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Friday, August 4, 2017

FIGHTS: PREVIEW - 'El Aire vs. The Mummies of San Uvalde'

A Sneak peek at the lucha cinema inspired story
Bowie V. Ibarra

On September 1st, the debut of's latest action title hits the stands.  El Aire vs. The Mummies of San Uvalde.  Inspired by the lucha cinema movies of El Santo and Blue Demon, the story finds El Aire, a legendary Mexican luchador, fighting to save a city from an Aztec Death cult.

Here's the synopsis:

El Aire is a legendary Mexican luchador.  With a combination of high-flying acrobatics and scientific technical prowess on the mat, El Aire is one of the premiere wrestlers in the world.  When he’s not competing in a lucha libre event, he’s working to protect his community as an independent crime fighter.

His ally, PJ Homeslice, brings El Aire news of a small time crime.  But a deeper investigation proves the crime to be bigger than initially considered.  Museums across Texas, including in San Uvalde, have had thefts involving the relics of Mictlantecutli, an ancient Aztec God who was said to have powers over the living and the dead.  El Aire and PJ discover that the crimes coincide with wrestling events promoted by one of El Aire’s old rivals, the rich Copetes Hernandez.

As El Aire and PJ investigate, they learn of a cult whose followers believe in the second coming of Mictlantecutli.  And the two friends discover that the recent archeological investigation not only reignited the cult, but holds much darker revelations:  The Mummies of San Uvalde!

Is Copetes responsible for the thefts?   Are the mummies rising from the grave with supernatural powers?  Can El Aire recover the relics?  It’s a lucha cinema-inspired adventure that will culminate in a devastating Lumberjack Match in the Temple of Mictlantecutli…TO THE DEATH!

Action, intrigue, and lucha excitement await as El Aire takes on The Mummies of San Uvalde.

And now, here's your chance to read the first two chapters of the exciting lucha-themed adventure, El Aire vs. The Mummies of San Uvalde!


3rd  draft 4/29/15

To The Masked Gringo and the Ethiopian Hemmorhoid.
To PAUL BISHOP and FightCard Books for recognizing how great lucha libre is.

            The Dallas Museum of History had held many a special exhibit in its long lifetime.  The exhibits were always of the highest quality and prestige.  It was this commitment to excellence that attracted folks from all over the Dallas/Ft. Worth metroplex and the rest of the state.  But no other display of rare treasure had reached the heights of attention than its latest exhibit held for the facility.  The Lost Treasures of the Mictlantecuhtli Legend was wildly popular.  It was, perhaps, even more popular than the curators had anticipated.  The exhibition garnered worldwide attention as one of the hottest and most valuable ancient treasures on display across Texas. 
Because of this fact, the display of ancient relics needed the most capable, the quickest, and the most effective security team money could buy to protect it.  And it needed a leader to put the museum on lockdown when the time was right.  Protect the treasure.  Defend the history.  Someone who would not let anything, man our mouse, get past his steely gaze and competent watch.
That man was Waldo Lipschitz.
Waldo Lipschitz.  Substitute teacher for fourteen years.  Mall security team for twenty.  Dallas Museum of History for fifteen.  As a lifetime member of the private security firm, Security Force, Waldo was a legend among his peers.  His resumé was sterling.  Now pushing 70, and a month away from retirement (a retirement he could have taken a year before), Waldo Lipschitz was put in charge of the security team to protect one of the world’s greatest treasures.
“Good night, folks,” he said, waving at the final museum patrons as they walked out the door.  Before Waldo could lock the door, the museum curator approached him.
“Waldo, thank you so much for your assistance this evening.”
“It’s what I do, ma’am.”
“I’m a little late.  There’s a museum after-party in Deep Ellum tonight.  This exhibit is the best we’ve had in ages,” said the curator, putting on her coat.  She walked to Waldo and gave him a sweet hug, as if she were his daughter, or granddaughter.  “And I’m glad you’re in charge protecting it.”
“It’s what I do, ma’am,” Waldo said again.
“We’ll see you in the morning,” she said, dashing out into the wet Dallas night.
“Be safe,” he called out as she dashed out into the rain.  Lighting flashed in the sky before he closed the door.  As he was locking it, the thunder rolled.  It’s deep reverberation muffled only slightly by the closed door.  In the distance, a car alarm went off as the skybound rumble of thunder resonated through the building.
“I’m sure glad I am not out in that mess,” he said, walking back to the front desk.  It was his post, set up with an adequate surveillance system.  Seven TVs were set up, in color, but a little fuzzy.  Six were scrolling through rooms throughout the museum.  One monitor was dedicated to the main exhibit, the Mictlantecuhtli showcase.

