Years of brainwashing and ‘tradition’ had clouded his judgement and he was able to somewhat justify his violence. It was entertainment, it was tradition, it was just a bit of fun. But as the spears kept skewering the bull and the blood poured forth Jose knew this was a lie. He could see it in the Bulls eyes, it was frightened of him, it was scared and he was its torturer. As it’s lifeless bloodied form slumped to the floor covered head to toe in blood Jose knew he was mistaken. No wings sprouted from his back and he knew the advert was a lie.
Jose Jesus-Jose stumbled to the nearest bar. He needed a drink. So he sat down next to a dishevelled young man. The young man leered at him. “Oh god, I feel terrible. My head feels like a Hippo shat in it.” Jose was intrigued. “What have you been drinking?”. The man looked at him with googly eyes “Why young man I’ve been up all night on Red Bull. The stuff is absolutely lethal. It’s pure trash.” Jose’s eyes lit up, so he wasn’t the only one, everyone else felt sh*t when they had a Red Bull as well.
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