Down a tight narrow street they come, running like the devil himself chased then. Clad in pristine white shirts and slacks, with only the red sashes at their waists breaking the uniformity, they push onward through the street and past each other. To linger is to stumble, and to stumble could easily mean death today. Why you ask? Your question would be answered with a shaking finger pointing behind its running body. Like energy released the pursuers come, their singe and ebony skins are in sharp contrast to the colors of the runners. It shines and glistens from the strength of the hot sun that beams down on a ton of irresistible power, set in a thick muscled body adorned with horns. Horns that seek a purchase, horns that will gore flesh the second contact is made. The leader of the pack is without a doubt the mightiest; a full foot over the rest, heavier, and possessing the most curved, fearsome horns. He charges incessantly at anything that moves before his sight. He has been roused from a peaceful slumber, prodded to stoke his anger, then set before mad fools running like the dogs that regularly hound him, only slower. His color blind eyes are not engaged by the red sashes, contrary to popular belief, but the movement of them ignites his most basic characteristics. Unlike his brethren, he doesn’t slow after a missed charge, nor does his speed fluctuate. Steady as the hands on a captain’s wheel, he pursues until he spies a runner that stumbles. It is only for a second and a step lost, but it is yards and years to the Black. With a bound he is behind the runner, hot blasts from his nostrils intimidating the runner into another stumble. A stumble that leaves the runner prone on the ground, then hoisted on horns that vibrate with each breath of the Black. A mere flip of his neck sends the fallen flying into the air like a red speckled dove. The Black steadies his horns for the coming blow, feeling a building sensation of pleasure that he will finally have ceased the blasted movement! Then he feels a tug at his most vulnerable appendage. A bleat of surprise rushes through grinding teeth, as the Black feels himself lifted into the air by powerful hands. An equivocal feeling grips his throat as he views the world from 10 feet above it. Instinct tells him to run, only there is no earth to spring from or bound against. His stout legs dangle aimlessly as he feels his trunk slowly begin to turn and then spin, propelled by the manus underneath his torso. The Black’s sweat provides a slick base that allows the one beneath him to spin him like a plate on a stick, until he is slid to the ground and rotates about until finally stopping. Dazed, he looks at his aggressor standing before him.

Attired in a white tunic and thick bandolier, with a dangling red headband adorning his brow, the interloper smiles at the Black and makes a motion with his hand for him to come onward. The Black drags his foreleg against the earth once, twice, thrice, only to have the action mimicked by his new foe. He drags his sandaled backwards in the same fashion, then places his pointed index fingers against his temples. A smile of pure uncut enjoyment shines on his face, as he and the Black charge each other with the same intent. They shake the ground like cymbals clashing , and though the Black is formidable, the struggle is brief. Like throwing a satchel over his shoulder, he slings the Black by the horns up and over his shoulder, laughing loudly once he hears the crash that can only be the bull meeting the floor with very little grace.

"Zounds! What sport today! Tis been a millennia since I have done such. I should have visited this Pamplona with more haste! Come my friend,"he bellows turning to see his handiwork. "The day is long and there be much of the gift to impart!"

Steel hard eyes look for his opponent, only to find a twisted mangle of horn, white cloth, and flesh. He can tell the neck of the Black is snapped, and he can see that its horns have impaled the runner through the chest. What he cannot fathom, is how all this happened. . . .

"The Mistress will hear you now, son of Zeus,"

He looks about the hall with eyes that have peered upon nearly all there is to see. He finds little cheer here, all the more reason to be swift and leave.

"My lady, I have come before thee not to appeal for myself, but for the life of one other. A life twas taken far too soon."

"The Mistress knows of this. She bids you to cease your fluttering and be direct."

"Verily. Whilst I didst take part of a holiday in yon Pamplona, Barcelona, a most unfortunate accident did occur—"

"Accident? The Mistress bids you to be truthful in your words, Godling."

"Verily. I did become drunk with the excitement of the day. The running of the bulls. Are thee familiar?"

"The Mistress reminds you to be direct."

"Twas during said run that a most tragic incident didst happen."

"The Mistress bids you be silent. You participated in the bull run and while being a careless braggart, you killed a young boy. Fidel Noguera."

"Twas an accident."

"It was your fault. Yes, you rushed him to hospital facilities and waited by his side, but the outcome is still death. The Mistress knows why you are here. She bids you speak truly or begone."

"The son of Zeus? Accused of being false?! Tis time that thee learned of the Gift—"

"This audience is over."

No sooner are these words spoken than the Mistress and her minions begin to fade away from view.

"Hold! Wait!" bellows Zeus' son with outstretched arms. "I beseech thee to stay. I shall be. . .direct."

"The Mistress will remain," speaks her minion materializing. "So long as you are."

"Twas my base foolery that didst extinguish the boy's life. I once had sons and daughters who met with death due to similar madness. I could do naught for them, but now the tale might be different. I approached Zeus, the almighty, but he reminded me of his oath not to deal in the affairs of mortals ever again. I then sought his brother, Hades, for he maintains no such

compunctions. He too could do naught, for he had entered a pact with thee. This led me to summon thee. I humble myself before thy power and ask that thee grant me what I crave."

"The Mistress has heard you and rejects your request."

"What?!"

"The Mistress reminds the son of Zeus that she cannot upset the delicate balance of life and death. To restore this boy, would set a terrible precedent."

"Tis madness! Many have I known to escape the grip of thine Mistress. Thee speak falsely."

"Untrue. I only remind you that the balance must be preserved. Surely you understand her meaning?"

"Verily. Mine immortal soul, for mine mistake. A bargain for your Mistress."

"A life is life, but my Mistress would agree."

"Why? I am immortal. All claims to mine life are improper."

"You forget, son of Zeus, that you were once mortal."

"Ah, now does she show her motive. Still thou art vexed over thine loss of mine soul millennia ago! I say thee nay. There must be another way."

"Perhaps there is. Unless the son of Zeus is above servitude?"