He picked up his CB from his desk.  “This is Lipschitz calling to 1st Team.  Everybody accounted for?”
“Roger,” came the reply from the first team captain.  He was an obese man with immense confidence.  “Both our roving teammates have started their beat.”
Lipschitz looked at his monitor and confirmed the movement of 1st Team on the first floor.
“2nd Team.  Report.”
“2nd Team here.  We are go.  Over.”
His eyes found the monitor and confirmed the statement.  The second floor was being patrolled by two members of 2nd Team.
The museum was on lock, thanks to Waldo Lipschitz.
“Well, then,” he muttered to himself, picking up his smart phone.  “Let’s upgrade my village.”  He tapped on the screen of his smart phone, touching the ‘Bash of Clans’ application icon.  The name of the creative team, F-5, sprung up in bold white letters on the black screen before the illustrated ‘Bash of Clans’ loading screen appeared.
Waldo would never have learned about the game had he not watched his granddaughter, Julia, playing it on her phone.  The family had come over to visit one day, and little 10 year-old Julia’s face was staring into her device.  In an effort to reach out to her, Waldo sat beside her and asked her what she was doing.
“I’m playing ‘Bash of Clans’,” she said.  Then, she gave a brief description of the gameplay before showing him how to play.  After her demonstration, she asked, “Would you like to try, Pawpaw?”  Her smile always warmed his heart.
“Sure,” he had replied.  Taking the phone into his hand, she helped guide him into the gameplay, and he quickly caught on.
“Hey, you’re pretty good at this, Pawpaw,” she said.
“Well, you taught me well, my dear.”
She smiled big, before giving her Pawpaw a big hug.
“Bring it on, clans,” he muttered, smiling, as his clan set-up was displayed on his screen.
            A light began to flash on his monitor hub.  It was a signal for movement in one of the exhibits.  A silent alarm.
            “What?” he muttered, tapping on his phone briefly to capture some of the digital coins he had accumulated before putting it down and observing the monitor.  He adjusted his glasses from the middle of his nose up against his face with his index finger.
            “What the?” he whispered, shaking his head before looking back at the screen.  He could not believe what he was seeing.
            The four mummies in the Michlantlecutli exhibit were moving.
            “What the?” he whispered again.  This time, he lifted his glasses and rubbed his eyes.  He tried to rationalize the situation.  In his mind, he was tired and hadn’t had a lot of rest this particular week.  Perhaps he was hallucinating.
            Looking again with clear eyes, he realized his eyes were not deceiving him.  The mummies were rising and actually seemed to be getting bigger.
            Waldo could not confirm that fast enough because the monitor suddenly went snowy.  Then black and white bars bounced up and down the screen before turning grey.  Then, the screen flipped completely black.
            Tapping on the screen was not the most mechanical or practical way to get the monitor working again.  But Waldo did it anyway.  On the third tap, a small stream of electricity snapped at his finger.  He withdrew it quickly, flapping it near his face.  He gulped.  Looking at his finger, a tiny black dot indicated the burn the bolt left on his finger.
            Picking up his CB, he called to Team 2 on the second floor.
            “Team 2 leader.  Do you read me?  Over.”
            “We read you.  Over.”
