Rough Ride

Thick, hot dust mixed with a cakey paste and topped with the sickly sweet smell of warm manure brought around his senses and added a churning stomach to the lose spin in his head. His legs felt weighted down and bolted to some warm surface, bending his body into the awkward “L.” His hands were chaffed and pressed tightly into a smoth knob so that the bindings made them one with it. He pulled against the ropes and brought himself forward into a sitting position. The steel door in front of him revealed a wash of foggy color that was his face, badly smeared with make-up and covered in a lopsided red wig. The buzzing in his head that prevented him from piecing together the puzzle that lay in his cloudy reflection, was suddenly augmented from outside and he watched his reflection fly away only to be blinded. Instantly he was again on his backing facing the brilliant stark sky, flying forward, his legs still bolted to that warm surface, who now reveled its powerful muscles in strong ripples as it jerked about. His stared at a swirling sky as this body was jerked backwards and forwards. The beast beneath him jerked hard to a stop, and he felt the hard leather knob jab into his groin. His squeezed his eyes closed and opened his mouth, praying for the relief it would bring if he could only force his stomach out of his mouth. Between flashes of purple and black he began to see brief snapshots of faces and places.

The street he worked regularly, looking for the suits that, unknown to them, would feed him tonight.
His knee twisted sharply with and audibly pops, unable to move freely in the restraints.
The alley he wandered down,
Again the knob jammed into him, this time causing him to bite down on his tongue, filling his mouth with a rich metallic taste.
The Cop he saw shoot that guy in the head, on his knees.
He felt the sting of the saddle against the back of his head as he animal leaped into the air. And Newton told his head to keep moving until acted upon by the hard edge of the saddle and it remained him briefly how the butt of the gun had felt in the same spot.
The beast twisted hard and he felt his leg rip, muscles burned and screamed for release as his whole body slumped to the right. The restraints had apparently loosened, and he found himself dragging across the ground, his hands still bound to the saddle. The restraints would not give, so his right shoulder did, and for the first time he allowed himself to cry out. He felt warm juice splatter from out of his mouth and across his face. He opened his eyes again only to see the underside of a bull set in front a stadium that was merely a speedy blur. His pants were ripped now and he felt the ground digging into his flesh, ripping it open, tearing away chunks. Some benevolent being finally showed mercy and his bindings burst releasing him to the ground only to feel a hoofed foot smash through his forearm while another crushed into his stomach as the bull passed. He was left there unable to breath as blood filled his mouth. Finally he was able to once again drink deep breaths, but this relief only allowed his mind to refocus to the intense burning sensation that perforated his entire body. He felt his consciousness slip. He hadn’t known the man, hadn’t cared to know the man, didn’t want to cause problems, and didn’t want to ask questions. Right before he blacked out he remembered the cop’s warning.
“Keep your mouth shut, if you mess with the bull you may just get the horns.”

Happy Hour

A cop, a pickpocket, and a rodeo clown walked into a bar. Seriously. One after the other, though they didn’t look to be together. The bar was starting to get crowded, happy hour and all. And from where I sat at the bar, smack dab in the middle so I couldn’t be ignored, these three characters aroused much of my suspicion. My reflection in the big mirror behind the bar was failing to keep my attention, though at this point my eyes were doing some rather interesting things. So in come the three amigos, who aren’t really amigos at all, but who I’ve grouped as such for the purposes of this little narrative here. And they aren’t wearing signs around their necks identifying them or anything, but I think I know a cop, a pickpocket, or a rodeo clown when I see one. First, the cop. This guy was easy to identify. He was short, and we’re talking like 5’4” here. Yet he walked with a swagger that didn’t match his stature. He strutted in like he owned the place, in his unnecessarily tight black t-shirt and matching black jeans. Not a fan of this guy, so of course he came and sat right next to me at the bar. I scooted my barstool over a bit, no need to rub shoulders with his kind, and turned a little in the other direction. I couldn’t turn too far though; I had to keep my eye on the pickpocket, or old Sketchy McGee as I named him. I didn’t dare turn my back to this guy. He had on a fleece jacket in 65-degree weather and was sporting it bravely with baggy shorts and flip-flops. Now it may not be common knowledge, but truer words I’ve never found to live by than these: never trust a man in flip-flops. Plus his hair was gelled, another black mark on his character, and he was looking around the bar all shifty eyed. Now in fairness, I too may have had some shifty eyes at this point, but my hair was all disheveled, and my toes were hidden from public view. I moved my wallet to my front pocket, I couldn’t be sure when Sketchy McGee would strike, but I knew it would be fast, accurate, and I would be the one and only target. Third came Bubba, the rodeo clown, he had the perfect face for it. He was a skinny guy, perfect build for hightailing it around the rodeo ring with a big bad bull hot on one’s heels. Plus he was wearing overalls, the rodeo cowboy’s leisure wear of choice. His boots had paint on them, which could only means one thing; he had borrowed them from his house painting brother due to the fact that he couldn’t afford his own on his meager rodeo salary. And here he was at my bar to drown his sorrows in a mug of my favorite ale. God help him if he happened to drink the last Pabst. That tallboy had my name etched into it. He approached the bar and ordered a Miller High Life. Ah, the champagne of beers, a fine choice my overalled friend, especially since you stayed away from my Pabst. Another for me. I wave for the barkeep and reach for my wallet. My back pocket is empty! Damn, I’ve been foiled by that shifty pickpocket, who is now conveniently nowhere to be found. I shake my head, wave the bartender back to his other pressing duties, lay my head down on the bar and take a nap. It’ll be dark when I wake up.