'Look at him. I bet he wishes he'd accepted your sword the first time,' one of Castella's assistants simpered to his boss, a shit eating grin on his face. Wearing dark glasses, grey chinos and a crisp white shirt, the matador gave a self satisfied smirk as he watched his two prisoners.

'Yes. I'm sure he does.' He took his cape and waved it around over the fence. Chicero ran straight at him, and Javier jumped back as the bull's sharp horns went through the wire. He glared at Pepelito, who glanced at him and quickly turned away. The only thing worse than a scared bull was one that showed no reaction at all.

'What the fuck's your problem? Come on, toro. Venga, venga.' He waved the cape and Pepelito half heartedly walked towards him and then turned back towards his water.

'Don't you dare think you can ignore me. Show me some goddamn respect.' He picked up a stone from the ground and threw it at Pepelito; it bounced off his horn. The bull turned around, his sides heaving. Javier picked up another stone and hurled it at him. He waved his cape over the fence again, his Rolex watch glinting in the sunlight. This time Pepelito charged at the material with his head down, slamming into the wire and catching his knees on the fence. He grunted in shock.

'Wow, am I looking forward to killing you,' Javier snarled, grabbing Pepelito’s horn over the fence and tugging him around, forcing the animal to look at him. Javier smiled, his ego restored. The bull he’d been so slighted by once again saw him as a dangerous enemy.

Nobody disrespected him.

'That'll do for now,' he said, giving the two bulls a disdainful stare and turning on his heel. More were supposed to be coming later. He used his ring to host private corridas several times a year for wealthy aficionados - and 'business associates', who, like him, had gained their real wealth, prestige and power through those enterprises the authorities pretended to hate.

The police could try to lock him up. But Javier was never going to jail, not for this, not for anything. Sure the dead man was a policeman's uncle, but his guys on the inside would make sure it went away. Since a three month prison sentence when he was 19 for supplying controlled substances, he had learned his lesson and never again been stupid enough to get convicted of anything. As with the ring, he always had a cuadrilla on hand to do his work.

People loved him.

If they didn't, they loved his money.

He thanked his attendants and crossed his huge, striped, luscious lawn. The surrounding countryside in this part of Spain was brown, stricken by drought, and fell victim to ever increasing numbers of fires. Javier never paid attention to that; the state of the art sprinklers went 24/7 and the water in his infinity pool was replenished every day. His property here was like an oasis in the desert.

He'd managed to work himself up from nothing, he thought proudly, strolling through his gangster's paradise. A marble statue stood atop a large fountain on his lawn, and he gave it a loving glance. The statue was of Javier with a cape and sword, staring mystically into the distance.

Just inside the house, Javier brandished his cape at a vanquished opponent, a stuffed Miura bull he’d fought in Bogota. Staring ravishingly into a nearby mirror, he recalled the glorious day – Miuras, after all, were ‘the Bulls of Death.’ Taking place during his first visit since Aguilar was jailed, this corrida was especially memorable. Finally, he was the big boss, the man the cartels talked business with. Outrageously, Colombia had just banned bullfighting. He’d need other explanations for his all too frequent trips.

Javier stepped onto one of the soft red rugs covering his marble floor. He admired the intricately designed gold and silver decor, before gazing at himself through yet another mirror. A full size portrait of himself in his costume hung above the period piece fireplace. He walked upstairs through the hall of mirrors, his eyes lingering on his appearance in each one, making sure he looked as perfect as he told himself he was.

Yet his paranoia was settling in, a frequent occurrence these days. Pepelito's initial lack of interest troubled him; even bulls needed to show him the respect he craved. Maria hadn't spoken to him in over a week. Couldn't someone remind the conservative Catholic politician that not listening to your husband was a sin?

It had been over two hours since he'd used his golden spoon, and his nose itched for another hit. He walked to the dressing table, watched sternly by a large portrait of Franco in military uniform. Opposite Franco was another painting of Javier himself, posing like the one above the fireplace, sticking out his chest with a macho expression on his face - except this time he was naked. Mirrors lined the walls by the bed, and Javier had installed one on the ceiling.

On a bare section of the wall near Franco's picture, were two yellow and red banderillas, plus his first ever sword. He seldom got his own hands dirty, but his underlings all knew it wasn't just for bulls.

He put the spoon in his nose and sniffed hard. For all the good it was doing, this shitty batch might as well be sugar. Maybe it was? So many people were out to destroy him! He huffed several more spoonfuls, then pounded the table in rage - there was no difference in how he felt. Exactly the same as two hours ago!

This white gold usually kept him at the top of his game for daring feats of bravery, alert enough to see off rivals for his empire. But this time, the rush he craved didn't materialise. Instead, there was a pain in his nose. He felt a trickle of liquid and then a gush as blood began to pour from his corroded nostrils - which now happened with ever increasing regularity.

It had to be stress, right?

Or, was Eloise right about vaccines? Could it be that 5G mast down the road?

'You've got a drug problem,' Maria had shouted. A drug problem?

As if that bitch knew more about drugs than him!

