Being a matador isn’t all fun and games

SOMETIMES I like to to fantasize about a different life, one where I’m a handsome young matador living somewhere in Spain.
Adored by the masses, my bullfighting skills would be second to none.
I’d be wealthy, famous, and as they say, living the dream. But then too much of a good thing often has its downside.

At the pinnacle of my career, having fought and killed many a bull, I’d find myself bored so I decide to retire. Why not?
Go out at the top of my game so-to-speak, only, I don’t let anyone in on my plans.

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The big day arrives. It’s my last meeting and its with El Diablo, the meanest, strongest bull ever. Many call him the widow maker, but to me, he’s just another angry rib roast headed for a toasty oven. I ready myself for the occasion.

√  Mickey Mouse Cap™
√  Colorful Cape
√  Skintight pants showcasing my freakishly huge balls

OLÉ” I shout, as the trumpets playing my fanfare fade into the background. The match begins.
El Diablo responds with some ritual pawing at the deck, then charges. I bravely square-off with him, stepping out of his way at the last possible moment. We do this for what seems an eternity as El Diablo becomes more enraged with each near miss.
I’m getting bored.

After a bull charges, he’ll regroup before charging again. El Diablo wasn’t regrouping. As quickly as he could, he’d come about and begin his next assault. This was getting tiresome. I didn’t want to do this anymore. I wanted it to end and get out of there, but killing him now, shoving my concealed sword into his neck this early in the fight would be wrong of me. I’d had enough of this shit.

El Diablo charges once again, only this time the pace has quickened. I stand my ground.
Dropping my cape at the last second, I reach into my waistband, whip out a Taser and load-up El Diablo with 50,000 volts of swift matadorial justice. He stands there dazed, this, as the once cheering crowd now stands in silent horror.
Fuck.
He doesn’t go down.

The guy who sold me this thing said; “Taser will incapacitate just about anything.” Well apparently not anything, duh.
El Diablo was supposed to fall to the ground—tits up—at my feet—violently convulsing. After that, I’d do a little cookie dance, give him a football kick to the nuts, then exit the ring shouting; “I’M OUT, BITCHES“.
This would be my final act as a matador.

But El Diablo is the meanest, strongest bull ever and he’s not keeling over.
He’s just standing there looking confused, shaking his head like a wet dog. I think the high voltage actually energized him.
Is that even possible?

Uh, oh. He seems to be snapping out of it and he looks really pissed. He’s snorting, scratching at the ground in a show of anger. He charges.
Wait, where’s he going?
El Diablo races right past me as if I wasn’t even there.

I stand there in amazement as El Diablo runs full speed, headlong into the arena wall. He even lowers his head at the last second, hoping to gore the damned thing. He keels over upon impact.
Oh great, now he keels over, and, he’s convulsing no less. Go figure.

The crowd is booing. I assume it’s me they’re booing, or maybe it’s that whole Taser thing. Nah, it’s gotta be the Taser. Wonder why they’re booing the Taser. If anyone oughta be booing this worthless piece ‘o shit it’s me.

I stroll over to El Diablo and poke at him. He’s not moving. I think he’s dead. No, I’m certain of it. Both his horns are laying a few meters away in shattered pieces. One of his eyeballs is in the dirt, it must’ve popped out on impact.
[boos getting louder]
A wine bottle just went whizzing past, narrowly missing my head. Jesus H, the crowd is throwing shit at me. I guess they are booing me.
Probably oughta skip the cookie dance and get the fuck outa here, fast.
Wait, was that gunfire?
Holy fuck, they’re jumping into the ring. I try making a run for it but I think it’s too late…

 

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[Slowly waking up]
What are these tubes in my nose and mouth? Where am I?
Well, aren’t you cute I’m thinking. Wonder who she is? I wonder if she knows who I am?
Is she a nurse?
And who’s this? A doctor? What’s he doing?
Why is he shaking his head?
He’s looking at a clipboard or something. Why is she shaking her head?
Jesus, this can’t be good.
I wonder if she’s seen my freakishly huge balls?
She’s smiling at me.
Yeah, she’s seen ‘em. [goes back to sleep]

 

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After my monthlong stay in the hospital, I retire from bullfighting.
The good people of Spain exile me from the sport altogether, giving me the nickname ‘El Coolo’.
I think it means asshole in Spanish.

I apply for a government visa.
I leave Spain and move to Boca Raton, never telling a soul how I was once a famous matador.
What a tough life.
Certainly not all fun and games as one might think.
Christ on a cross!

3 Responses to “Being a matador isn’t all fun and games”

  1. Very, very cool. You did an excellent job writing this. Can’ t add a thing. The words are great. The pictures are great. Write more, please, write more!

  2. I had to stop reading halfway through to grab tissues. You are so descriptive I felt like I was watching a movie! So love it!

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