Matador
I have a friend who was a matador. I would often trail along on his fights in Mexico. One weekend we had a large group travel down to watch the fight and so were in two cars. The arena was a city new to all of us and a fun time was not had by any due to a variety of one problem after another. After the fight all we wanted to do was to get back to the states and so all of the blood and gore splattered gear was thrown in the trunk of one car and we drove that night back up to Monterrey, grabbed a few hours sleep, then woke early to complete the trip.

We were in two vehicles. I was in the lead. We pass through the border crossing with no problems and pull to the side to await the second car with its trunk full of bloody suits of lights, capes, and swords. The second car was not waived through. The officer was having a long conversation with them.

Then the officer asked them to get out of the car.

At this point we couldn't decide whether to save ourselves and leave the scene or try and go back and vouch for them.

The officer led them around the back of the car to the trunk. That made one decision easy. No way were we driving back there. The trunk was opened. We watched, frozen with fear. They were on their way to jail on suspicion of murder. The car hid what was happening. After a very long time the three of them walked from behind the car, the officer shook hands with my friend, then they got in the car and started driving.

We went around a corner until we were out of eyesight then forced the other car off the road, physically pulled the occupants out of the car and demanded to know what happened and how the h*ll they talked their way out of what was in the trunk.

It wound up the officer was a bullfighting affianado, knew who my friend was, and was about to have an orgasm at the thought of actually being able to touch the cape still wet with the bull's blood.
(BlahBlahBlah, Tue 27 Sep 2005, 1:43, Reply)