“Don’t kull the bull,” wheezed my great grandfather Dennis. “Uht wahsn’t hus fault.” (He was from New Zealand, so he sounded like that.)
GRAIN thought the bull, as Dennis blid eout and doyed.
The bull woke up from a stampede dream, stood the rest of the way up, stretched, and fucked a cow. Time to punch out for the day. Or was it? The farmhands were stabbing him in a way that suggested they wanted him to march in a new direction.
NO thought the bull. He tried to express it physically, too, but the farmhands weren’t having it. They just kept on stabbing him, on both sides of his body, to make sure he walked in a straight line.
FINE thought the bull.
He walked into a small arena, and found himself staring into the wet, stupid eyes of my great grandfather Dennis.
GORE thought the bull.
“Preesunah wun wun wun wun wun foive.” said my great grandfather Dennis. “Oim heah fuh ruhkluss eelkahuhluhsm und troyson, und fuhnush–“
He didn’t have time to fuhnush.
The bull did what any bull would do, if government officials poked it with spears and waved a red cape in front of its target’s guts.