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

A Sneak peek at the lucha cinema inspired story

by

Bowie V. Ibarra

On September 1st, the debut of ZBFbooks.com'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!

  

EL AIRE vs THE MUMMIES OF SAN UVALDE

BY

BOWIE V. IBARRA

COPYRIGHT 2015 BOWIE IBARRA, ZBFBOOKS.COM

3^rd  draft 4/29/15

DEDICATED TO EL SANTO AND BLUE DEMON.

To The Masked Gringo and the Ethiopian Hemmorhoid.

To PAUL BISHOP and FightCard Books for recognizing how great lucha libre is.

PROLOGUE

            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 1^st 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 1^st Team on the first floor.

“2^nd Team.  Report.”

“2^nd 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 2^nd 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?”

          

  “…need…”

            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.

CHAPTER 1 – LUCHA LIBRE!

            “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.

            “Two!”

            “Get up!”

            “Three!”

            “C’mon, El Aire.  Get up!”

            “Four!”

            “Stay down,” cried the dude, with a smile.

            “Five!”

            El Aire began to pick himself up.

            “Six!”

            “Yes!  C’mon, El Aire!”

            “Seven.”

            El Aire had lifted himself to his knees, holding on to the apron.

            “Eight!”

            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.

            “One.”

            “C’mon, El Aire.  Get up!”

            “Two.”

            Cangrejo Azul was recovering slowly.

            “Three.”

            El Aire remained on the floor.

            “Four.”

            Cangrejo Azul had recovered faster than El Aire and slowly moved to the luchador.

            “Five.”

            Cangrejo Azul reached El Aire and picked him up by the mask.  El Aire still clutched at his back.

            “Six.”

            “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.

            “Seven.”

            “No!”

            “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.

            “Nine.”

            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.

Click on the book cover to go straight to the order page on Amazon.com.

  

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, ZBFbooks.com and pick up a book today!

ZOMBIES/BLOOD/FIGHTS - Excerpt: 'Sword of the Angel' delivers on all levels

IT'S A HIGH-STAKES LUCHA vs. ZOMBIE BATTLE IN THE LATEST TITLE FROM ZBFBooks.com!
by
Bowie V. Ibarra

 

The latest title from ZBFBooks.com (The shortened and official website of ZombieBloodFights.com) features everything this blog is dedicated to:  Zombies, Blood, and Fights!

 

Here's the synopsis:

 

LUCHA LIBRE’S GREATEST LEGACY FACES HIS GREATEST CHALLENGE

Espada del Angel was the greatest luchador who ever graced the squared circle in Mexico, the birthplace of lucha libre. His matches filled arenas, and his trophy cases are filled with the masks of defeated foes.

When he retires, he grooms his son to carry his mantle into the future, securing his legacy as one of the greatest in lucha libre history. His son goes on to perpetuate his father’s tradition of lucha excellence as Espada del Angel, Jr.

But as times change, the perception and respect for lucha libre by aficionados fades. Mixed martial arts takes its place as the premiere combat sports style of the new millennium. Espada del Angel, Jr., then faces a philosophical and personal dilemma: should he continue to excel at his sport, or should he retire to prevent further tarnishing his father’s legacy under extreme criticism and ridicule?

As he reaches a crossroad in his spiritual quandary, the greatest terror the world has ever seen sweeps the streets: The zombie apocalypse!

Will Espada, Jr. be overrun along with his fans by the zombies assaulting the city that is the home of his latest matchup? Or will the sinister plague be leveled and the people of the city defended by the Sword of the Angel?

 

And now, exclusively on the ZBFBooks.com blog, here's an excerpt of the opening pages of 'Sword of the Angel'

 

 

SWORD OF THE ANGEL

 

BY

 

BOWIE V. IBARRA

 

COPYRIGHT 2013 BOWIE V. IBARRA, ZOMBIEBLOODFIGHTS.COM

 Published by arrangement with the author

 This book is a work of fiction.  People, places, events, and situations are the product of the author’s imagination.  Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or historical events, is purely coincidental.

 Copyright 2013 Bowie V. Ibarra and ZombieBloodFights.com.  All Rights Reserved.

