I hear grunts, too.
And deep-throated growls.
Coming from seemingly everywhere.
I feel my eyes bulging, slowly being forced from their sockets as the powerful hand continued squeezing.
Hazy images take shape before me.
Huge images. Hairy images. Unspeakably horrible images. The images surround me, watch me curiously, heads tilted...
My vision is fading quickly. The pain is excruciating, unbearable. Even my supernatural ability to heal myself can not keep up with the steady pressure. Still, I fight the clawed hand. The clawed and hairy hand. I dig into it, raking it with my nails, but this only causes the creature to squeeze harder and harder.
The others draw closer, turning their heads curiously, and as their mouths open, I smell ungodly stinks, even as their mouths drip saliva.
The snap I hear is my own neck.
And it is only when the creatures descend upon me, tearing at my flesh and making wet feasting sounds, do I realize that the hunter has been the hunted.
The End
The Bull
I am a superhero.
Well, kind of. If you call a hulking man with a tail and two horns and a bad attitude a superhero, well, I’m your man.
Or whatever the hell I am.
Anyway, I wasn’t always this strong—or this weird looking. I wasn’t always known as The Bull. No, there was a time that I was very much like you. I call those the simple times: back when I only had to worry about paying my rent or what TV show to watch, or, if I hadn’t paid my cable bill, what DVD to watch, or, if I hadn’t paid my electricity, what Starbucks to hang out in, or, well, you get the idea.
Yes, there was some stress. Having creditors on your ass sucks. Not knowing if you will have enough money to get through the month sucks. Working for a pittance sucks.
But nothing—and I mean nothing—compares to the shit I put up with now.
I went from wild panic attacks from not making rent, to nearly daily heart attacks fighting villains. And it all started with that damn bull.
Every superhero has an origin story. Here’s mine:
I used to be a rodeo clown.
And not a very good one, either. Hence my inability to find steady work. Still, I would occasionally get “the call” as we call it. That is, when a real rodeo clown gets sick or injured, they keep some of us in the Rolodex. Luckily, I live in Rustic City, Arizona, arguably the rodeo capital of the world. So, yes, on any given day or night there is a rodeo in town.
So, the moment I get the call, it’s a mad rush to get the makeup on. Once done, I’m out the door, hauling ass in my old Hyundai. Mad clown in a clunker. More than once I’d been pulled over. And don’t let anyone fool you. Clowns don’t make everyone happy, especially cops. And kids. More often than not, as I waited at a red light, drumming my fingers impatiently on the steering wheel, I would look over and see a kid crying hysterically in the car next to me. Crying and pointing at me. Mothers and fathers would give me bad looks. I would shrug and point to my sad clown face, and sigh.
It was on such a night when I had gotten not only a speeding ticket but had also made twin boys cry (and maybe even their mother), when I went from Carl Gray, part-time rodeo clown, to Carl Gray, full-time superhero.
It had been a typical night.
I had been gored nearly a half a dozen times—all to the delight of the crowd—when the freak storm hit. In a flash, rain and hail pelted the outdoor stands and arena. Patrons went dashing for shelter. I would have gone dashing for shelter, too, except for one thing: I was in the middle of the arena with one very angry bull. A big and aggressive SOB that we called El Diablo.
The Devil.
The bull rider had lasted all of 1.8 seconds on the great beast before he went flying ass over feet through the air. Shouldn’t feel too bad. He wasn’t the first, nor would he be the last. Riding El Diablo was like riding angry itself; that is, if angry had four legs, a tail, and two horns.
Anyway, I stepped out into the middle of the arena and did my best to distract the snorting, furious beast when the freak storm hit. I had just caught sight of fans running for cover when El Diablo ran at me.
Or, rather charged me.