ii
A BOOK OF BLOOD STAINS
The victor returned to a triumphant welcome under strictest
security measures. On his arm as he pushed open the sculptured
saloon doors of his private restaurant, the Madheda, his wife of
many years. The fat bitch sounded like a fucking horse, all day
all night the same whinnying splutter. The fly-flick of her
proverbial tail. Her skin was cold dough and she wept all the
time. Fisted on stage while the dogs licked at her seeping pussy
tearing out the hairs with the blunted off yellow teeth stinking
of decaying flesh, she had first caught his eye.
He was easily the greatest bullfighter in the whole of Ezbahhan.
He had his own unique way of firing up the crowd and the bull,
that gives way to passionate debates even today years after his
crazy death. He brought about a whole new aesthetic to the art of
bullfighting, establishing a clear distinction of slaughter
before and slaughter after his reign.
He dispensed with the “lidia”, with the fancy play with
the cape, and especially concentrated on the “faena”
with the red cloth “muleta”. He raped the basics of
bullfighting and turned them into a filthy side show covered with
flies. The horned beasts charges around a pole, the bullfighter’s
feet do not move, he lowers his hand, he holds his “muleta”
backwards and low, turns his profile to the bull, and challenges,
come what may!
He would scream and shout at the top of his rasping voice like a
pool player naming his next pocket. This is what made him so
famous in the land of Ezbahhan, his lyrical sermons from the dirt.
He was always constant in his certainty and art at making the
kill. His final thrust was the basis of his theosophy, where he
gave his all. He always took maximum risks in his “muletazos”
(cape passes), with the bull’s horns barely missing his
clothing.
His style was an extension of his human character, austere,
basic, serious and brave, sober and tough but always elegant. He
dominated his insane bull in the same way as he dominated his
social life.