It happened right down close in front of me, you could see Nico sneer, scoff at Gerardo Guzman, as if to curse him, and when the bull charged he swung, but there was a blind spot, and when he swung those long sharp horns, he lifted Guzman into the air, and Guzman he held onto the upper forehead of the bull—balancing his body with the palm of his hand, his left foot on its back, his right foot hanging loose across the side of the bull, he—himself, looking down as the horn starting to pierce his skin, trying to hold back as not to allow the horn to gut him alive.
When he, Nico started to lift and tried to gut the matador—, it was all in one great rush; the bull no longer looking at him, only hating, while anther matador drew out his sword, sighted the bull, drew his attention, “Toro!...” and the bull moved, charged—no longer one with Gerardo Guzman—it was over; now Nico was out for new blood.
Gerardo, his hands and body laying in the dirt, looking nowhere, being carried out of the bullring, his legs and lungs caving in.
It was a hot, very hot day in Mexico City…
#882 (3-5-2012)
