Poop
My name is Franco and I don’t make enough money to get by on. They force me into becoming a bullfighter; a job looked down on by my friends and family. But that’s not important.
Listen to me… I don’t have much time, they… they know where I am. They think I did something wrong… they’re chasing me like bulls, and I’m not a real bullfighter. Their scorching, fiery horns are sharp as hell and they are trying to impale me in my soft breakable side. Who are they to tell me how much money I owe them? I run through these crowded streets in Mexico City where the smell of cigars and cannabis overrides the eerie scent of cow shit. I try to run through it all and avoid the thieves and peddlers, but they hold me down and take my money, as if forcing me to buy a stolen watch or television set. The economy is eating away at my insides, and there aren’t many places for me to turn.
...I’ve tried running for my whole life. Maybe it’s time to fight back. I reach into my pocket as deep as it goes and pull out a pen, a magical pen if you will. I look to the sky and paint myself a toro and grab it before it floats to the ground. I grasp it tightly with both hands, throbbing, sweating, and with great pride I turn around and wait for their excellence to fall through. Now, I am a bullfighter.