The troubadour's cape swirled red and black as he strode through the entrance to the butcher's shop. In the street a bard sang of his conquest, the great bull Taurus dead at his feet. A battle between man and the magnificent beast ended with El Trueno as the humble survivor.
Yet the mournful tone, in minor key, sang of tragedy not victory as he gave the butcher his request. And his own heart knew it was a great waste which he would redress this very moment.
"Sausages. For the poor. For though Taurus is dead, and his great spirit is free, his body will not go to waste. Feed the beggars, the widows and their children. Make them from the carcass I have dragged to your door." The warrior gestured through the arch to the back, and the butcher strode through to slide open his back door.
The butcher returned, "It will be as you say. But the battle with the king is far greater this day."
"I do my part to change what I may. Let the bard sing of hope for the people as I go on my way." He doffed his hat, its feather waving, disappearing into the crowd outside.
And the thunderous call of Ole, Ole, followed the bullfighter as he limped away.