            “There is someone…” he didn’t want to say what he saw without confirmation.  “There is movement in the new exhibit.  I need your team to check it out.  Over.”
            “We’re on it,” they replied.
            Waldo’s eyes were glued to the monitor as Team 2 left their post to go check the report.  The team passed through one hallway to the next, floating through different monitors in the surveillance hub like specters walking through walls.
            As the team approached the exhibit room, Waldo reached for his CB.  “Team 2.  Do you read me?”
            They stopped before advancing into the room to answer the CB.  “We read you.”
            “Listen, before you go in.  I have to let you know I think… I think the mummies are alive.”
            He could see on the screen the Team 2 leader shaking and smacking his CB.
            “You’re breaking up, sir.  I … hear… do you… over…”
            Waldo looked at the screen.  From the shadows emerged the mummies.  Team 2 was oblivious to their slow advance.
            “Team 2!  Team 2!  Behind you!” yelled Waldo into the CB.
            “We can’t… you… breaking up…”
            “Team 2!” shouted Waldo before the video screen began to flip, become distorted, then turned into a snowy field of scrambling white, gray, and black.
            “Team 2?  Team 2,” said Waldo.
            There was no response.
            Reality was setting in.  Fear sunk its talons into Waldo’s heart.  There was a big problem poured on his plate, and he knew he had to do something.  He also knew he didn’t want to.  He wanted to run.
            “I’ve got to do something,” he said.  “Team 1 leader.  Do you read me?”
            “Waldo.  We heard the whole conversation.  We just heard some screams from the second floor.  Phil just left.  Joanne and I remain here, awaiting orders.”
            That’s when Phil ran by their desk, screaming in fear.
            “Phil has just run by our desk,” said Team 1 leader. 
            “I see that,” said Waldo, watching Phil run through the monitors before running past his very desk and out the front door.
            “Phil is gone,” said Waldo, trembling.  Things were quickly spiraling out of h
is control.  He had to do something.  More than anything, his reputation was at stake.  “I need you to go to the Mictlantecuhtli exhibit.  Team 2 is in trouble.  Something is up there and they need to be stopped.
            “We’re on our…”
            “Team 1, do you read me?”
            It was the same thing that happened before.  The mummies were closing in.
            “Team 1, get out of there now!  They’re near you!  The mummies!  They’re near!”
            No reply.
            Waldo looked at the screen that showed Team 1.  No only had their screen gone snowy, but so had all the other monitors.
            “Good God,” said Waldo, turning to run.
            But standing in front of him, looming over him like a statue was one of the mummies.  It pulsed with a strange energy.  A light glow, an aura, dimly illuminated the ancient preserved corpse.
            “Please,” whispered Waldo, raising his hands in submission.
            The mummy raised its arm into the air and struck Waldo in the neck.  A knockout nerve strike.
            At the ancient exhibit, a mummy arrived by the featured Mictlantecuhtli  relic, secured behind safety glass.  Its glowing mummified fist punched the barrier, shattering the glass before removing it from the display.  The energy of the mystery power at work had disabled the alarm system, allowing the relics to be removed with no one to stop it.

