Moo's the word

"Please, don't. This isn't going to work. I'm not qualified at all for this..."



"Sure you are."



I wish at that very moment that I had not been such a story teller... a fibber...



Okay - a liar.

My first vacation in two years. Two long years, and I end up in beautiful Querto del Major, Mexico.



Hell, I didn't know that the city that I was in, was not a city at all - at least not in the sense of known reality.



Okay, I made it up.



I said it. Querto del Major, Mexico - this exotic Mexican city, located in a beautiful cul de sac, surrounded by mountains of lush green forest, a city blanketed by rust-colored sand and six foot tall cacti - its rustic city scape with the leathery-skinned senors smoking handrolled cigarillos, under homemade straw hats - crap. The children, 20 of the roundest little faces at Santa Maria's poco parque de niños diminuto, laughing and playing in the courtyard, under my window at 10 in the morning - not real. The young lady who draws my bath, pulls my bed sheets down - made up. The lovely senorita who's 8-ball black eyes and raven-like hair - whose smile is veiled behind her soft, tanned skin, softly whispering in my ear, how much she "Le amos" me - pure medacity.

Oh yeah, the bull that is raging wildly behind what appears to be a gate made of tissue paper - not real! Not real! 8000 pounds of steak, raw angry beef - probably hungry too - made up.

This gay looking torreador outfit, which fits surprisingly well over my groin and overstuffed shoulders - fake.

My fear - real.

When someone tells me that I am full of bull, I wonder if this is what they had in mind.

This lady pushes my into the ring.

Typical vacation. Pushed around by tour guides, vendors, forced to pay exhorbitant admissions for this and that and why not?

I wave my hand to the mob.

"I am so dumb!"

That big fat 8000 pound bull "Moos" and snorts. It's not one of those docile, domesticated sounds either - unless you consider Hell its previous residence.

I am sweating now.

This costume is riding up my crotch. Really sticky.

My stomach gurgles, either from nerves or that chimichunga I just ate.

The crowd - I can't hear them.

Say, what's that little guy doing down by the gate?

Crap!

My moustache is itchy.

Oh! He's a big fella!

I don't have a moustache.

Smoke escapes from his flaring nostrils. A train. He's a train with two large, round angry eyes.

"Merde!"

He sees me.

The crowd is muffled behind my heartbeat and my slow breathing, but the appear to be mouthing, "¡mate al bastardo!"

I am thankful for that lip reading class, but wish that I had studied my Spanish a little more.

Trouble.

Here he comes!

Big as a train! Bigger!

The man who opened the gate has dissappeared - just gone!

The ground shakes!

Angry!

Rage!

¡Dios Mio!

This is not real.

I made this up. The city. The old people. The Liliputians in the courtyard. The really hot senorita. The tights that fit so well. The moustache. The sword.

The bull has a man's skull on one of its razor sharp horns.

I can feel its hot, sulfur breath.

Not real!

He stops.

Dead!

My sword is stuck swinging in its bleeding neck.

The crowd cheers. The senorita swoons.

They weigh the beast in at 23,002 pounds, and 3 ounces. And I stand victorious and real once again.

Now, that's a lot of bull.