Spitting blood, the bull tumbles head and hooves into the rustling dust before the gloating matador who, dressed in a gold-tassled pink leotard, turns his back on the beast and holds high a black hat to the crowd.
Soliciting appreciative cheers for so artfully performed an execution.
Behind the matador, a few men crowd around the crippled, dying bull. One man stabs a short blade into the back of the animal's neck and, with a rough, sawing motion, hacks through the spinal cord.
In come two horses to bear the bull away; as it's dragged off toward the red wooden doors, its spilt blood streaks into the dust.
Men shovel fresh sand
To mask the red stains
And ready the place
For another joyous death.
Six times in a row. Two bulls for each of three matadors.
This is sport. The winner so blantant that it need not be announced.
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