saintworthit-blog

[saintworthit-blog]

O’ Sweet Daughter Mine: Chapter One - Daddy’s Home

Chapter One: Daddy's Home

Songs (Audio Enhancement)

"Easy Living" by Billie Holiday.

"Who Did That To You?" by John Legend.

"Hang Me, Oh Hang Me," by Dave Van Ronk.

On days like this, Eliza would be by the lake.

It was the middle of spring, and the air was cool and brisk: the perfect time to play by the lake. It was too cold and too shallow for swimming, but other children were bound to be there, skipping rocks and playing tag. In the summer, the lake would be an arid, dried-up wasteland, and nobody would want to play outside anymore.

But today was a beautiful day. The sun was shining. The pristine smell of the mountains melded perfectly with the forest dew. A fresh bouquet of snow graced the mountaintops like a blanket. A perfect day to play. But instead, Eliza was stuck at home, wasting away the good Springtime. She sighed. It wasn't like she was allowed to leave the house when her father was away working.

The Sharp family lived on top of a hill overlooking the town of Cold Springs, a sleepy community, just a stone's throw away from New Reno. They lived in a one story, three-room cabin, near the forest. Electricity was limited, and even on good days, the Sharps barely had enough to power their home. On cold days, it was freezing, and on hot days it was sweltering. The ground wasn't suitable for farming, and no animal could live off of the land. There was only one appealing factor of the Sharp family home, and that was the isolation. Way up in the hills, nobody often came up there. On good days, at least.

Eliza didn't have many good days.

On this day, Eliza was busy, repairing the water pump. Her father had built it a while back, and the Sharps had never been short of water since. It came out a little brown, but it was clean, and most importantly, it was free.

"We don't drink any government rationed water around here," she remembered her father saying. "I ain't paying for it. A man gets his own water."

Eliza wanted the pump to be fixed before her father came back from his delivery run. He'd been gone for a few days. Eliza noticed that the longer he took on his deliveries, the worse he'd smell when he got back. So Eliza always made sure that whenever her father completed a delivery, he'd have a hot bath waiting for him at home.

The water was not coming out the tap as intended, instead leaking out at the base. A loose pipe perhaps. She cursed under her breath, and went to work, wrench in hand.

While her father was away, Eliza was expected to take care of the cabin, which was even more boring than it sounded. Nothing ever happened around the Sharp family household. Some days, a stray mole-rat might pop out of the woods, but they were so easy to get rid of, Eliza gave up on killing them (The Sharps had made a makeshift spear out of deadwood to get rid of pests. They called it the "Sharp Thingy") and instead toyed with them, luring them away with bait, or trapping them with rocks. She even took to naming them; a habit frowned upon by her father.

She wished her father would teach her how to shoot. Every time she helped clean his guns, she always contemplated what it would be like to shoot something. To kill something. Her friend from school, Jake Sutter claimed he once shot a brahmin with his daddy's shotgun. "Shot one of the heads clean off!" he bragged to everyone in earshot. She secretly hated Jake Sutter; his family was rich, and hers was not. Ever since that day, she had wanted to learn how to shoot. She had made a point to bring it up with her father, but he was always too busy to listen.

Eliza hated the days when he went away. She wasn't allowed to go to school; he'd sent a note to her principal, excusing her from her studies when he was working. She was only allowed to go into town if absolutely necessary. Other than that, she was stuck up on their house in the hills.

She gave the wrench another strong turn. The pipes looked pretty tight. She pulled the lever. A rush of familiar, brown-tinged water came rushing through. She sighed in relief, running her hands under the stream. Nice and cold.

"Yes!" Eliza exclaimed, proud of herself.

"Well, ain't that nice," called a voice from behind her.

Eliza spun around quickly. Behind her were two men. Bandits, by the looks of it. She gulped. Nobody ever came up here. On a good day at least.