            “Ladies and gentlemen, this is your main event of the evening, scheduled for a ‘Best of Three’ contest.  A competitor wins a round by pinfall or submission.”
            “Oh, man, I can’t wait!”
            PJ Homeslice stood and clapped in anxious anticipation for the match featuring his cohort and good friend, the masked Mexican lucha libre legend, El Aire.  He wasn’t the only one.  Everyone in the crowd began clapping and cheering for the match they’d all been waiting for.  The San Uvalde Civic Center was warm with the excited agitation of the hundreds of fans in attendance.
            “In the blue corner to my left, weighing in at 86 kilos, fighting out of Cancun, Quintana Roo, Mexico, Cangrejo Azul!”
            A chorus of boos resounded around the arena as Cangrejo Azul shouted malditos back at the audience booing him.  He was clad in a baby blue and white-trimmed singlet and white boots, and his mask held the same scheme with the image of a stylized crab on the forehead of the mask.  Along the side of one white boot read ‘Cangrejo’.  On the other boot, ‘Azul’.  He pointed and shouted at one old lady in the front row.  A triple-A battery hit him in the back, and he ran to the opposite side of the ring to threaten the folks where he thought the projectile had come from.
            There was one exception to the jeering fans, however.  And much to PJ’s dismay, the guy was sitting right next to him.
            “Yay!” the dude shouted, jumping up and down.  He was a teen, but the light complexion of his face was not marked with pimples, but a sea of freckles.  He was making Cangrejo’s crab claw gesture with his hands as he hopped around in joy.  He glanced at PJ, smirking. 
            “And in the red corner,” said the announcer, pausing.  The crowd’s response began to change from a symphony of taunts to a cacophony of cheers.  “Weighing in at 86 kilos, from Villa Acuna, Coahuila, Mexico, he is The King of the Skies, El Aire!”
            The crowd began to chant, “Aire!  Aire!  Aire!” as the caped lucha legend mounted a turnbuckle and waved at the crowd.  His spandex pants were decorated with the colors of the Mexican flag: Red, White, and Green.  The eagle with the snake in its beak standing on a cactus was near the top portion of his spandex pants near the lower part of his back.  His mask was red, white, and green, with the emblem of the ancient country on his forehead. 
El Aire removed his cape with a flourish, handing it to a ring attendant.  Then, he launched himself from the turnbuckle into a backflip, landing on his feet before gracefully rolling backwards and popping back to his feet.  The crowd cheered with joy.  Except the guy standing by PJ.
            “Boo!” the guy shouted, giving El Aire two thumbs down and shaking them in the air.  “El Aire’s overrated, and so is his workrate,” he said toward PJ.  “Boo!”
            “Your mom’s overrated,” shouted PJ, flipping the guy off.  His skinny pale finger wiggled in the air, and his freckled face grimaced under his brown hair and brown eyes. “And so is her workrate.”
            The announcer stepped out of the ring and the bell rang, starting the first fall match.  The two luchadors circled each other before tying up.
            El Aire swiftly gained the upper hand with a tight arm drag, sending Cangrejo Azul flying across the ring.  Cangrejo got to his feet swiftly and grappled with El Aire again.  And again, El Aire sent Cangrejo to the canvas with an arm drag.
            “Why do you like Cangrejo Azul so much?” asked PJ.
            “Because El Aire’s overrated!” shouted the fan of Cangrejo.
            “You don’t even know what you’re talking about, stupid,” said PJ.
            Cangrejo Azul sprung to his feet again and dashed to El Aire, only to be greeted with a  drop toe-hold.  Cangrejo Azul fell face first on the mat, grabbing his nose, stunned.  It gave El Aire the opportunity to slide over Cangrejo’s body and grab a side headlock on the mat.  He locked it in and cranked it.
            “See?” said PJ.  “That’s scientific wrestling right there.”
            The other dude just sneered.  “There’s lots of match left out there, buddy boy.”
            Cangrejo Azul, stuck in the headlock, managed to work himself and El Aire back to their feet.  He then broke El Aire’s headlock by forcefully shoving him off of his slick neck and into the ropes.  El Aire bounced back and was met with a punch to the mouth, knocking him flat on his back.  The ref immediately jumped in, chastising Cangrejo Azul.
            “Yay!” cried out the Cangrejo Azul fan.
            “Hey!” yelled PJ.  “Get in there, ref!  Closed fist!  That’s illegal!”
