By PNG Echo
He pranced into the arena, young, fierce and arrogant – the audience screamed their encouragement:
Toro! Toro! Toro!
The steam coming from his nostrils is indicative of the fire in his belly. With head held high, on display, proudly, his two deadly assets: his long sharp horns.
Confused, excited and agitated by the roar of the crowd, disoriented by the flashes of a red flag here; a pink cape there – the bull charges at anything, head lowered, horns poised to inflict maximum damage
This is what audience has come to see – they love this savage beast. Expectations of him are high.
Toro! Toro! Toro!
But even with his potently destructive headgear, the bull has little hope: his opponents have his measure – always have had.
Every charge, every primitive attempt to maim and gore is sidestepped and countered with spears and knives that are driven into the back of the charging bull’s thick, fleshy neck. Each wound is potentially fatal – but it’s not over yet.
The bull is brave – he was selected for the arena for his tenacity not his intelligence.
So, mortally wounded he doesn’t give up. He keeps charging and is rewarded, each time by a fresh wound.
The crowd applauds his bravery and encourages more of the same – by now they are baying for blood. They want more.
Toro! Toro! Toro!
Enter the Matador.
Magnificent in his bejewelled finery, he bows to the audience and waves his red cape at the wounded bull – who, predictably, continues to charge.
For the prescribed time, the Matador, taunts the bull to the predilection of the crowd whose allegiances have shifted.
‘Olé‘
…is now the cry of appreciation for the Matador as his red cape is lifted, with a flourish, over the charging and disoriented bull.
Then the drums roll to thunderous applause. Now is the hour.
With gleaming sword in one hand and red cape in the other, the Matador faces off for the last time against the charging bull. In a savagely beautiful move, he plunges the sword deep into the flesh of the bull. The death thrust.
Olé
As the bull staggers and falls to his knees he is jeered and booed even as he takes his last brave, dying, stupid breath.
To the delight of the crowd, the ears and/or the tail of the pathetic creature are cut off and given, as a trophy to the Matador for a job well done.
He holds them high as he parades in triumph.
Olé.
On the menu for dinner in all the fine restaurants that evening – gardiane de taureau (bull stew)