The first man was tall and lanky. He wore a dirty black coat over a gauche purple suit. He had a thick black mustache, and an ugly black top hat. Under his hat, Eliza spotted tufts of purple hair. A large revolver hung by his waist. The second man was a short, pot-bellied man who wore puke coloured overalls, worn over a filthy white shirt. In his hands, he carried a rather large knife. What Eliza most noticed about him right away was his smell. She was standing a fair distance away from him, and yet she could still distinguish the man's vile odor.

"Hey there, little miss," asked the purple-haired man.

"Hello mister," Eliza said, politely.

"You seem a little young to be all out here on your own. How old are you?"

"I'm ten."

The two men snickered. She raised an eyebrow.

"You're a pretty little thing. What's your name?" asked the smelly man.

"My name is Elizabeth Josie Sharp. But people call me Eliza," she said, frowning. She didn't like the look of these two. "What's your name?"

The purple-haired man gestured to his smelly friend. "This here is Bully Bogan. And they call me Purple Randy. You know why they call me Purple Randy?"

Eliza shook her head.

"They call me purple on account of my hair. And they call me Randy cause I'll fuck just about anything." The two men broke into laughter.

Eliza grimaced. She heard that word a lot: from her father mostly. She had never known it to be associated with anything good.

"We don't have much, but our water pump is working again, so we have plenty of water. Can I get you some to drink?" asked Eliza politely.

"No need for that. Is your momma home, Eliza Sharp?" asked Bully Bogan.

"My momma's dead. Radiation poisoning took her when I was young. Daddy buried her up on that hill," Eliza responded bluntly.

"Ain't that a crying shame" said Purple Randy, smirking. "And what about your daddy? Is your daddy home?"

She bit her lip. "My daddy's away working. He's a courier. He'll be back soon though."

"Oh Christ, Randall!" said Bogan, his voice broke into a whisper. "Ain't her daddy Albert fucking Sharp?"

"Quit worrying, he ain't around. Ain't that right little darling?" affirmed Randy, laughing. "You're all alone out here, aren't ya?"

Eliza dug her feet into the dirt. "He's coming back! Any minute now. So if you're tryna' rob us or anything-"

"Rob you? Oh no, not at all little miss!" snarled Bogan. "We just wanna get to know you, is all." The two men began to stalk dangerously closer to Eliza.

"I wanna know what you got under that pretty pink dress of yours."

"I don't got nothing under this dress," scolded Eliza.

"Oh I don't think so. You know what you got under that dress?"

Eliza shook her head once more.

"A ten-year old, pretty pink pussy," sneered Purple Randy. His friend cackled. "I think I want a piece of it."

Purple Randy suddenly grabbed Eliza's waist, while the other man grabbed her arms. Eliza let out a scream. She could feel their hands, ripping and tearing away at her clothes. She bit, kicked and screamed.

She heard Bogan squeal in piggish delight. The two men wrestled her to ground. Bogan grabbed her arms and held her down.

"Let go! Lemme go!" Eliza continued to struggle against the stranger's dirty hands. She watched in fear, as Purple Randy began to undo his belt.

"You a fighter, Eliza?" he asked. He brought his pants down. Eliza looked in horror at the thing in his legs. "I'll beat some sense into you!" he cackled. But suddenly, a voice called out from behind them.

"HEY!" It was a loud, barking voice. An angry, frightening voice. Eliza smiled.

It was her daddy's voice.

Purple Randy and Bully Bogan turned to look at the stranger behind them.

He was dressed head to toe in black, from his black boots to his black hat. He wore a thick duster over black armor, emblazoned with the shiny white image of a two-headed bear, made impeccably noticeable by years of thorough cleaning (Eliza liked that bear). His eyes were empty and soulless, and his hands were quick, ever-moving. A large gun was strapped to his side. His gaze was set straight on the bandits attacking his daughter.

Purple Randy didn't seem to recognize the danger in front of him.

"This ain't any of your business stranger. Keep walking," said Randy.