 

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author and publisher.

DEDICATIONS

For all the fans of lucha libre: past, present, and future.

For El Santo, Blue Demon, and Mil Mascaras, and all the luchadors who uphold the sacred masked tradition of lucha libre.

For Dr. Wagner, Jr.  Your IWGP title match in Japan against Koji Kanemoto was one of the greatest matches I’ve ever seen.

For Marlowe Downing.  Thank you, Masked Gringo.

For my cousins Albert and Stanley (d).  Thank you.

For Rainstorm Press, Holly Kasprzak, and Deedee Davis:  Thank you.

For Permuted Press and the now-defunct Library of the Living Dead: Thank you for giving me a chance.

For Bo Woodman:  Thank you, and I owe you a beer.

For ‘Big’ John Flores, Dean Arnall (d), and Gordon Downing (d):  Thank you for providing positive strong male role models for myself and your sons, my friends.

But especially for Valeriano T. Ibarra, my late father.  I miss you, dad.  You tried to teach me the right path.  I regret not spending more time with you, listening to you, and following your example on how to be a good husband, father, friend, community leader, and a gentleman when you were around.  I’ve lost my way, but I am thankful that you instilled in me the value of never giving up, and to always keep fighting no matter how insurmountable the odds.  I’m still working to be half the man you were to your family, friends, and work colleagues.  I just wish I had that time back.  Thank you for being there for me. 

Rest in peace.

SWORD OF THE ANGEL

ACT I, SCENE I

“¡No me toque, vieja fea!”

            The muscle-bound masked wrestler who insulted the old woman raised his hand as if he were going to slap her; she was trying to hit him with her purse.  The old woman had no problem insulting the evil luchador as he walked the aisle to the ring.

            “¡Pinche baboso!” she shouted at him as he walked to the ring in the middle of the packed house in Arena Mexico.  The chorus of boos resounded around the large facility in the heart of Mexico City.  Drunken insults and vulgar hand gestures were flung in the direction of the big man as he climbed into the ring.  He shouted back at them and returned the gestures.  He was the rudo, after all.

            Though a majority of the fans were shouting against the green-masked luchador with fierce opposition, there was still a segment of the crowd cheering for him.  Banging on drums and blowing horns near a sectioned-off portion of the audience were the fans of the rudos.  They wore shirts and headbands with slogans like 100% Rudo or Rudo por Vida.  The rudos were the bad guys, and Calavera Verde was definitely the bad guy.  The fans would toot their horns or bang their drums in staccato three times before chanting ‘Ca-la-ve-ra’!  Then they would bang the drums three more times before saying ‘Ver-de’.  Then they’d repeat it.  The energy was intense.

            It was especially intense for a young boy sitting in the front row right by the ring.  The child was nearly six years old, sitting next to his beautiful mother.  He held a soda in his hand, and a tiny muñeca in his other hand.  The boy trembled with fear as the masked menace taunted the people in his seating area, including his mother, who responded with a dismissive wave and an equally rude taunt.

            “¡Cayete lo sico, baboso!” she shouted.  Her name was Gema, and she was the epitome of Mexican beauty.

            On the young boy’s head was a mask, ready to be pulled down over his face.  The mask was white, with shimmery material that ran from the forehead over the eyes, and down between the eyes forming a point at his chin.  Silver shimmering rays emanated from the sword above the eyes near the hilt, and below the eyes, crossing his cheeks.

            It was a very special mask to the boy, the same mask of the opponent Calavera Verde was about to face.  The mask belonged to the man who was not only the boy’s hero, but was much more than that.

            “Stand up, Esteban,” said his mother in Spanish.

            It didn’t take long for Esteban to obey his loving mother.  He rose to his feet, climbing on the chair.  As the music for Espada del Angel hit, Esteban pulled down the mask over his face.

            His father’s mask.

            Esteban cheered as his father broke the curtainline.  The arena was rattled by the massive cheer from the thousands in attendance.  Flanked by two beautiful Mexican female escorts, Espada del Angel strode to the ring.  The fans applauded, reaching out to him for the opportunity to touch his hand, to touch his mask.

