The Bull

The Bull

The man woke up dazed and confused. The first thing he recognized was the smell of hay and raw manure.

He was actually thankful for the putrid mire. Although he suffered a horrendous headache he realized that it had softened the impact. Too dizzy to stand erect, he slumped to his side and began an inventory of his senses.

He could smell.  Though his vision was stunted by black floating blobs, he could make out his location. He began to feel around him. His ears echoed with a nauseous din. He put his right hand over his face and collected his thoughts.

Who am I? I don't know.

Where am I? I don't know.

When? I am not sure. I only know it is night.

As the soup of a concussion began to ebb, he peaked open between his fingers and saw a most dreadful form: standing mere yards away was a bull- midnight black with red eyes: a nasty, a half ton killing machine.

He managed to stand up and look around. He was in a wood paneled corral some 100 yards in diameter. He could hear voices but he did not know what they were saying.

He turned his attention to the brooding hulk studying his every move. His ears perked up when he heard it bellow. He felt it on his skin: a primeval call back to certain doom

"Good evening!" He barked.

The bull was taken aback.

"You... You don't want me to be here." He wiped the blood off of his bottom lip. "Guess what? I don't want to be here either."

The bull lowered his head and dug into the mud. His aim was on his quarry and time was a-wasting.

"I am the intruder. I get that. You want me out of here. So far, we understand each other."  By the time he had finished uttering that last word he was flying backwards.

His seismic flight seemed to go on forever. He hit the ground a crumpled mortal pile. His flailing arms and legs resembled a tumbleweed in a tornado.

His back wrapped around a wooden fence post. He twitched helplessly. His faculties attempting to recapture any sense of direction.

Squinting. He tried to catch his breath. As soon as he was able to stand he leaned against the post and studied the dreadful sight ahead. The bull was briskly trotting towards him.

He held his hands out pleading. "For the Love of God, no!"

The sweaty dreadnaught was now charging at full speed. Keenly aware he could not take another direct hit. He vaulted to the fourth row of the sturdy pine fence.

One tenth of a second later he realized what he must do. Two inches from the fence post he leapt, somersaulting above the beast.

The bull slammed its head into a concrete wall; he was not immune to the law of physics. It flopped backwards and lay on the ground: helpless.

The man took a chance. His skull cracked, his senses hijacked by adrenaline, he crawled toward the wounded foe. He maneuvered to the front of the bull and starred him right in the eye.

"Are you ok?"

The bull seemed bewildered.

The man petted its brow. "You don't want to be here either. Am I right?"

The bull snorted snot, sinew and blood towards the man. Blood was dripping from his mouth.

The man reached out and stroked the bull's mane bringing a moment of solace it had not experienced in quite some time.

The man was smacked in the side of his head. This, however, did not come from the bull. It was a bottle of beer.

He narrowly missed another projectile and then a third.

He could hear yelling and booing. He saw men in cowboy hats drunk and hungry for blood.

The man began petting the bull's back. His hand stopped when he felt a sharp metal stick protruding from its side. The man turned to the bull. "They did this to you?" The bull winced as he removed the poke.

He leaned in and looked at him eye to eye. "You don't want to kill me." He whispered, "You want to kill them!"

The bull's pupils dilated. At last, they understood each other.

The frustrated cowboy was approached the man and the bull. "Get up! You ain't dead yet." He fired his pistol into the air. His two friends responded in kind.

"Not yet, my friend, not yet." He whispered to the bull. Hoping they wouldn't shoot him in advance.

Their footsteps grew louder.

The man encouraged the bull. "Now."

The bull winked at him. He jumped on his feet and gored the first cowboy through the abdomen. The other met froze with fear.

"A-ha! Ha, ha! Get them."

The cowboys ran in opposite directions. The bull removed the human carcass from his horns and broke the sound barrier in pursuit.

The man beat the ground as he heard the gruesome torpedo achieve its goal.

The man coughed as he focused on the stars. He chuckled one more time as a blood curling scream echoed off the canyon.

His eyes grew dim as he drifted into sleep.

--the next morning---

In a hurried Army office soldiers scramble to and fro. A staff sargent is thumbing through some paperwork.

A local sheriff is demanding answers. "How many hours?"

"8... or 6."

He pounded the desk. "I need actual answers.  He could be in Mexico already."

A deputy runs into the office. "Sheriff Duncan come see this." All three men rush out the door.

The man, a bloodied mess opens up a swollen eye. He speaks the only words he knows in English. "Ernst Albrecht. Corporal. 33rd bombing division. Luftwaffe." He broke a smile. "I surrender." He breathed. "I surrender."