            Cangrejo Azul began to kick at the prone body of El Aire, stomping and punching the lucha hero.  He turned to the fans and mocked them, receiving an immediate response of negativity and anger.  He smiled, then laughed, making a rude gesture to the crowd before turning back to El Aire, who was slowly rising.  Cangrejo Azul caught El Aire with a kick to the solar plexus, keeling El Aire over before scooping El Aire up into the air and slamming his body to the mat.  Standing by his head, Cangrejo Azul jumped into the air, delivering a legdrop across the neck and face of El Aire.  The rudo covered El Aire, hooking a leg, only to have El Aire kick out at two.  He harrumphed, standing back up.
Cangrejo Azul picked up El Aire and twisted El Aire’s body with his, punishing El Aire with an abdominal stretch.  El Aire cried out in pain.  Cangrejo Azul punched El Aire’s ribcage as the fans began to clap for El Aire.  After a few more moments in the hold, Cangrejo Azul punched El Aire right in the mouth, flooring the luchador yet again.
            “Again!” shouted the guy.  PJ took a deep breath.
            The punches had struck El Aire in just the right spot, dazing the luchador and giving Cangrejo Azul the opportunity to start punishing him.  He picked El Aire off the mat and flung him to the ropes.  El Aire bounced off the barriers toward Cangrejo Azul, who had already started to run at El Aire, ready to deliver a clothesline.  But El Aire ducked under the strike, bounding to the ring ropes.
            Cangrejo Azul turned around to see El Aire taking flight.  Careening horizontally towards Cangrejo Azul, El Aire struck his rival with a flying headbutt, connecting square across Cangrejo Azul’s chest.  The blow sent Cangrejo Azul to his back.  Not only did the aerial move take the starch out of Cangrejo Azul, but the fall flat on his back knocked the air out of him.  El Aire adeptly took the cover, hooking a leg with both arms and positioning all his weight over Cangrejo Azul’s chest, pinning his shoulders to the mat.  Cangrejo Azul struggled to break the pinfall to no avail, and the ref counted three, awarding the first fall to El Aire.
            “There you go, stupid,” shouted PJ.  “First fall goes to El Aire.”
            “He’s still got to get one more,” said the dude as the luchadors prepared to vie for the second fall.  After a few moments of awkward silence between the rival fans, the bell rang again and the two Mexican luchadors tied up. 
            Cangrejo Azul cinched on a headlock on El Aire, tightening the hold around El Aire’s head.  He turned his back on the referee and promptly punched El Aire in the mouth several times.  The referee tried to get a better view of what was happening, but was met by a grumpy Cangrejo Azul, who sustained the headlock and whined, “What are you looking at?”
            “Ref!  He punched him!” shouted PJ.
            “No, he didn’t!” shouted the dude.
            The referee chided Cangrejo Azul, who ignored the official and dashed across the ring with El Aire still in the headlock.  Cangrejo Azul jumped into the air before landing on the mat, smashing El Aire’s head and face into the canvas with the bulldog maneuver.
            “Pin him!” shouted the fan.  PJ was nervous.  But the ref only got to two when El Aire kicked out.
            “Yes!” shouted PJ.  His heart beat in his chest with nervous excitement.
            The punishment on El Aire continued as Cangrejo Azul stomped on El Aire’s lower back.  PJ cringed as Cangrejo Azul picked El Aire up and shot him into the ropes.  On the rebound, Cangrejo Azul caught his rival in his arms and spun El Aire in the air before dropping the tecnico, back first, over his knee with the tilt-a-whirl backbreaker.  El Aire shouted in pain as Cangrejo Azul held his rival over his knee, holding El Aire’s legs down while pushing down on his head by the jaw.  The stress position coupled with the pain from the backbreaker was very unpleasant.
            “El Aire’s going to quit,” taunted the guy.
            “No, he’s not,” replied PJ before shouting, “C’mon, Aire!”
            Cangrejo Azul released the hold by delivering a Mongolian Chop to El Aire’s solar plexus before tossing him to the mat.  That’s when Cangrejo Azul turned to the jeering crowd and taunted them with his crab claw hand gesture.  The crowd began to boo loudly.  But not the guy by PJ.
            “Yay!” he shouted, making the crab-claw hand gesture.  PJ just shook his head.
            Cangrejo Azul picked up El Aire by his mask.  El Aire tried to respond with punches to Cangrejo Azul’s stomach to no avail.  Cangrejo Azul kneed El Aire in his belly and whipped El Aire into the ropes.  Cangrejo Azul ducked his head in preparation to back body drop El Aire.  But instead, El Aire leapfrogged Cangrejo Azul, hurdling his foe and dashing to the ropes.
            Wondering what just happened, Cangrejo Azul stood up and turned around.  El Aire had already rebounded off the ropes and had taken flight, smacking Cangrejo Azul in the head with a flying forearm strike.  Cangrejo Azul fell to the mat, where El Aire went for a pinfall.
            PJ shouted, “Yes!”
            But it wasn’t enough for three.  The crowd was shouting encouragement for El Aire as he slowly rose to his feet, holding his back.
            “He’s going to get him,” shouted PJ.
