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Red Rag to a bull... a very short story
 
The bull snorted derisorily, bowing its head in a manner that suggested authority and inner calm. It looked up only briefly at its quarry, before it once more growled a low part-gurgle, part-exhalation sound. Its head shook almost in contempt and ire at the continuing presence of the colour it could least stand, the red blur that had refused to budge.
 
Knocking a hoof onto the tarmac, the tiniest pall of dust rose up. Clack, clack, clack. Then the hoof settled, there could be no more waiting. Clack. The hoof landed again, this time followed by more as the bull's other legs engaged and he began to get up steam, head down, eyes barely registering anything apart from the red blur that stood out in front. The clacks became thuds, the legs became pistons, power surging through each as they pumped the animal forward, powered by sheer aggression, determined to crush the foe.
 
From the other side, there seemed no anxiety, none of the anticipated fear the bull would have hoped to smell, had he been close enough. The foe growled his own call, pressing his foot to the ground once, twice gently. He looked up at the charging beast, now 40 metres or so from him and decided to hit it head on. Red was the colour he had chosen, and he would not back down to the impulse of some animal obeying its basest instincts.
 
The bull continued charging, now reaching full speed, tunnel vision sending him ever forward. It heard the red blur answering his guttural growls, a steady 'arrrrrrrrrrr' now punctured the air, coming closer, joining the thuds of his hooves and his roar of defiance. The collision was inevitable, only a matter of seconds and everything that made him the bull told him he must go in as hard as possible, the horns would do the rest.
   
One second to impact, the bull raised his legs up for the last time, determined to bring them crashing down on his foe and then lower his head and puncture the very heart of the red beast. Two blows guaranteed to rip the heart from any opponent.
 
But when he landed the first hoof only the shock of the pain registered as a searing screech punctured the air and his leg snapped in a derisory manner on impact, smashed into pieces below the knee joint. It was too late now. His other leg came down and metal scrunched it into smithereens in the same fashion. Both the animal's front legs had effectively exploded, and were it to land again on them, it would only drive its own head into ground.
   
But that was not to be an issue. The animal's bowed head was already primed to smash the red beast. If it were to die, it would die skewering the foe. Its momentum carried it forward enough to smash both horns into the windscreen of the Ferrari, with force enough to penetrate the glass and almost to scare its driver. Almost, but in reality the force of the car was already throwing the animal into the air, ripping its horns from its head, flipping the animal up 10 feet in the air, blood gushing from the sudden new orifices and adding a semi circular red line across the length of the car and metres beyond it as it continued on, screeching to tyre smoking stop some hundred metres down the line. At about the same time the animal was completing its bewildered aerial loop, stunned and broken, a limp body smashing into the ground with a deathly thud. It had no understanding of what had happened, it had only known this is what it must do, and it had done it. A confident, strong, convinced corpse.
   
Based on a dream. (c) Mike Bickett 12/5/04
 
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