Mauled By a Minotaur.

Matías is retired.

There is bull fighting imagery all around him still, in his old age; photographs and trophies, paintings and figures. He's not young anymore, though the memories of hot blooded chases around the ring remind him of who he was in his glory days.

But then his grandson asks about the one thing he is remembered for: his fight with the Minotaur.

And it reminds him that even though he made a living out of it, Matías is not a fighter.


This was meant to be a trashy mass market paperback monsterfucker joke that I actually started to take seriously and I don't know WHAT it is now. It's not even that erotic. What happened to me while I was writing this?