arc. The bull clatters past, but the matador is too slow. One of the bull’s horns catches the side of the cape. The air is filled with the sound of ripping cloth as the cape is torn from the matador’s grasp. The crowd shrieks as the matador stumbles backwards, off balance, as the bull shakes the torn cape from its horns. The bull’s gaze falls upon the stumbling matador. It snorts and stamps. Then, quicker than I thought possible for such a big animal, it charged.

Screams of fear are now coming from the crowd. They were enjoying the spectacle. Now, this is different. There is a very real chance that they will witness a death in the arena. However, the matador is experienced. Rather than scramble away, he clambers to his feet and runs directly towards the bull. Even I gasp at this. What is he doing? Is he that eager to die?

However, the matador has other plans. Inches away from the deadly horns, he jumps. Arms outstretched, he sails over the charging bull. The bull snorts in surprise at not hitting anything. The matador tucks his body into a somersault as he hits the ground, rolling to his feet. The crowd, realising what he has done, bursts into wild applause. I can’t help but smile. The man is good, I think.

The crowd continues to cheer, vigour returning as they realise the matador’s skills. The bull, panting heavily, seems enraged by the noise. Locating the matador again, it charges once more. The bullfighter gives a single wave to the crowd, and runs towards the bull again. The crowd howls in delight as he jumps, sailing over the bull’s back. However, delight turns to horror halfway through the jump.

The bull has not kept charging. The giant animal roars as it digs its front hoovers into the sand, screeching to a halt. Its back legs kick up, smashing into the flying matador with the force of a sledgehammer. The matador is shot backwards by the force of the kick, landing in a tangled mess upon the sands of the arena.

The crowd is screaming in terror now. The bull pivots and trots over to the injured bullfighter. It brings hooves and horns to down upon the poor man. Blood stains the sands. It’s over in seconds.

The crowd is still yammering in fear. I, however, lean forwards. A bull should not be able, could not be able to do that. It knew the matador would try jumping again. It made him jump, and hit him when he was vulnerable. The bull planned to hit him. Bulls are powerful, but they’re not exactly the brightest animals in the kingdom. This bull, however, is different.

The bull roars its defiance to the crowd. Fresh blood stains its horns and hooves. But it’s the bull’s eyes that catch my attention. Red and glowing, they flick this way and that. They come to rest on me. I feel a chill run up my spine as the bull grins. That’s right. The damn bull grinned at me. I hear a voice that is not my own in my head. A dark voice, thick with evil. You are next, hunter.

I stand without a word. I vault over the side of the arena, landing lightly upon the bloody sands. My hands go to my sides, sweeping aside the long brown cloak I wear, and grasping the hilts of my weapons. I pull the two giant pistols from their holders. I raise and point them at the Bull, which roars and stamps, glaring at me with its evil red eyes. It charges. I grin at the thundering animal and pull back the hammers on my guns, hearing the satisfying clicks.

That’s right, I think. Now the bullfight begins for real.
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Mammona
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