Caged

You can do it, bro!'

'Oh for god's sake!' Benett retorted frustratedly, 'it's not like I haven't tried! Getting into the top stories is like panning for diamonds when you have no hands'.

Benett sighed.

'I'm just too raw. Too maverick'.

Phil laid a reassuring hand on his friend's shoulder.

'What about the story about the dead girl? That was dope'.

Benett sighed again.

'Philip, Philip, Philip: there is nothing dope about a piece of writing which doesn't break into the top stories. On Vocal, a man is defined by it. Right now I might as well be some sort of modern day eunuch'. He tutted dejectedly.

The two twenty eight year old men sat on a worn black leather couch in the centre of a windowless basement, opposite a tv and xbox. Bright blue glowing lights glistened upon the walls, granting the room a somewhat magical atmosphere it didn't quite deserve.

Benett pulled a vivid orange lighter from his hoodie pocket, and took a half smoked spliff from the a the table in front of them.

'The problem', he said, as he

futilely tried to get the lighter to give flame, 'is fixable. I have enlisted some aid'.

He stopped talking and glared at the lighter. It had been cheap, and it seemed to be performing accordingly.

Phil leaned over and took the spliff in one hand and the lighter in the other, lighting the spliff in one quick movement.

'Well', asked Phil, who was poorly trying to mask a smirk at his achievement, ‘what's your plan?'.

With his pride lightly smarting, Benett quickly snatched the spliff and lighter back, before a proud look entered his eyes. He paused for effect before the next two words left his mouth.

'The. Bull'.

Phil's eyes grew wide.

'Ho- wha- good lord. Oh my sweet giddy aunt!'

He fell back into the black sofa, as a gleeful Benett watched his reaction with a wide grin slapped across his face.

Enrique Carliz: 'The Bull'

Author of 26 published stories, winner of 3 separate Vocal challenges.

On Vocal, The Bull was regarded almost as a deity.

'3pm today'.

Phil was still reeling with shock.

'W-where are you meeting him?' he spluttered.

'We are meeting him at his house'.

Benett held out his fist, and a smiling Phil happily hit it with his own.

Benett's voice took on a solemn tone.

'Look man, he's going to help me write better', he said while looking intensely at Phil, 'He's going to...he's going to fix me'.

The Bull's manor house was a place of astounding beauty; a relic of some lost age of astonishing affluence. It rose majestically from lush green gardens brinming with vibrantly ordered flowers and exquisitely sculpted fountains. Great marble pillars stood proudly against the regal white stone of the house, framing a huge mahogany door which gulfed the two young men who now stood before it.

Benett and Phil both stared at the silver knocker in front of them; it was shaped like the head of a bull.

After a minute of silently staring, Benett turned to his friend.

'Well...?' he asked.

Phil raised an eyebrow.

'Well what? You knock. It's your meeting'

A frown furrowed its way across Benett's brow.

'Yes', he replied slowly, 'my meeting to which I very kindly let you come with me'

They looked at each other for another 30 seconds, before an impatient Benett rolled his eyes, then stepped forward and knocked the door three times.

Almost immediately the door swung open, revealing a short, moustachio-ed, impeccably dressed butler.

He looked them up and down derisively; their black t-shirts and adidas joggers did little to impress him.

Nevertheless, as duty dictated, he led them through the hall and into the living room.

It stole the breath from both men.

The room was magnificent. Just magnificent. There were no other words for it.

Priceless works of art and precious artefacts covered the huge space - Rembrandts, Turners, hieroglyphic engraved slabs, a full suit of knight's armour: there were treasures of every description. A vast tapestry depicting long forgotten battles hung from a grand oak beam above a huge white leather sofa. To the sofa's right stood a metal box which flashed with buttons and lights.

It was not, however, the surrounding splendour which had the greatest effect on Phil and Benett. The thing which had taken them most by surprise was what was stamping up and down a massive 4 metre by 4 metre cage in the centre of the room.

Like medieval broadswords, a pair of thick pointed horns rested atop a tonne of raw bovine power.

The bull shook its head, sending ripples along coils of muscle which ran down the length of its huge jet-black body. It repeatedly raised one hoof, only to drill it into the stone ground with a thunderous crack, spitting sparks with each impact.

'Is this real, man? Are we high?' Phil whispered.

'We're not that high' Benett responded.

Phil opened and closed his eyes forcefully for a few seconds before asking, 'is it...is it staring at us?'

Benett moved a few paces to his right; the bulls gaze followed him.

'It certainly looks like it', he whispered back.

Philip motioned his head towards the big white sofa, and they both took a nervous seat.

It was at that moment that the lord of the manor walked in, though 'floated' might have been a more apt description, as it was with an effortless ease that he moved into the living room.

Enrique Carliz was the picture of suave sophistication.

He was clothed in a billowing silken white shirt, with an orange scarf tucked into the collar. His legs sported cream chinos, which ran down to an expensive looking pair of shiny Italian shoes.

Slicked back black hair sat above his tanned face. Intelligent brown eyes studied his guests from behind a pair of designer glasses.

He was around 40 years old, but his wrinkleless skin could have passed for a decade less.

Benett stood up immediately.

'Mr. Carliz...Mr. Bull...sir. I'm Benett and this is my fri-'.

The Bull cut him off with a quick raise of his hand.

'There are no need for introductions'

His voice was aural chocolate - deep and smooth, with the sort stong Spanish accent that could have made a nun question her vows.

'You did not seek my counsel so we could waste time with pleasantries'.

Enrique walked over to the cage.