"This is my goddamn house. And that's my goddamn daughter," he snarled.

The color disappeared from Bogan's face. "Aw shit! It's Albert Sharp! I told you we shouldn'ta gone up this far-"

Eliza barely blinked as Bogan's sentence was cut short by a loud crack, as a round went straight through the man's throat. Blood shot out of the bandit's neck like a geyser, as Bogan fell to the ground, clutching at his fatal wound. She looked to her father, his gun suddenly in his hand. He pointed it at Purple Randy.

Purple Randy was now a pure shade of white. Fumbling, Randy aimed his gun at his attacker, letting out a shot in panic.

The bullet zipped into her father's arm, tearing a small hole in his duster. He really did love his duster. He took one look at the bullet hole, and looked back to Randy incredulously.

"Motherfucker!" he exclaimed.

Randy dropped his gun, his fingers paralyzed in fear. He held up his hands in surrender.

"N-now hold on, mister Sharp. I-I was just on my way, you needn't worry 'bout me no m-more!"

Her father reached into his jacket, pulling out his knife: the one that Eliza was never allowed to touch.

The bandit dropped to his knees. "P-please! I'll never come back I promise!" The outlaw spotted his gun on the ground. He made a motion to grab it, but was intercepted by Eliza, who quickly snatched it away. Eliza then brought the butt-end of the pistol down on Randy's face, who howled in pain, clutching his forehead.

Randy looked up. Above him stood the man with the large knife. He raised it above his head.

"P-please-"

Eliza looked away.

When it was all said and done, they didn't even bother to bury them.

Her father took each bandit in one arm, dragging them as if they were lifeless sacks of meat; which they now very well were. Eliza noticed that his left arm was bleeding heavily, but he didn't seem to notice.

He dragged them up over the hill, into the woods, where the colony of mole-rats lived. He told her to stay a far distance away, but she wanted to see what happened next.

The mole-rats and the Sharp family had a mutual understanding. The mole-rats left the Sharps alone, and the Sharps wouldn't kill them. While it was rather inconvenient to have such vermin close to home, it did offer some sort of "protection," so to speak. To any brave bandit who came through the woods looking to off one of the Sharps, they'd meet their grisly fate in a nest of hungry mole-rats.

The two made their way to a ridge, overlooking a small clearing- a pit. All around the walls of the pit were holes, large enough for a dog to crawl through. Tunnels, made by mole-rats. Eliza stared into the pit. Inside it, wrapped around the skeletalised arm of a dead raider, was a shiny, brown leather Pip-Boy. She recognized it on the arms of wealthy travelers, passing through to New Reno. Not even Jake had one. She eyed it greedily. Her father looked at her.

"Don't go in there," he warned.

"I won't," she pouted.

He flung the two bodies down into the pit. Eliza watched as the corpses comically tumbled down into the clearing. A minute or so passed by. Eliza looked at her father.

"Just wait. They'll smell 'em."

Sure enough, a few seconds later, out from a hole popped a single mole-rat. It was a large one, muscled and hairy. It's leathery skin stretched out over it's entire body. A distinguishing brown mark adorned its side.

"It's Mocha," Eliza said quietly.

"Mocha" carefully walked up to the two corpses lying in the clearing, sniffing at them. He took a bite, tearing off Bully Bogan's ear. As he chewed, he started to squeal, signalling to the rest of the family that dinner was on.

Suddenly, another mole-rat popped out from the ground. Then another. Then another, and another, and another, until there were dozens of mole-rats, swarming the bandits.

Eliza watched in fascination as the mole-rats went to work, stripping the flesh from their bones. She could barely make out the bodies under the tidal wave of pink, leathery, wriggly vermin. Eliza watched as Mocha took a huge chunk out of the smelly man's neck, leaving the head dangling from the body by a string, until it was torn away by the rodents. Another fat mole-rat came and dug itself between the Randy's legs, tearing off the disgusting thing with it's sharp teeth. She looked to her father.

