by Mike Resnick
I climbed back onto my feet just as he charged, and as he lowered his head I grabbed ahold of his remaining horn on the assumption that he couldn't stab me with it as long as I kept it at arm's length, but then he tossed his head and lifted me way off the ground, and suddenly I found myself sitting on his back. He came to a stop and stared all around the arena, looking for me, while I stayed where I was and tried to figure out what to do next.
Well, neither of us moved for the next couple of minutes, and all of a sudden the crowd started throwing popcorn boxes and beer bottles into the ring and whistling some more, and finally El Diablo charged at a piece of paper that was fluttering on the ground and I fell off with a thud, and he wheeled around and started snorting and drooling and bellowing at me again. Since I didn't have no muleta left, I quick slipped off the little jacket they had made me wear and held it out to see if maybe he wanted to eat it instead of me, and he bellowed again and charged straight at it. I let go of it just before he reached it and started running again, only this time I didn't hear no galloping footsteps behind me, so I turned to see what was going on, and what had happened was that he'd stuck his horn into the sleeve of the jacket and pierced right through it, and the rest of it was covering his face so that he couldn't see nothing.
I figured this was as good as time to take my leave as any, and probably better than most, so I walked back to the door through which Mr. Crush and Mr. Smash had dragged me in, but when I got there I found a bunch of guys in bullfighting outfits all laughing their heads off.
“I never knew you could be so funny, Pablo Francisco!” guffawed one of ’em.
“It has been wildly amusing,” agreed another, “but now I see that you have come back for your sword. Here it is.” He handed me this long sword and kind of pointed me back into the arena and gave me a friendly shove.
El Diablo still hadn't gotten the jacket off his face, and I figured if I was ever gonna kill him and get out of this in one piece, now was probably the ideal time, so I walked cautiously up to him and got all ready to run him through when it occurred to me that I didn't know where his heart was. I had a feeling it was probably somewhere inside his chest, but there was an awful lot of chest in front of me, and I was pretty sure I was only gonna get one chance to do it right before El Diablo finally got rid of the jacket.
I finally made up my mind where to stab him, but then Mr. Crush jumped into the arena and pointed his pistol at me, still determined to win Garcia's bets for him, and just as he fired I ducked and then El Diablo jumped like he'd been shot, which he had, and fell over dead.
Well, the police surrounded Mr. Crush right quick, and he started jabbering something in Spanish and pointing at me, and by the time I'd finished taking a couple of bows and walked back to the dressing room there were a passel of police waiting there for me, and they took me down to the local calaboose and I spent the night there, still in my bullfighting outfit.
They left me in the cell for three days and three nights with no comfort except my well-worn copy of the Good Book, and let me tell you that it was a pretty morose time, since I soon realized that thanks to surviving my ordeal with El Diablo I was destitute again, which was getting to be a common condition but still not one that brought me any great comfort.
Then, on the morning of the fourth day, I was pulled off my cot and out of my cell, and then handcuffed and brung into court and made to stand before the bench, which was being presided over by a judge named Alberto Coronado, who had kind of a lean and hungry look to him, like maybe his shorts were too tight or someone had just got him out of bed.
“So you are Lucifer Jones,” he said.
“The Right Reverend Honorable Doctor Lucifer Jones,” I corrected him. “Pleased to make your acquaintance.”
“Are you really?” said Judge Coronado. “I'm fascinated to make yours.”
“Well, I'm right flattered to hear it,” I said. “Maybe if you could see fit to remove these here handcuffs, we could slip off to a local bar and lift a few and swap stories.”
“I think not,” he said. “It seems we have a little business to get through first.”
“We do?”
He nodded. “You have been charged with conspiring to fix the outcome of a bullfight, and to make an enormous profit thereby. How do you plead?”
“I didn't make no profit at all,” I pointed out. “El Diablo lost, may the Lord have mercy on his poor bovine soul.”