            Espada broke from the escorts to move to a fan who was wearing his mask.  He held the fan by his head, joining their foreheads together.  It was as if he were transferring power to the fan.  Or, perhaps, gaining strength from the supporter.  His mask was a powerful sacred totem, and its image could be seen throughout the arena.  Kindred spirits united with their high priest.

            The escorts stopped near the end of the aisle to the ring.  Espada broke ranks from them and proceeded around the ring.  He greeted fans with a touch of his hand as he walked around the ring.  But he stopped and spent an extra moment with an elderly lady at ringside.  Virginia Gomez had been following lucha libre, but especially Espada del Angel, for decades.  She was his biggest fan, and Espada showed a moment of respect to her before going on his way. 

Esteban watched his father work the ringside fans.  A smile crossed his face, and true joy filled his heart.  He swelled with pride.

Then Esteban shivered with fear as Calavera Verde ran to the edge of the ring.  The ghoulish fighter shouted at Espada.

But Espada held his ground, turning to Calavera Verde and giving him an earful right back.  The crowd cheered, pointing and laughing at Calavera. Esteban chuckled.  His father was using ‘grown-up’ words, and it made Calavera back off.

Then, it was the moment Esteban had been waiting for.  Espada del Angel, the masked hero to most everyone in the arena, much of Mexico, and throughout the world, was walking to him.  He was more than just a hero to Esteban.

Espada del Angel was his dad.

Espada tenderly took his son by the head, and moved his forehead to his son’s.

“I love you, son,” he said in Spanish before turning to his wife and kissing her on the lips.  A true machista.

The fans cheered at the luchador’s pride for his family as the fighters turned to enter the ring.

Within moments, Espada took off his cape with a flourish.  The ring announcer was in fine form as he introduced the luchadors.

Esteban was nervous.  Calavera Verde was strong, and had been beating up his opponents for weeks on end.  His father had stood up to the foe when the villain had threatened one of his friends, Aguila Blanco.

This would be their first meeting.  Esteban knew his dad could tie the monster in knots on the mat with the science of lucha libre.  Espada del Angel was one of the best técnicos Mexican lucha libre had ever known.

But Calavera Verde was Espada’s equal when it came to the tactics of a rudo.  Calavera gouged, scratched, and cheated his way to victory.  Espada del Angel was strong, but he was going to be challenged by this big man in one of the signature 2 out of 3 falls matches of lucha libre.

When the bell rang, the crowd cheered with excitement.  The foes locked up in the middle of the ring, grappling with each other for an advantage.  For every move, a counter.  For every counter, a shift in strategy.

For the next ten minutes, the two exchanged holds, wearing each other down when the action escalated.  Esteban cheered, trying to give power to his hero, his father.  A series of high-flying moves was exchanged.  Espada del Angel was close to victory when the referee was momentarily out of position and Calavera Verde struck Espada del Angel with a kick to the crotch, doubling the hero over and stealing a pinfall.  It was a foul that would have given Espada a disqualification win if the ref saw it.  But he didn’t, and Calavera was proving the efficient rudo.

Esteban tried to get the referee’s attention, along with most everyone else in the arena, but was ignored.  He was crushed and felt like crying.  It was frustrating to see his father doing so well and fall short with such a cheap tactic.  He booed and shouted with his mother and the rest of the fans.  Calavera Verde taunted the audience and took it all in with gleeful pride.

The bell rang for the second fall, and Calavera went after the still-hurt Espada.  After only a few cruel moves and strikes, Calavera taunted the crowd before trying to pin Espada.  But to his surprise and to the joy of all the fans, Espada reversed the maneuver, locking in a quick pinfall for himself.

Esteban jumped for joy into his mother’s arms as they both cheered the much-needed win along with the entire arena.  The relief was palpable, and with the match tied 1-1, the third and final fall would declare the winner.

Espada rolled out of the ring, taking the much-needed moments between falls to recover.  As Calavera tried to argue with the referee that Espada had pulled his trunks, Espada walked to Esteban, still in his mother’s arms.