He staggered to the luxurious en suite bathroom and tipped his head back, sitting on a chair with a warm, wet towel over his nose, but nothing seemed to stop the bleeding. He was in perfect health, he could handle his coke - so it couldn't be that. He wasn't addicted. Today, he'd barely had any!

Maybe it was poison?

For a moment, he thought about one of the bulls he'd killed yesterday, the blood pulsing from the tortured animal's mouth and nose as it looked at him with pleading, sad eyes. He forgot the thought in an instant. Its destiny was to die in the ring, by the hands of the greatest matador in history. Nobody could call him cruel; he'd given it the glorious death it deserved. Their endorphins stopped them feeling any pain, and if not, the pain just improved the flavour of the steaks he loved.

As he reflected on this triumph of his, trying to distract himself from his bleeding nose, Javier heard a sound from downstairs. His guests weren't arriving for a while. Was the back entrance closed? Had that useless housekeeper forgot to shut it again?

He didn't have time for that shit, he had people to do it for him. He'd try another vial in a while. No, the bleeding had stopped, he'd do it now. He took another hit, lay down on his bed, gazing up at the gold framed mirror on his ceiling. He shut his eyes, feeling faint and weak. His heart hammered in his chest, but with none of the usual buzzy exhilaration. Something was wrong; he'd make his supplier explain himself, or face the consequences.

There was a noise coming from downstairs. The unmistakable sound of footsteps, growing louder. Probably just one of the servants.

But then the door burst open.

Eloise marched into the room, a look of demented fury on her face and a demonic gleam in her eyes.

****

'Why did you lie to me?' she screamed at Javier. 'Why did you ignore all my texts? How could you?'

'I -' he started, scrambling up. He looked ill. Eloise had a year's supply of Ivermectin at home. It worked for everything - she'd have doted on him, if things were different!

Too late now!

'Did I embarrass you? Is that it? Is that it? And who the fuck is Lola?' She strutted over to the wall opposite and tugged at one of his yellow and red banderillas until it prised off, its huge metal hook catching the sunlight from the open window. It was heavier than she'd expected. A small woman like her had to hold it with both hands. She fumbled, almost dropping the heavy, barbed stick. The papery, brightly coloured material covering it scrunched against her palms.

Wow. This must really hurt the bull, Eloise mused, her knuckles white with rage. Not that she cared about that when her own heart had been so cruelly broken!

He’d taken the piss out of her enough. She’d had enough of his lies.

Time to put on a show of her own.

'WHO. THE FUCK. IS LOLA?' she screamed at the top of her lungs.

'What are you doing with that? Put that down, you crazy bitch!' Javier shouted. His voice faded to nothing as Eloise strode the full length of the bedroom towards him, thrusting the spiked weapon in front of her with both hands like a gun.

'Crazy, am I? Crazy? I'll show you how fucking crazy I really am!'

'Eloise, NO!'

'You lying bastard! You lying piece of shit! How dare you treat me like this? I was your biggest fan! You told me you loved me!' As Javier tried to shove her away, Eloise launched at him with the banderilla. Again and again she slashed at him, tearing his clothing, ripping into his chest, deep in a zombified trance, a higher state of consciousness. Doing this felt so good. Men were bastards. She should have done this ages ago.

'Fuck you! Go fuck yourself!' she shrieked, blood spraying in her face.

She didn't notice him stop breathing. She lost count of how many times she stabbed him.

Thirty? Forty? A puddle of blood collected around him. As she slashed and sliced, a sticky film began to cover the bed, the mirrors, the walls. By the time Eloise had finished, the colours on the banderilla formed a gory Spanish flag. Her hands were dripping, her clothing was drenched. After dipping a finger in the deep red pool on the sheet, she climbed off the bed and wrote a message on the mirror - LYING CUNT - before turning her eye to his expensive dressing table. Next to his cocaine paraphernalia lay a green and gold divisa rosette with a small metal dart underneath.

He'd lied to her about the drugs, too. He said he'd only taken them once!

Clutching the divisa with bloodstained fingers, she set upon General Franco, slashing the dictator's face and stabbing the picture until the canvas broke. Her eyes scanned the room and settled on Javier's full size nude portrait. That couldn't stay intact. Seized by rage, she strode the floor and stabbed the rosette and dart four or five times into the portrait's crowning jewel. She left it there, gave her hands a five second rinse in Javier's en suite bathroom and walked away, footprints drying on the marble floor.

Eloise strolled to the hire car she'd picked up just for this, fingers bruised and throbbing, blood drying in her dyed blonde hair and on her floral outfit. Her rage dissipated. Her sanity felt far more assured. A feeling of peace washed over her. Never before had she attained such a state of blissful calm.

Today was a good day.

AN: FINALLY lol!!! I knew how he was gonna die since I started this story and I didn't wanna keep him alive a moment longer 🤬

Too bad he never got 'the honour of dying in the ring' 🤣 way too much of a cliche to have Pepelito kill him, plus it would almost justify his 'job'. Even Rita doing him in would be an honour he didn't deserve!