"Why don't they ever come up and eat us?" she asked.

Her father stared emotionlessly at the macabre spectacle.

"Because if they ever did, I'd kill 'em," he replied.

He spat into the pit, which went unnoticed by the squirming creatures.

"Fuck 'em." And with that final statement, he turned and walked back towards the house.

Eliza took one last look into the pit. She watched as the blank-eyed face of Purple Randy was slowly torn apart. She spat into the pit.

"Fuck 'em," she said quietly to herself, as she ran off to rejoin her daddy.

Another fight. Another fresh new pair of scars for Eliza to treat.

Once they were inside their cabin, Eliza helped her father out of his armor. She looked at his chest. It was adorned with new wounds, scars and cuts. None more serious than the fresh bullet hole in his arm. He took a seat against the wall as Eliza retrieved the first-aid kit. He looked fatigued- he was pale and sweaty, and it looked like he hadn't eaten in awhile.

"Do we have Med-X?" he groaned, as she applied the tweezers to the wound.

"It doesn't look that bad. An' we don't have that much Med-X left," she said, clumsily trying to extract the bullet from his shoulder. He winced.

"I don't care. Get the Med-X," he said, taking a deep breath. "Your hands are shaking all to hell."

"Sorry," Eliza mumbled, as she got up to retrieve the medicine box from the bathroom.

Eliza had learned the basic fundamentals of first-aid a few years ago, back when her father came back from a particularly hard day of work. His leg had been shattered, as he had jumped off a particularly steep ridge while escaping the clutches of a band of raiders. He showed up to the house, wobbling and cursing, bleeding half to death. The femur had protruded his thigh; a thick, shining white bone, dripping in blood. He collapsed onto the floor, a few moments away from dying of shock. As he lay there, screaming his lungs out, Eliza frantically went to work. Working off an old physicians magazine, she sterilized the wound, created a makeshift splint, and properly administered painkillers. It was only due to Eliza's skills as a medic that he was able to hold on until she could run into town and fetch the surgeon. She was six.

"Hurry up!" he called. Eliza cursed under her breath. There was only one dose of Med-X left in the box.

"This is the last one we have," she told him, carefully applying the syringe to his arm. She slowly pushed down, administering the Med-X. Her dad's breathing slowed. He closed his eyes in relief.

"Thanks," he said, his voice sounding more steady. "What about whiskey? Are we out of that?"

"Uhm…" She got up and went to the kitchen. It was times like this she appreciated having a small house- it made her chores easier. Like retrieving daddy's alcohol. She opened their tiny fridge. It was dryer than the lake in the summer time.

"...No, no more whiskey."

"Shit," he breathed slowly. "Check the bottles. What do we have?"

Eliza carefully inspected the clinking glass bottles in the back of their dirty fridge.

"There's beer...something called "B'kardy"...an' there's this clear glass bottle of water…"

"What does the label say?"

"...Ab-slut Vodka."

"That's the one. Bring it here," he said, beckoning her closer.

Eliza sighed, and pulled out the glass bottle. It was half full, and warm. The fridge hadn't been working properly for weeks. She handed the bottle to her father.

"Thank you," he said, taking it graciously. "And it's pronounced 'Absolute'," he said, twisting off the cap, and putting the bottle to his mouth. He burped.

"Then why's there no 'E'?" she asked.

"I don't know," he admitted, taking another swig. He offered the bottle to her. Eliza recoiled.

"That stuff tastes yucky," she said, grimacing at the bottle. She never tried that particular one before, but all of dad's bottles had a similar, unpleasant taste.

"You don't drink it for the taste," he said. "Your hands shaking like crazy. You keep doing that and the bullets likely to sink deeper into me. I need you stable."

Eliza's face distorted unsuredly. Her father's voice softened.

"Just a little bit. Come on," he said, comfortingly.

She grabbed the bottle.