As Espada kissed Esteban on the head, Esteban shouted in Spanish, “Go get him, dad!”

Espada stepped back in the ring and the match started again.

And once again, the two grapplers went at it: Calavera Verde with a sense of desperation, Espada del Angel with a sense of determination.

The two Mexican warriors put it all on the line in a test of skill, strength, and will.  Espada attacked with high-flying topes and scissors holds from his arsenal.  Calavera responded with backbreakers and strikes.

Before long, Espada hit Calavera with a spectacular throw, leaving the rudo stunned on the mat.  As Calavera rose to his feet, Espada scaled the turnbuckles to the top.

“Fly, daddy,” shouted Esteban in Spanish.

As Espada stood tall on the top rope, he held his hands in front of himself, as if wielding a sword.  He then slowly raised his hands over his head, building anticipation for his signature finishing move.  The crowd cheered as Calavera wobbled to his feet.  They knew what was coming.

Calavera Verde turned around to see Espada taking flight like a soaring eagle.  Jumping high into the air, Espada cut a graceful picture of the beauty of lucha libre.  With his arms extended, his descent was smooth.  His targeting, precise.

Turning sideways in mid-air, his body smashed against Calavera Verde’s chest.  The momentum of the flying body attack knocked the exhausted Calavera Verde to the mat.  The crashing fall on his back and the weight of Espada del Angel completely knocked the air out of him.  With no energy to kick out, Espada covered Calavera’s arms and secured a leg.  The crowd, including Esteban, counted with the referee, “¡Uno, dos, tres!”

Esteban jumped for joy into his mother’s arms as they joined the chorus of ecstatic applause that rattled Arena Mexico.  The referee raised the hand of Espada del Angel as the announcer called out his name as the victor.

            After the referee released his hand, Espada del Angel ran to the ropes.  He waved to Virginia, who was sweetly blowing kisses to him.  He then signaled to his wife and son to approach the ring.  Holding young Esteban, his mother brought him to his father.  Espada once again grabbed his son’s masked head and placed his forehead on his.

            “I love you, son,” he said in Spanish.

            Then, Espada returned to the center of the ring to salute the fans.

            “Mama, why do the people love papa so much?” asked Esteban.

            “Because, mi’jo,” she began, “In him and in his mask lies hope.  He is the hope of the people.”

            Esteban looked back with sincere adoration at his father.

 

ACT I, SCENE II

            It was a week after one of Espada del Angel’s greatest triumphs, and Esteban was still proud as a peacock.  His father had a show in Monterrey, and Esteban was watching it live on television.

            “Mama, papa’s about to be introduced,” he said.  He took a seat on the beanbag chair holding his Espada del Angel and Calavera Verde toys as he watched the interview.

            “So, Espada, that was a great victory over Calavera Verde last week,” said the announcer in Spanish.

            “Yes, it was,” said Esteban’s dad.  “He was a strong opponent.  He was also a very dirty fighter.  But with my superior skill and science, I was victorious.”

            Esteban beamed with pride.

            “Is there something you’d like to tell all your fans?”

            “Yes.  To all of my fans, I want you to know that you give me my strength to fight for you.  Every time I go to the ring, my fans always help me through my fight.”

            “That’s fantastic,” said the announcer.

            What neither of them saw was Calavera Verde sneaking up behind the two with a steel chair.  But everyone in the live audience and everyone watching at home could see, including Esteban.

            “Mama!” shouted Esteban in a panic, pointing at the television.  “Mama!”

            His mother ran in fear to the room where Esteban was watching TV.  They watched in horror as Calavera Verde smacked Espada right across the back with the steel chair, knocking him to the ground.

            “No!” shouted Esteban, embracing his mother.  Already, tears of fear and anger began to race down his cheeks.  He was helpless to help his father.

            As the crowd in the arena shouted and boo’d the heinous act, Calavera wound up and smacked Espada three more times.  Each time, Esteban shouted “No!” with a bitter sadness.

            One of Espada’s friends tried to help him, but was smashed across the face by the chair.

