Cigar smoke and chip crunching,
A dramatically clouded sky punctuated by hearty Spanish yells of old men, another generation, to whom such cruelty meat nothing more than a Tuesday night's entertainment.
Powerful muscles, shoulders taught, dark blood soaked hide, a piece of flesh flapping futilely, flailing,
as the aggravated creature charges towards the made up men.
Guilded costumes, fit for cowards.
The spectacle, the power, the beauty; perfect piece of theatre.
And people are clapping.
The sword stabs, once twice and still he struggles, then
throat slit stillness.
The band plays jovial music and the cleaners come out to smooth over the bloodied sand.
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