A huge assortment of people streamed through a small doorway with such speed and force that they started flicking the new paint off of the wood. Many were talking loudly. Others were sticking their grubby fingers into bags of crisps. The remainder of the crowd was trying to scarf down huge amounts of beef and bread, topped with God-knows-what. Only one small boy stood apart. He looked about eleven, but in actuality was fourteen. His dark locks fell messily around his pale and slender face, with his dark blue eyes glinting. Silently, he edged his way through the crowd. No one noticed him; he blended in easily.
As the boy strode up the old stairs, he stopped on one particularly damaged and decayed step. The rotting wood groaned heavily. Scuffling forward with his ragged black trainers, he suddenly stopped again. He plopped down on a bright, highly polished chair, one of the more recent additions for the stadium. He picked at a hole in his faded jeans as he watched the many tourists enter. Most were sporting silly hats advertising the event. He shook his head at the foolishness of it all. Running his eyes over the stadium, his eyes narrowed. The ground was covered in sand, and a band was playing. Their brass instruments shone like gold. A new metal fence circled the arena. Finally, when everyone had found their seats, the lights dimmed. Suddenly, they brightened again, more powerfully then before. Used to the faint light the moon and stars gave, the teen covered his eyes. He opened them just in time to see a man donned in a bright and ludicrous suit.
“Welcome,” he said in a booming voice. The boy took note of the microphone attached to the orange front lapel.
“We’re so pleased to see this excellent crowd gathered here today. We could never have hosted this show without you…” The boy ignored the announcer and pulled a mahogany stick out of his pocket. Ignoring the stares of those around him, he began to polish it. The woman beside him shifted uneasily.
Abruptly, a loud bang caught his attention. A young man hopped over the fence, grinning pleasantly. His light brown hair was cropped short, and his face was tanned. He raised a muscular arm to the crowd lazily, and was greeted by a loud cheer. The boy raised his dark eyebrows and crossed his arms.
While everyone’s attention was directed towards the man, the announcer left the ring, but returned shortly. He was now carrying barbed hooks, with bright colored cloths attached to the ends. He handed them to the other man with a toothy grin. Instantly, the boy’s face changed. His eyes seemed to glow red, and a look of absolute disgust marred his otherwise angelic features. Then, it left, as suddenly as it came, and his face was expressionless once more.
The brightly suited man left quickly. The young man winked one last time at the audience, and turned, hand grasping the hooks. The crowd’s chatter died down.
“And now, please put your hands together for… Jose the Bull!” the announcer cried. Two men opened a gate, and out sprang the bull. He sprinted out, muscles rippling under his midnight black coat. His little eyes burned with such ferociousness and wildness they were alien. Two ivory horns spiraled up from his head, tapering into a deadly weapon at the top. The crowd gasped together. When the shock left, a fierce shout erupted. Everyone booed or threw the remains of their snacks at the beast; everyone but the dark haired boy in the fifth row. He let a small, sad smile play across his lips, but dreaded the outcome for the bull.
The bull quickly turned his head, eyes locking with his opponent’s. After a split second, it charged.
He moved so quickly for an animal his size, speeding towards the matador like a train. Being run down by the charging beast probably would have felt like a train, too, if he hit him. The matador took a swift step back, and the bull continued on. Angered by the bright lights and jeers of the crowd, the animal turned and sped towards him again. He dodged once more, earning a pleased cry from the crowd. Again, the bull charged, nearly overcome with anger. This time, the matador struck. He jabbed a hook into the bull’s body, straight into the heart. The bull did not stop, but after a few steps was overcome by the pain. It rushed one last time at the man, but was then stuck with three more weapons of steel. The magnificent bull bucked forward, and took its last breath. The beast had been slain.
Slowly, a dull roar built up in the crowd. Suddenly, the barriers holding back the shouts were diminished, and a wave of noise crashed down on the boy. He bent his head, instantly oblivious to the sound. The bull raged in his head, haunting him. The animal had been ruthlessly murdered… For what? A show? A few people’s entertainment? The boy clenched his fists, glaring up sharply. A woman beside him halted her cheering to stare at him. A fire shot out from his eyes. Red drops fell from his palms to his ripped pant knees. She realized with a sickening sensation that it was blood; he had cut his hands with his own nails.
The commentator walked out again, raising his arms to motion to the crowd to yell louder. Smiling smugly, he nudged the magnificent bull with his fancy leather shoe; three handyman rushed forward to remove the creature from the arena. Pulling down his shocking lemon tie, he adjusted his microphone, ready to speak. Gradually, the audience quieted down.
“Who liked that?” he asked simply. The noise built up again; everyone was eager to show that they enjoyed watching the murder. “Ready for some more?” There was more applause. “Then, say hello to… Juan the Bull!” The boy had enough. Gripping his wand firmly, he muttered a few words under his breath. He sat back, looking satisfied and pleased for the first time that night.
That was when the chaos began. A few small bolts fell from the fence holding in the bull, ‘Juan’. It sprang out of its cage, shocking the handlers beside it. The commentator screamed and ran as hastily as his fat little legs would carry him; but it was too late. The bull had spotted him.
The bull sped towards him, snorting with froth coming from its mouth. Taking one long stride, it scratched the back of the man with its frightening horns, scraping much of his skin off. Tumbling pathetically, the man sobbed helplessly, begging for mercy. But the bull did not believe in mercy. Diving its horns into his flab, the beast gored the commentator. The man hadn’t even had a chance.
Two of the trainers gathered their wits and their guns, leaping over the strong wire fence. The boy narrowed his eyes, lifting his stick. With a mad gleam in his eye, he flicked his bony wrist. Suddenly, two more bulls escaped, snorting and kicking their sinewy legs. Grinning wildly, the boy slipped off his chair, and receded into the darkness. He would let them solve their own problems.
The boy stuffed his fists into his pockets, scuffling along on the grimy sand. He treaded gingerly, avoiding the damper spots, which were red with the soaked blood. He clearly remembered the events of the night: the death of the horrendous commentator, the escape of the three unruly bulls, the deaths of several of the young handymen, and the final deaths of the three bulls. Shaking his bent head, he let a brief smile flit across his face. He had won. He had gotten his revenge. Leaning down, he held up a barbed hook. It was a formidable weapon, with an extremely sharp hook at one end, a length of the glistening, silver metal, and a comical lime green tie at the other end. He remembered the killing of the first bull, the easy blows. Clenching his fist around the weapon, he grinned manically. He was not finished yet.
A/N: I understand that this may be offensive to some people's cultures. I am extremely sorry if it is. Please let me know if I upset you in any way.
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