The vodka made Eliza's hands steady, but it also made her feel sick. She had successfully extracted the bullet, and she had managed to staunch the bleeding. Her father's arm was now nicely wrapped up in thick white bandages ("You saved us a trip to the Doctor, huh?"). Now, however, Eliza was feeling rather ill. Her head was spinning and her tummy ached a little. Her father told her to lie down.

He too, was experiencing some slight dizziness, from the mixture of painkillers and alcohol. He sat up against the wall, head up, eyes closed, breathing softly.

Eliza buried herself in the couch pillows. Her head felt very warm, she thought. She felt ill, but at the same time, strangely energetic. She nudged her father.

"I don't feel good," she said, poking him.

"Mm," he grunted.

She poked him again. "I don't feel good," she repeated.

He tisked. "It's just the vodka. Sleep it off. You'll feel better in the morning," he said slowly.

Eliza shook her head. "No I won't. Whenever you drink that stuff, you always wake up cranky."

"Will you shut up?" he asked, annoyed. He closed his eyes once more.

"Daddy? What's a 'pussy'?" she asked him.

"It's that thing between your legs. Don't ever say that word again."

"Oh. Cause Purple Randy said he wanted a piece of it. Why'd he want a piece of it?"

"Who the fuck is Purple Randy?" asked her father angrily.

Eliza made a small head motion towards the woods behind her. Her father sighed.

"Because some people are fucking evil, alright?"

"Is it 'bout 'sex?'" she asked.

"How you know about that?"

"Jake Sutter told me."

Her father grumbled. "I'm gonna stop sending you to that fucking school…"

"I'm hungry," Eliza whined.

"We don't have any food," he snapped.

She groaned. Her stomach rumbled disappointingly, as the notion of a hot meal evaporated. She heard her father sigh.

"Look, tomorrow morning, I'll take you into town, and I'll buy you a new dress. Then afterwards, we can go get breakfast, okay?"

Her eyes lit up. "Milo's?" she asked. Milo's Bar and Diner was Eliza's favorite restaurant in town. On the off days they could afford to eat there, Milo was always ready to serve them. He had a nice smile. He gave her extra syrup on her pancakes.

"Sure. You can get some of those…what are they called? The thing you like?"

"Pancakes," she said dreamily. "Are you sure we can eat at Milo's?"

"Mhm," her father grunted. "I'm getting paid tomorrow."

"Oh, good. Cause we also need to buy more Med-X an' more whiskey, an' a new dress."

Eliza carefully played with the loose string on the couch. The ache in her tummy was beginning to dissipate.

"Can I be a courier like you? When I'm older?" she asked.

He raised an eyebrow at her. "Why do you want to be a courier?"

She shrugged. "You get to go places. See a lot of stuff."

"There ain't a lot of 'stuff' worth seeing these days, sweetheart," he laughed softly. "Ain't worth the trouble. Be a doctor. You're good at it."

"I don't wanna be a doctor."

"Well, you're damn sure not going to be no courier," he replied curtly.

Eliza shifted in her couch. "Jake Sutter says that his daddy used to be a courier. Said his daddy had the fastest gun in all of California."

"Sutter? The fucking mayor's kid?"

"Uh-huh!"

"Tell your friend he's a fucking moron, and that his daddy's an even bigger moron." He spat into the ground. "He was never a fucking courier."

"How do you know?" Eliza asked.

Her father's reply was tinged with venom: "No fucking 'politician' could do what I do. Least of all, Bill fucking Sutter. Any junkie with a pistol could kill three Bill Sutters."

"Okay…" said Eliza. A few awkward moments of silence went by. Then, a thought wormed it's way inside Eliza's head.

"Daddy?" she asked innocently. "Will you teach me how to shoot?"

"No," he said, not even opening his eyes.

"Pleaseee?" Eliza begged. "It'll be easy! I already know 'bout all the types of bullets, an' I can use the small gun that you keep behind the bed, an'-"

His eyes shot open. "How do you know about that gun?" he barked. Eliza jumped a bit.