'You have noticed this, no?'

Benett nodded.

'This', Enrique proclaimed, 'is my creativity. Look at it. Look how wild it is'.

The bull stared at its captor with an unflinching gaze, snorting heavily and grinding its teeth.

''But I keep my creativity caged. It is, I, who is its master'.

He leaned over to a bookshelf to his right and picked up an antique metal paper weight. With a quick motion of his arm, he smashed it into one of the thick steel bars, sending a tide of sharp ringing through the cage, which drove the bull inside into a minor frenzy.

Enrique carelessly tossed the paperweight on the floor behind him and turned, once again, to Benett.

'You write with metaphors and similes and personification, and some of it is even clever, but you write like a man with no balls'.

A nodding Benett shot a knowing look to a still-seated Phil, before turning back to The Bull to press him further.

'Like a modern-day eunuch, right?!', he excitedly asked, 'please continue, Mr. Carliz, this is exactly what I need to hear'.

A look of irritation flashed across Enrique's handsome features; he did not like to be interrupted.

'You lack the ability to develop character, and when you do vainly attempt to, it is rushed and clunky, like a blind teen touching his first breast'. Enrique's voice was getting louder.

'Oh, ok', Benett interjected quickly, 'but how can I improve?'

Cruel laughter cut through the room.

Enrique walked over to him.

'Improve?' he guffawed, before spewing a maniacal cackle, 'you cannot improve. You are hopeless. You. Are. Nothing.'

He slowly said the last three words with an unsparing finality.

Benett's demeanour fell with each syllable. All happiness and enthusiasm instantly drained from his face.

'Oi', Phil shouted, as he tried to defend his friend, 'I actually like so-'

'SILENCE!' Enrique roared, turning to Phil, 'do not speak in my presence, boy'.

He erratically looked from one man to the other.

Benett stared back at Enrique coldly. The deep well of his initial devastation was fast being filled with something altogether more fiery.

He pursed his lips.

'I don't think you know what you're talking about, you pretentious old prick'.

Enrique pointed towards the door.

'Go!' he commanded, as his face contorted with anger, 'and take your errand dog with you'.

Phil was not a particularly aggressive or confrontational young fellow, but he had taken just about as much insult as he was going to take from this man.

He forcefully pushed himself up from the leather sofa, placing his hand on the metal box for support, ready to launch into a verbal tirade.

It would be prudent to remember, at this point, that the three men were not alone in the room.

As it watched the encounter from its prison, the bull's attention was absolute. It had felt the anger rising in the room as the men began to argue; its own rage fed upon the chaos of the raised voices - the stamping of its hooves became louder and louder as the thick smell of its testosterone permeated the air around it.

It had spent its relatively short life waiting for the moment it could burst from the cage and viciously gore those who had imprisoned it. It was the single thought that ran continuously through the bull's tormented head.

Fortunately for the bull, Phil's misplaced hand would now change everything.

As Phil rose from the great white sofa, leaning on the metal box as he did, his palm unknowingly planted itself onto a big red button.

Whatever valiant speech he was about to give was drowned out by the unearthly screech of the cage door raising open.

Instinctively, all three of the men looked towards the noise.

As realisation hit, not a single one of them dared even breathe.

The only sound in the whole of that huge room came from four hooves hitting stone, as they made their way out of the now-open cage with a slow and measured fury.

Phil leaned back into the sofa as far as he could, gripping onto the leather until his knuckles were white as the bull passed him. He almost gagged as the waft of its odour hit him, but the gag gave way to a muffled sigh of relief as the goliath walked past him.

It purposefully strode past Benett too, pausing for only a few seconds to inspect him with wild bloodshot eyes.

Benett clenched his shaking hands together and stared up at the ceiling as the hot breath caressed his face and neck, willing the creature to ignore him.

The bull had eyes for only one.

At that very moment, that one person was attempting to sneak out of the room, and might very well have escaped had he not hit an antique metal paper weight that was lying on the ground with his foot, sending it clattering along the stone tiles

With the speed of a cracked whip, the bull turned to face Enrique Carliz.

The Bull versus the bull.

Enrique looked past the monster, at the men behind.

'You idiots! You complete fools! What have you done?!'

The bull's spear-like horns were focused intently on him, as he reached up and tore down the tapestry, wielding it in his hands like a matador.

Every sinew of the bull's body was shaking now. Urine dribbled down its leg, forming a pool by a hoof - a euphoric mix of fury and excitement possessed its whole body. It stamped one piston of a leg down, dragging it backwards as it readied itself to charge.

A firm hand grabbed Benett's shoulder, and a voice in his ear yelled 'run'.

They sprinted from the living room, ignoring the screams behind them as they barrelled past ornaments and paintings, then a dazed butler, before tearing through the front door and into the garden.

They leaned against the wall of the house, panting hard as they tried to regain their breath.

'Well that went downhill fast', Benett gasped between lungful’s of air.

Phil hit his friend's shoulder with a kind fist.

'Don't listen to anything he said. I think he was probably quite, quite insane'.

Benett nodded in agreement.

'I guess you shouldn't meet your heroes', he replied, 'a bull in a living room?! That only ever ends one way'.

He stopped and looked forlornly up at the few white clouds that idly strolled over the bright summer afternoon sky.

'He didn't help me with my writing at all though. He didn't even give me anything to write about. I guess I'll never get into the top stories'.

Phil looked thoughtful for a half a minute, before an epiphany slowly took seed across his face. He began to walk towards the front gates.

'Well', he said with a smile, 'why don't you write about this?'