Dear Mr. Lancho:

You chickenshit motherfucker. The bull got one horn into you and you just lay there in the dirt. The bull didn’t do that, even after he’d been stabbed and stuck with swords and spears by your faithful little picadors, your sycophants on horseback.

No, the bull had the balls, even as his lifeblood drained from his back, to come after you. You and your silly costume and little red cape. This was where you were supposed to taunt the wounded beast before killing him. But it didn’t go that way, did it Mr. Lancho?

This time, your blood was spilled. One gaping wound in the chest and you just lay there in the dirt.

Reports say you’re in critical condition but will likely survive. That’s too bad. I hope it hurts like hell.

If I were there I’d cut off your dirty ear, just like you do to the bulls you torture and murder. Then I’d feed it to the bull who opened up your chest. But I couldn’t do that, could I, Mr. Lancho? Because the bull who opened up your chest succumbed to the wounds you and your death squad inflicted with your fancy swords and spears.

You don’t fight fair, Mr. Lancho. And your fans enjoy that. I’d like to cut off their ears.

Maybe I’ll come to Spain for the running of the bulls. I’ll bring swords and spears and take out as many people who participate in the exploitation, torture, and murder of these animals as I can.

If you’ve healed by then, I’ll meet you in the arena. Bring your picadors, your swords and spears, your silly costume, and your little red cape. I’ll take you on with the pen I’m writing this with. It’s got a miniature human skull on top of it.

You may stab and stick me with your fancy swords and spears, but I won’t lie down for you.

What do you say, Mr. Lancho?

You chickenshit motherfucker …

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