LITMIR.BIZ

      CURBSIDE SPLENDOR PUBLISHING

      All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except in the case of short passages quoted in reviews.

      The stories contained herein are works of fiction. All incidents, situations, institutions, governments, and people are fictional and any similarity to characters or persons living or dead is strictly coincidental.

      Published by Curbside Splendor Publishing, Inc., Chicago, Illinois in 2015.

      First Edition

      Copyright © 2015 by Bill Hillmann

      Library of Congress Control Number: 2015934177

      ISBN 978-194043053-9

      Cover image © Foto Mena

      Designed by Alban Fischer

      Manufactured in the United States of America.

       www.curbsidesplendor.com

      ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

      My father instilled a love of adventure in me. My mother showed me what stubbornness could accomplish. Da taught me about compassion. My brothers and sisters strengthened me. Enid, I don’t exist without your love. I’m sorry for all the pain my passion for the encierro causes you. If it weren’t for David McGrath and his Hemingway class at College of DuPage I may have never developed a love of reading. Ron Wiginton and Elmhurst College taught me to write and believe in myself. John Schultz’s Story Workshop at Columbia College showed me how to write a how-to. Irvine Welsh has given me so many opportunities and such great advice, but most importantly his unparalleled work ethic has inspired me to push beyond my limits as a writer. The Local 2 laborers in Brookfield and unionized labor in general have supported me and afforded me the luxury to work intensely for months and then take time to pursue my passions. I am very grateful for Spain and all its wonderful traditions. The encierro has forever changed me and I am eternally grateful. Juan Pedro Lecuona, usted es el corazón de Pamplona. Nunca he conocido a una mejor persona en mi vida. Gracias por todos sus maravillosos regalos. I’m grateful for all the Spanish mozos who inspire me so much: Julen Madina, Miguel Angel Perez, Miguel Angel Castander, Chema Esparza, Jose Manuel Pereira, David Rodriguez, David Ubeda, and so many others, especially the budding legend Aitor Aristregui. Dyango Velasco, ha abierto las puertas de su magnífica ciudad y la tradición, gracias. I am grateful for the long foreign tradition begun by Matt Carney, which is still very much alive today. Joe Distler, maestro, your guidance is pure gold; thank you from the bottom of my heart. Bomber, you touched my soul, brother, when I take it to the limit, it’s for you. Graeme, Gary, John, and Gus—you’re my Posse for life. Dennis Clancy, thank you so much, brother. Mikel and Itxaso, thank you for your generosity and friendship.

      Many people came to my aid when I was in financial troubles to help me finish the research for this book. Nick Hansen, Jeremy Pard, Deirdre Carney, Declan Flannery, Gordan MacDonald, Bob Mutter, Patrick Salem, Nik Hillmann, Shaun Dmonte, James Garner, Harold Moore, John Ribble, and Jim Hollander, and those who I could not find the names of, thank you from the bottom of my heart.

      MOZOS

      CHAPTER ONE:

      THAT FIRST TIME

      2005

      I fell to the zigzag bricks flat on my back—astonished at how the glory unraveled so quickly. A mozo dropped his knee into my chest and my leg popped up in recoil. The 1,200-pound bull swooped in, his foreleg collapsed as he swung his head low and graceful. The point of his horn struck my inner thigh. I felt a needle prick then a vast universe of nothing. He lifted me in a majestic lunge. My leg sailed between the planks of the barricades. No pain. I grabbed my crotch and thought, Thank god it’s not my balls. I want to have kids. The horn slid out. I fell to the coarse bricks again. I scampered out on my backside, then the medics pulled me through and for a moment I was alone.

      I looked down at the baseball-sized fleshy wound—half expecting it to not be there. What have you done to yourself?

      Mid thigh, a deep gouge gaped open with the skin torn in three triangular ribbons like undone wrapping paper. Blood streaked down the backside of my calf from a second hole and filled my shoe.

      I peered into the deep, mangled flesh—like a concave bloody eye—and a voice inside me calmly said: Accept it. You knew this day would come.

      CHAPTER ONE:

      THAT FIRST TIME

      2005

      IMMERSION

      I was a complete mess before I started running with the bulls. I’m still a mess today but then I was complete.

      Authorities jailed me at the age of twenty for the crime of defending myself against three rich kids who’d just humiliated my girlfriend. I hurt one of them very badly and received three months in county jail. There were two guards molesting the prisoners there. That experience angered me and drove me away from society. I’m surprised that I was ever able to return.

      In the winter of 2005 I was selling cocaine out of my studio apartment in the Edgewater neighborhood on Chicago’s North Side and working on my first novel. The Latin Kings of Little Village were fronting me half ounces every couple weeks. It was like writing on a grant.

      I met novelist Irvine Welsh (of Trainspotting fame) outside a White Sox game on Chicago’s South Side through a mutual friend in Chicago boxing named Marty Tunney. Irvine and I became good friends. He invited me to his wedding in Dublin. When one of the greatest writers in the world invites you to his wedding—you go.

      I worked my ass off and raised the funds to fly to Dublin. Irvine was getting married at the end of June. The Sun Also Rises was the first novel I’d ever read cover to cover. I remembered the running of the bulls in Pamplona took place in the middle of the summer. I found a $60 flight from Dublin to Madrid.

      Twenty-three years old, I was ready for an adventure to sow my wild oats. I considered myself a real cocksman. In reality, I was mostly failing at getting laid, though I would have tremendous weeklong stretches of a different woman every night then be marred with six-month dry spells where I became extremely intimate with my right palm.

      Everything fell into place. I sat in a terminal at O’Hare International waiting on my flight. A foxy little brunette sat across from me. We made eyes a few times. When I went out for a smoke she followed. We sparked a conversation. She was French and had a bad attitude. I started to tease her. She liked it. She had light-brown eyes and

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