“That in no way alters the fact that you did everything within your power to predetermine the result. I am afraid I am going to have to find you guilty. Your three friends admitted everything, and are currently serving their own sentences.”
“Well, it seems mighty single-minded and unfair to me, Your Honor,” I said, “considering that I wound up dead broke and almost got killed in the process.”
“I have taken that into account,” said Judge Coronado. “I have even made inquiries to see if one of our European neighbors would let us send you there on the condition that you promise never to return to Spain.”
“Sounds good to me,” I said.
“It sounded good to me, too,” admitted Judge Coronado. “Then we started receiving replies from the various governments we contacted.” He looked at me and smiled. “You lead quite an interesting life for a man of the cloth.”
“Well, you know how it is,” I said modestly.
“I truly had no idea how it was,” he replied. “Though I do now.” He began riffling through some papers. “It seems that you are wanted in Roumania for grave-robbing, and in Germany for running a bawdy house.”
“Yeah, well, I can explain that,” I said.
“The Italians want you for pretending to be an exorcist, and the Hungarian SPCA wants to question you about your treatment of a certain showdog.”
“A series of misunderstandings,” I said.
“The French are after you for running an illegal gambling operation in the Cathedral of Notre Dame.” He paused and looked at me. "Notre Dame?"
“I thought it was a football stadium.”
“The government of Crete wishes to speak to you about your complicity in the death of a Professor Zachariah MacDonald, the Scotch claim you are an undesirable who left the country over a game-poaching scandal, the British have decided you had something to do with the break-in at a jewelry store on Bond Street, and the new democratically-elected government of Sylvania is after you for impersonating a member of the former Royal Family.”
“They asked me to!” I said heatedly.
Judge Coronado held up a hand for silence. “Finally, the government of Greece has issued a warrant for your arrest for illegally removing salvaged treasure from their country.”
“I didn't remove nothing!” I said. “Wait til you hear my side of it!”
“Doctor Jones, I'm sure hearing your side of the story would prove most entertaining,” said Judge Coronado, “but it doesn't negate the fact that you are a walking disaster. As a responsible member of the European community, I could not in good conscience turn you loose upon our neighbors.”
“Then send me somewhere else,” I said.
“That is my intention,” he said. “Unfortunately, it appears that you have been barred from the continents of North America, Africa and Asia.” He paused and stared at me. “You have lived less than half your alotted span of years, Doctor Jones, and you are already in danger of running out of land masses that will accept your presence. Fortunately, no one in South America seems to have heard of you, and since that is sufficiently far from Spain, I have elected to send you there. I must confess that I feel enormous sympathy for the remnants of the once-proud Aztec and Mayan civilizations, but this is a matter of survival, and I would be betraying my high office were I to turn you loose in any Western country. Case closed.”
“When do I leave?” I asked.
“You will be transferred to Barcelona tomorrow morning,” he said. “You ship leaves two days later.” Suddenly he smiled. “And now that the case is officiall
y closed, let me say that I would be delighted to stop by your cell this afternoon and listen to you explain how thirty-three governments on four continents have so erroneously interpreted your good intentions.”
Well, true to his word Judge Coronado stopped by, and we lifted a few while I told him of all my adventures and exploits and encounters, and the next day they shipped me to Barcelona, which I hear tell is a lovely town but ain't much to write home about when viewed from the inside of a prison cell, and then they put me on a boat bound for Brazil.
I had done my best to bring the Word of the Lord to the depraved citizens of Europe, and this was the thanks I got for it. Still, I ain't one to discourage easily, so I started making plans to build my tabernacle in South America, which I finally did do four years later. But before me and God set up shop, I stumbled upon more than my share of lost civilizations and high priestesses and strange voodoo rites and revolutions and the like, and I plan to tell you about ’em someday, but writing your memoirs can be pretty tiring work, so I'm heading off now to find some friendly and sympathetic soul of the female persuasion and renew my artistic energies.
THE END