"...Found it."

"Listen to me," he said, looking her in the eyes. "You don't touch my guns, understand?

Eliza pouted immediately. "Why not?" she whined. "Jake Sutter said-"

"Shut the fuck up about Jake fucking Sutter," her father snapped. "I'm not teaching you to shoot."

Angered, Eliza stomped the flimsy wall behind her. The entire house seemed to shake.

"I hate you! You never let me do anything!" she yelled.

His laughter did nothing to cease her ire. "Shit, my daughter's a mean drunk. I feel sorry for your future husband."

"You're the worst dad ever!" she cried.

He stopped laughing. He turned to look at her. She looked back at him defiantly. Some days, she could get away with small things. Other days, however, he'd use his belt. She didn't care. Her eyes never broke with his. Her father opened his mouth to speak. Eliza braced herself.

"I know," he said. Having said that, her father then promptly fell asleep.

[saintworthit-blog]

Something I got a “C” on in High School

Estocada

Like any symphony, the final movement of a bullfight hinges on one particular finale. The estocada - the thrust of the sword; the killing blow. The estocada must be swift, fluid, and most importantly, painless. A quick pierce between the shoulder blades, effectively piercing the heart of the animal, will often kill the bull instantly, sparing it of any agony. A matador that fails to provide a clean death will often be met with protest from the crowd. In the event of a clumsy estocada, a matador must perform a second act - a descabello. A mercy kill, in which the Matador cuts the spinal column of the writhing animal, putting it out of its misery. Call it cruel, but bullfighting, despite its ultimate purpose, treats the bull with a modicum of respect and honor. A matador will always make sure a bull does not suffer in death.

A bull, on the other hand, has no such agenda.

A bull fights without honor or humanity. In what is essentially a battle of its own survival, a bull must fight with ruthless ferocity if it values its life. There is no concern of ethics or morals when a bull kills a man. It is an act of desperation. While the matador may dance around and tease the animal to the delight of the crowd, the bull charges, headstrong and direct, as it knows, one single mistake, one errant pierce, would mean its life. And when it gets that feeling, that single misstep, that first drop of blood, that screaming crowd as they watch as horns bore into flesh, that gurgling noise coming from the matador as they are ripped to pieces; that is when the bull truly lives.

On that fateful day, in that warm, Spanish summer, forty thousand seats leaped and roared, shaking the coliseum to its very foundations as the young matador, Emilio de Soto, was impaled. Emilio was a crowd pleaser, a fan favorite, quickly making his way up the ranks of accomplished bullfighters. Yet he was always too cocky. All it took was one wrong step with the wrong bull at the wrong time.

The horn, caked in a visceral pink sheen, protruded through the young man’s back. The crowd looked on in horror as the bull paraded around the stadium, trotting triumphantly, as the matador’s corpse hung limp on its horn like a macabre trophy. The mighty steer had conquered the bullfight. His face was bright red, stained in Emilio’s blood. His horns were caked in gore, intestine and spleen wrapped around it like a ghastly bit of tinsel on a christmas tree. From his bright red horns, the animal took on the title, “El Toro Demonio.” The Demon Bull.

Pedro. The Rock, the Demon Bull, baptized in blood. He would carve a path of destruction in Spain comparable to the wrath of Caesar’s Legions.

For one would think that after a matador was murdered, the bull would be put down, as was the practice. However, Emilio had a brother: Matías de Soto. Like his deceased sibling, Matías was an aspiring matador as well, having performed in local circuits in their small town of Marbella. He was a promising talent, having slain many bulls. They called the two brothers the Marbella Marauders.

When the young man learned of his brother’s death at the hands of the demon bull, he called for revenge. Matías demanded to face the bull in the coliseum, where he would kill Pedro himself. The bookers rationalized that the possibility of blood and death sold many a ticket, and so the fight was set.

So Pedro entered the arena once more.

