He took one last drag on his cigarette and snapped it away. Then with that faint, fleeting smile playing about his lips, he faced the firing squad; erect and motionless, proud and disdainful, Walter Mitty the Undefeated, inscrutable to the last.
“On the count of three, open fire!” yelled one of the gunman. Just as he said three, one of the other gunmen stepped forward and shouted “No this is wrong!” …
“What’s wrong with you?!” Mrs. Mitty screeched as she stood in front of a dazed Mitty, her head cocked to one side, her eyes screwed and glaring at him.
“Sorry…I uh.” He looked down quickly at his hand, the cigarette had tarnished. “I just have to go buy another pack quickly, wait in the car for me.” Mrs. Mitty solemnly regarded his request and with no response walked in the direction towards the car. Mitty took a deep breath and walked across the street to a rusty little shop. The store had a small collection of fresh and baked goods, along with a large stack of newspapers and colored candy. The counter was covered with red cloth, and embellished with silver pom-poms. Behind the counter stood a short lean man with dark hair.
“Could I get a pack please?” the store keeper turned around to the shelf, “Old gold, or Piccadilly, sir?”
“Old gold is fine, thank you…” Mitty replied.
Walter flung his arm out, holding a red fabric. He glistened in the ring, gold embroidering’s traced his arms and shoulders atop white trousers. Sweat trickled down the side of his face. His hair oiled, and slicked back, perfectly even. The red panels stood tall in a circle between him and the crowd. Ladies in white layered sundresses sat in the first few rows fanning themselves in the hot sun. Many accompanied by well-dressed suitors, their mustaches meticulously upturned. Mitty took a stance in the middle and waited. He could hear the bull clashing in its small pen, the boys poking at it making it angry. He knew only a few seconds left. A loud metallic scraping sound released. The bull charged at Mitty, he waved around his fabric derisively. He teased the bull, making it twist this way, and that way. It’s back steaming, and its hot breath, too close to Mitty neck. Mitty threw up his arms flamboyantly as if dancing with the bull. He stretched out bringing the fabric to his right hip, waving it slowly. The bull only a few feet away stared, and for a second there was a calm, with the sun shining down on them. It raced forward, insolently. Mitty’s shoes planted in the red dirt ready for impact. And at the last second he swirled his arm behind his back, bringing the fabric with him, the bull ran through empty air. Out of the corner of Mitty’s eye he could see the steam riding off its black back. Pandemonium broke amongst the crowd.
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