Stomping, snorting, pacing; kicking up clouds of dust. With rage filled eyes, it scanned for the bloody red flag; soon it would be his and his alone. He must vanquish his foolish tormentor, he could not fail.

‘Raging Bull,’ thought Ferguson. That covers it.

The loyal butler wished he could slip trays of drinks and food through a slot in the double doors leading into the bull’s well appointed barn.

How did he find himself alone in the ring? No ...