Title: "Plaza de Toros"
Rating: PG
Summary: Short little thing, a missing scene from the movie. Guess which one.
Pairing: None.
Notes: Uh-oh. This being DVD-Day, I'm running the risk of having a story point scuttled by a Special Feature or something. Oh well. My DVD's not due to arrive for another week.
Disclaimer: Everybody herein belongs to Robert Rodriquez.
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Three names on the cartel today. Guerrero, Reyes, Ferrer.
Scratch the second one. Sands grinned.
The fifth bull had been reluctant to fight, but such a thing was not allowed. It was just the way these things worked.
Now, they were pulling the sorry mess of Reyes out of the ring as the crowd roared its disapproval. Up until a few minutes ago, he'd been a matador with a good first bout and a solid kill under his belt.
A matador, as a matter of fact, that you just might possibly want to wager quite large sums of cash on.
Up until a few minutes ago, that is.
Nicholas looked a little green, tugging at his starched collar; the heat probably wasn't helping any. Too bad. Sands had paid for their seats, and he'd seen no reason to go for the pricier sombra ones, not when they were going to be here for only one fight. Besides, he'd brought sunglasses. Be prepared, right?
He took a drag off his cigarette (sweat and death were heady smells, but tobacco beat them any day) and watched the bull trot heavily around the ring, dust billowing around its powerful flanks, horns stained crimson.
The bull is stabbed, prodded--beaten, he'd told Nicholas. The bull is tired before the matador ever steps into the ring.
Which was true, but was also only a matter of degree, in this case. The picadores had not yet done their gory lance hackjob on the bull's neck muscles; no banderillas protruded from the animal's back. Sands had been very certain he hadn't wanted to wait that long. No point hanging around until the bull sprouted a fancy selection of garishly-colored barbed sticks, flopping along its spine like broken wings.
No, this bull remained for the most part unmarked, a hulking black thing with its pale, lethal horns. It didn't even bear a rosette with the colors of its ranch; it had shaken the identifying divisa out of its hide within its first few steps into the ring. The only color it wore now was blood, and it wasn't its own.
Quite a useful beast, really.
No, no point hanging around. Halfway through the first tercio was long enough. He had plenty of other things to do today, and that meant no loitering at a bullfight, no matter how high the entertainment value; a full schedule, no rest for the weary. Shapes to throw, and people to ensnare, and ghosts to awaken.
Three other names, another cartel. Barillo, Marquez, Guevara.
El Mariachi had been reluctant to fight. But such a thing was not allowed.
The presidential advisor was trying to squirm his way out through the mass of irritated spectators. Sands followed him at a more leisurely pace, knowing the man wasn't going to go far.
He flipped the bull a little salute in passing. Here's to you, poor bastard, I gave you a sporting chance. Oh, and thanks for all the money.
But it was only a sporting chance, he knew. The matador's assistants were already climbing into the arena, costumes glittering malevolently. There was no way the bull was going to leave the ring alive, unless the beast sprouted wings for real and flew itself the fucking hell out of there.
It was just the way these things worked.
Whistling, Sands ground the cigarette beneath his heel, and went to collect his winnings.