18th
Donut City
I’m a bull in a country that takes “pride in perfection.” The streets are littered with tiny donuts the size of honeybees. People eat them, they balance them on the tips of fingers. The donuts replenish from snowblowers above the cityline. I speak with a red-haired man in overalls - he’s allowed his children to paint his house. His children are only mobile in the way of balls - no legs - rolling. And even though a bull, I can fly, and I fly above runners until they notice me. I fly into an arena built out of cedar. A grandstand surrounding a pool of filthy water. The announcer cheers into the microphone: “And here, ladies and gentlemen, is a healthy bull just flown into the arena. Let’s see what our fellow does with him!” From out of the water screeches a little half-formed bull, hairless, with sharp teeth bared. It snaps once at my legs and misses. It plunks back into the water. The announcer hisses: “He’s missed! Still, folks, you’ve seen the most diseased animal in the world. It’s something to write home about.” Flying away, I can see that the crowd is watching the tiny bull jump out of the water through a large pane of magnifying glass. When the little thing jumps again, he looks gigantic, his mouth black, open.