            The other guy just smirked.
            El Aire picked up Cangrejo Azul and shot his rival into the ropes.  As Cangrejo Azul hit the ropes, moments from rebounding, El Aire jumped into the air, prepping to catch Cangrejo Azul with a huracanrana, a type of flying headscissors hold that flings a foe headfirst to the canvas.
            It was the experience of Cangrejo Azul that countered the throw by simply stopping his forward motion, hooking his arms around the top rope to stop his rebound.  Already floating in space, El Aire had no one to catch in his risky flying hold.  So gravity took the wheel, dropping El Aire flat on his already-injured back.
            “Yes!” shouted the guy, jumping up and down.
            They both knew what was next.
            Cangrejo Azul reached for El Aire’s legs as El Aire groaned on the mat, holding the back of his head, stunned.  Cangrejo laced El Aire’s legs at the ankles and stuck both legs under one arm by the ankles.  He then walked over El Aire’s body, putting the lucha legend on his belly.  With the leg lace secured under his arm, Cangrejo Azul sat down on El Aire’s lower back.  He leaned back, putting an immense amount of pressure on El Aire’s lower back.
            “Yes!” shouted the guy.  “The Blue Crab Hold!  The Blue Crab Hold!”
            PJ still stood with his hands on the back of his head as El Aire surrendered to the hold, tapping out vigorously on the mat.
            “Yes!” shouted the dude again.  “Cangrejo’s got this now.”  He then pointed at PJ and laughed.
            Groaning, PJ shook his head again.
            As Cangrejo broke his signature hold, letting El Aire loose, El Aire rolled right out of the ring to the floor.  He grumbled, positioned on one knee, rubbing his back.
            This is bad news, thought PJ.  Bad news.
            Cangrejo Azul had been taunting the crowd when he noticed El Aire’s injured state on the ground.  Climbing out of the ring, he took the boots to El Aire, stomping on his back.  Fans threw paper cups at Cangrejo Azul.  One was full, and it splashed across his chest.
            “You don’t like that?” he shouted at the crowd.
            “I do,” said the guy by PJ.
            “Then you’ll hate this,” he shouted, lifting up his elbow and dropping it on El Aire’s lower back.  El Aire groaned in pain as Cangrejo Azul climbed into the ring.  He charged at the ref, grabbing him by the shirt, shouting, “Ring the bell!  Start the match now!”
            “No!” shouted PJ.  The ref nodded and signaled for the bell.  The bell rang and El Aire was still on the floor.
            “One,” shouted the ref over the ring ropes by El Aire.
            “Get up!” shouted PJ.
            “Get up!”
            “C’mon, El Aire.  Get up!”
            “Stay down,” cried the dude, with a smile.
            El Aire began to pick himself up.
            “Yes!  C’mon, El Aire!”
            El Aire had lifted himself to his knees, holding on to the apron.
            El Aire picked himself up, climbed to the apron, and rolled in by the nine count.
            “Yes!”  Thank you, God,” groaned PJ.
            El Aire hadn’t had a chance to get to his feet when he was met with boots to his back by Cangrejo Azul.
            “He’s done,” said the guy.
            “No, he’s not,” said PJ.
            For the next few minutes, Cangrejo Azul abused El Aire, punishing his lower back with kicks, stomps, and throws.  PJ was cringing with every strike, lock, or toss.  Several times, Cangrejo Azul secured a lock on El Aire’s body, only to have the Mexican great he was beating down break the hold by grabbing the ropes.
            Lifting El Aire off the mat, Cangrejo Azul launched El Aire to the ropes.  On the rebound, Cangrejo Azul caught El Aire in a tilt-a-whirl sidewalk slam, planting El Aire into the mat.  PJ could hear El Aire groan as Cangrejo Azul went for a pinfall.  El Aire kicked out.
            Slapping his hands in anger, Cangrejo Azul then grabbed El Aire and lifted him off the mat and flung him to the ropes again.  He caught El Aire on the rebound, but this time, El Aire was ready.  Flying into the tilt-a-whirl again, El Aire changed his momentum just enough to secure one of Cangrejo Azul’s arms.  Still flying, he used his momentum to fling Cangrejo Azul to the mat.
            “Yes!” shouted PJ.
            Quickly getting to his feet, Cangrejo Azul dashed straight at El Aire, who was ready for the aggression.  This time, El Aire used Cangrejo Azul’s motion to flip him to the mat with a Japanese arm drag.
            Realizing the momentum change, Cangrejo Azul swiftly rolled out of the ring.  He waved off El Aire, walking around the ring.
            “Get back in there, you big chicken!” shouted PJ.
            “You shut your stupid mouth, gringo!” Cangrejo replied, pointing a finger at PJ.
            “You shut yours, stupid,” said PJ, pointing one back.
            “Oh, you got me there,” said Cangrejo Azul, getting in PJ’s face. 