Matías was quick. Deadly yet elegant. As Pedro charged after him, hunting for the red cape which the matador twirled in the air,  Matías would dance around him, parrying his blows, avoiding Pedro’s horns. It seemed as though Matías would avenge his brother. But, Pedro, having tasted blood before, began to recognize the familiar scent from which it came. It was the scent of uncertainty: of fear. It radiated off of Emilio as he drifted off into the nothingness, and it radiated off of Matías. Having locked down the scent, Pedro seized his moment. The stately bull with the ebony coat and the crimson horns skewered Matías while he was busy entertaining the crowd. The crowd fell silent in terror. The familiar wash of warm liquid bathed Pedro’s face, as he was once more baptized in de Soto blood, and another Matador: the younger brother was killed.

As the bodies were cremated and buried, the question arose once more. Shouldn’t Pedro be put down?

It seemed too simple an answer. But it was man’s stubbornness, man’s desire to do things the right way - the honorable way - that sparked the destructive fire. For a new challenger had entered the fray. Esteban Quiroz, a rival of the two brothers, believed he would succeed where they had failed. They called him “El Verdugo,” the executioner. Unlike other bullfighters, Esteban did not regard bulls as noble creatures. No, he saw them as rabid dogs, and he enjoyed putting them down. There was no mercy in Esteban’s work. The estocada was brutal, and ruthless, much like Esteban. And so, another fight was made.

Esteban did not last ten seconds before he was impaled upon the horns of the demon bull. He was a heavy man. As Pedro paraded him around the stadium, Esteban sank lower and lower on the horn until it eventually tore right through him, ripping him in half. Suffice to say, it was a closed casket funeral.

Poor Esteban’s death was mocked in the papers. The mighty warrior, brought to his end in under ten seconds. As the word of the demon bull spread through the country, one man decided to answer the call. The legendary Lion of Lanzarote, Fernando Laroya. He was said to have perfected the art of the estocada, able to locate the heart, pierce it, and extract it whole. As he signed on to fight Pedro, the small town of Lanzarote accompanied him, wanting to see their hero in action.

On the day of the fight, they watched as the Lion of Lanzarote was torn to pieces, shielding their eyes as Pedro ground Fernando’s body into the sand, turning him into mincemeat, painting the coliseum red.

News of the demon bull had spread internationally, attracting the attention of the talented Colombian matador, Carlos Castaneda, the Cannibal of Cartagena, beloved by his countrymen, feared by his rivals. Carlos was famous for being a renowned chef as well as a matador, as whatever died in the arena, he would cook and serve to the starving people in the barrios. It always tasted delicious.

He too, met his end, at the horns of the beast, splattered against the stadium walls like a tomato, requiring a removal with a spatula. Another tick in the win column for Pedro.

But with that death, came another challenger. And with that death, another. Every day, a new matador stepped forward, each more talented than the last. They entered the arena, believing they could end the bull’s reign of terror, and every time, they ended on his horns. This led to Pedro’s third nickname, the “Unkillabull.”

Unbeknownst to Pedro, he had become the clueless gladiator. As Saint Peter had been the rock on which the Lord’s church was built, Saint Pedro became the rock on which an unholy necropolis was constructed, a temple built upon man’s arrogance. Matador after matador stepped up to face Pedro, and each time they met a grisly, stomach-churning death. Their skulls adorned Pedro’s throne. Millions vilified him, millions more idolized him. Pedro had brought back a balance to nature. In what was always a one-sided affair, Pedro had made bullfights a fair game, with the highest stakes: now, either party could die.

Pedro then earned his fourth nickname: “The Gladiator.”

