by un-known
The wounded bull stood before the china shop and snorted. The sun burned the early morning dew, creating a dense fog. Disoriented, the albino bull looked back. Shadows hovered like ghosts in a harrowing dream. Some seemed to pass through him. He twitched. It awakened in him a distant memory he had no desire to know. More shadows advanced; more ghosts entered; some did not exit; he stood and shook—he could not go back.
Blood dripped from the open wound on his head and fell into his eyes, ears, and mouth. Not able to see or hear, the taste of fresh blood in his mouth, the bull charged forward. The door to the china shop opened a touch as if by his command alone.
He had been taught by his father to always follow his will—his will alone would one day rule a great land. The older brother would never rule. He was equally wounded. But weakness ran through his veins like rain running uselessly through a gutter where it would eventually fall into a hole in the ground; its sole intention to keep the rain contained. He would never spread his seed. He would never sire the future. He would never feed the land.
The younger, chosen bull fought with the gods. He wrestled the angels. He bargained with the devil.
The door to the china shop opened further. He sensed his opening. Thunder roared as the rain fell hard and heavy on the plains. He was the last of his kind. So, we are told. Arrows soared over his wounded head. One clipped his ear, but no more hit the bull’s-eye. Once inside the china shop, the door closed tight under his command—his will. Still blind. Still deaf. Still tasting blood, he ran about the shop with a single purpose in mind. The inhabitants within gasped before falling from their assigned shelves. Shattered selves lay scattered on the egg-shelled floor as the chosen one ran over each and every self. They helped increase his strength—increased his will.
Dick Tator snorted.
Miraculously, all the broken pieces reassembled, and the china shop was restored to its former fineness. A reincarnation, of sorts—so, the legend goes. But one said it was the will of the white spirit: that young, determined bull himself that restored—singlehandedly, we are reminded—every single broken fragment back where it truly belonged. Master bull having conquered all the demons inside that fated china shop.
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