            “That comeback did kind of suck,” mumbled PJ, moving away from the luchador.  That’s when he noticed El Aire had got to his feet and had bounced off the opposite ropes, running toward them from the ring.
            “Whoa!” shouted PJ, moving out of the way.
            “Look out!” shouted the guy, pointing at the ring.
            “What?” said Cangrejo Azul, turning back towards the ring.  There was nothing he could do at that point.  El Aire had already taken flight, diving headlong at Cangrejo Azul.  Cangrejo Azul tried to block the tope suicida to no avail.  El Aire crashed head first into Cangrejo Azul’s chest, knocking him into the abandoned chairs.  El Aire had struck Cangrejo Azul with a powerful blow.  But now, on the floor, he began to clutch his back again.
            “Get up, El Aire!” shouted PJ as the ref started the count again.
            “C’mon, El Aire.  Get up!”
            Cangrejo Azul was recovering slowly.
            El Aire remained on the floor.
            Cangrejo Azul had recovered faster than El Aire and slowly moved to the luchador.
            Cangrejo Azul reached El Aire and picked him up by the mask.  El Aire still clutched at his back.
            “No!” shouted PJ.
            “Yes!” shouted the guy.
            The two were crying out because Cangrejo Azul had scooped up El Aire and body-slammed him on the arena floor.
            “Yes!  Yes!”
            Cangrejo Azul made a rude gesture with his chin and hand at the crowd before rolling into the ring at the eight count.
            “Get up, El Aire!”
            “He’s not getting up,” said the guy, laughing.
            El Aire tried to pick himself up, but he only got as far as the ring apron, clutching his back as the ref counted ten.
            “Aw, man,” said PJ as the bell rang, ending the third fall and securing the win for Cangrejo Azul.  “That was a cheap win and you know it,” he said, glaring at the guy.
            “A win’s a win, man,” said the guy, pointing and laughing at PJ.
            PJ rose from his seat and worked his way to the aisle as the announcer said, “Here is the winner of the third fall via countout, Cangrejo Azul!”
            “Bye-bye, chump,” said the guy as PJ walked off toward the entrance to the dressing rooms.  The arena booed Cangrejo Azul, who was soaking it up, making his crab hand gesture as he returned to the dressing room.
            El Aire had already worked his way halfway up the aisle as PJ reached the dressing room entrance.  El Aire acknowledged fans and saw PJ.  He nodded at him, knowing PJ had work for him.  PJ returned the nod.  After a few moments of greeting fans, El Aire approached PJ.
            “You going to be alright, amigo?” asked PJ.
            “I’ll be fine,” El Aire replied.  “What do you got for me?”
            “Something good.”
            El Aire nodded, still rubbing his back.  “Great.  Meet me at the Montana Bar in an hour.  We’ll talk there.”
            “Roger that,” said PJ.
            “Excuse me,” said a woman’s voice behind PJ.  Both of them turned to see who it was.  Their eyes gave away their excitement.
            “Good evening,” said the woman.  “My name is Elvira Mata.”  She offered her hand.  El Aire took it and kissed it.  The sweetest floral fragrance graced his senses, a much needed contrast to the sweat and grime of the wrestling contest, a literal breath of fresh air compared to the brawny aroma and rancid smell of sweaty knee pads of the competitors.
            El Aire grinned at Elvira, taking in her figure.  Her little black dress was low cut with a diving neckline that fell just below her breasts.  Her black high heels had suggestions of glitter, and El Aire suspected she was wearing thigh-highs and garters.
            She smiled back devilishly, saying, “I’d like to personally invite you to the San Uvalde Museum grand opening of a special exhibit tomorrow.”
            “I heard about that,” said El Aire.  “The recently discovered San Uvalde mummies will be on display.  Is that right?”
            “Correct,” she said.  Her voice was laced with a honey El Aire greatly appreciated.  “I’m one of the sponsors.  We would be honored with your presence.”

            “Thank you,” said El Aire.  “I’ll be there.”
            With a smile and a wink, the woman walked away.
            PJ stood, hypnotized, watching her glide away.
            “Wake up, hermano,” said El Aire.
            “But I’m dreaming,” said PJ.
            “No, you weren’t,” said El Aire.  “Go meet me at The Montana Bar.  I’ll see you there.”

What will PJ tell El Aire at the Montana Bar?  Find out by picking up your copy of 'El Aire vs. The Mummies of San Uvalde' today HERE in Paperback or Kindle.

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BOWIE V. IBARRA is a prolific writer who makes his home in San Antonio, Texas.  He is the progenitor of the 'Tex-Mexploitation' genre whose books include such first wave zombie horror classics as the 'Down the Road' saga.  Network with Bowie at his official website, and pick up a book today!