As matador after matador perished and perished, the question arose. Why were people still willing to lay their lives down to fight this bull? Why were men so adamant in killing Pedro honorably? The bull could have been put down a long time ago; a simple injection, and that would have been the end of it. Yet dozens after dozens showed up to fight him, each of them seemingly unworried, not noticing the trend happening around them. Simply put: Why does man not give up? Why must he hold himself to these set expectations, and why must he be willing to die to accomplish them? Why must we subject ourselves to misery? However, if there was a philosophical lesson to be learned from this macabre spectacle, none of it was being heeded by the one creature that should. Pedro. To him, it was a simple game; a repetitive sacrifice made every so often so Pedro could return to his stables and eat his hay and mate with his heifers. He did not care for the fame and fortune. He did not understand the sentiment. All he knew was to run over everything in his path, and man kept stepping in his way. Why? Why must man impede the unstoppable force that is nature? Nature does not pause for the lofty ideals of man, nor should it. And yet, bodies after bodies were thrown onto the ever-growing pile.

Matadors became an endangered species. Bullfighters, the proud and the mighty, were buried in closed caskets around the country. In the wake of his destruction, Spain called out  to the last great matador they had. He was the greatest bullfighter that had ever lived, with the highest kill-count in existence. He was said to have slaughtered thousands of bulls, a few hundred of them when he was but a child. The man was born, bred, and taught to be a matador. El Juez, the King of the Ring, the Saint of Seville, the legendary, Efrim Goya.

The men came to him, pleading for a savior. They sang his praises; they recounted his tales of valor, all in order for Efrim to accept the call. It took a bit of convincing, but Efrim took on the challenge. There was just one small wrinkle.

Efrim Goya was retired. He was an old man now, living peacefully in a little cottage by the seaside with his adoring wife and his loyal dog. He was too old for the violence of the Colosseum. Yet when they came to him, with high expectations, he recognized that sparkle in their eyes. It was the look of admiration. Of hope. And he had missed that look. He did miss the roar of the crowd, and the smell of blood on the sand. But he was too old. Nevertheless, he foolishly accepted the challenge.

It was only the night before the fight when Efrim realized his grave mistake. Efrim was a happy man, who still desired to live out his life. He had fame, wealth, and a loving family. Efrim wasn’t ready to be crucified upon the horns of a demon bull.

He walked into the arena, a frightened man.

The crowd was deafening.

Thousands of people packed the seats, roaring in excitable fervor. News helicopters flew overhead, cameras aimed directly at Efrim. People from all over the world, from all walks of life, were seated in anxious anticipation. Some of the crowd called for the head of Pedro, cheering Efrim on. Some, in some grotesque sort of manner, backed the bull, wishing to see Efrim skewered on his horns. But all had come to see blood spilled on the sands.

He said his prayers. He bowed, and waved to the crowd, hoping the cameras did not see him sweat profusely.

The gate was lifted.

And there was Pedro.

His horns were permanently stained bright red. His black fur, now a distinct shade of maroon. Baptized by blood. Pedro had bathed in the river that was the glory of the lord, and came out an angel of death.

There, Efrim stood, face to face with the unstoppable force.

The fight began. Efrim lifted his cape, as he had done so many times before. The demon bull viciously pawed the ground, smoke rising from the sand. Efrim waved the blood-red cape, inciting the savagery within Pedro. Taken over by animal instincts, Pedro charged in for the first pass. Like a speeding bullet, he blitzed, racing at Efrim at high speed. Nothing would stop him. The crowd screamed.

Estocada.

In the next few seconds, Pedro was dead. Efrim’s sword, embedded in his chest.

There was a thunderous explosion throughout the stadium as Pedro collapsed to the ground. An uproarious cheer. Efrim had done it. He had avenged so many of his fallen brothers. He had solidified his legendary status. He had survived the Unkillabull, the Gladiator, El Toro Demonio, the Rock.

But nobody noticed the small hole in Pedro’s head.

Nobody notice the small hole in the red cape.

Nobody noticed the loud “crack” of an Astra 400, Spain’s standard service pistol.

Nobody noticed that Pedro had fallen dead before Efrim performed the estocada.

Nobody noticed the wash of shameful relief on the face of the old matador.

Nobody noticed the gun hidden underneath his cape.

Not even Pedro.