            “Don’t look, mi’jo,” said Esteban’s mother as Calavera dropped the chair on the floor.  Calavera lifted Espada off the ground and put his rival’s head between his legs.  The announcer tried to stop the rudo, but was shoved to the ground for his efforts.

            “Please,” whispered Esteban’s mother, simmering with anger.  “Somebody stop this.”

            Calavera heaved Espada up against his body.  Espada’s head was lined up over the chair.  The crowd cried out in terror as Calavera raised a leg before using his other leg to hop up in the air.  Espada’s head was driven into the steel chair.  The weight of his own body seemingly pile-driven onto his neck.

            “No!” shouted Esteban’s mother as she watched the gruesome scene play out.

            Though she thought she was shielding Esteban from the horrible attack, he was peeking.  And he saw the whole ruthless assault on his father play out.

            Then, Calavera Verde picked up the microphone the announcer had dropped.  He then stood over Espada.

            “You think you’re better than me, Espada?  You think your fans are going to save you now?  I hate you, Espada.  You’re a piece of trash, and I’m going to take out the trash.  I want to put you away forever.  I challenge you to a mask vs. mask match.  I want to end your career, take your mask, and kick you out of here.”

            “Calavera will pay, mi’jo,” said Esteban’s mother.  Don’t you worry.  Calavera will pay for this outrage.”

            They both watched as a medical crew attended to the injured Espada.  They placed a brace around his neck and slowly lifted him onto a stretcher.  They secured his head to the backboard with a strap. 

            Esteban wiped a tear from his eyes.  He looked at the toy Calavera Verde in his hand and threw it at the wall.

            “See,” shouted Calavera Verde at the audience.  “See your hero?  He’s broken.  He’s a broken man.  And I destroyed him.”

            Calavera threw the microphone to the ground and began to walk away.  He started taunting the crowd, who gladly jeered him.  The fans even started throwing cups, trash, even batteries at him as he pointed and laughed at all of them.

            “Vete, mi’jo,” said his mother.  “Go to your room.”

            She lifted up Esteban by his hand.  He looked at the television one last time as he followed her command.  The medical officials were checking on the neck brace and moving him out of the arena.

            Then, something amazing happened.  Espada waved his hand, calling for the microphone.  When one of the crew saw him signaling for it, they responded.  The person picked up the microphone and handed it to him.

            “Calavera!  Listen to me now, you bastard.  You made a big mistake.  You insulted me.  You insulted lucha libre.  But most of all, you insulted the people.”

            The crowd cheered as Espada paused before declaring, “I accept your challenge.  ¡Lucha de apuesta! Mask vs. Mask!”
            “Oh, my God,” whispered Esteban’s mother.

            Esteban stood wide-eyed, too.  Both of them knew the deep implications of a Mask vs. Mask match.  The winner would hold the mask of the loser as a trophy forever.  The loser would be forced into retirement and have his name, birthplace, and birthday revealed to the world, forever destroying his persona.

            Esteban gulped.

 

            By the end of the evening, Esteban and Gema found out what hospital Espada del Angel was in and were able to make contact with him.

            Esteban desperately wanted to talk to his father, but Gema had to speak with the love of her life first.  He couldn’t hear his father, but he could figure out what was being said by what Gema was saying.

            “How are you?... When will you be out?... Oh, fantastic.  We’ll have the house ready for you… Mi amor, do not fight him.  Do not… Amor…Amor, por favor.  I will not allow you to fight Calavera… No!”

            Esteban could hear his father shouting on the other end of the line.

            “But you’re hurt, amor.  He’s going to…”

            More shouting from a distant hospital bed.

            Then, penitence.  “I’m sorry… I’m sorry… Mi amor, mi vida, I’m sorry… I love you.”

            She started to sob.

            “I love you and… I don’t want you to be hurt.. .I know… I know… I know, and I love you, amor.”  Gema wiped a tear from her face, twisting the phone cord in her hand.  Esteban handed her a tissue to wipe her runny eye liner.  “You are my love, my life.. I know, but I get scared when I think how you might get hurt… okay… okay.. My heart and my arms wait for your return, papi… okay.”

            She then turned to Esteban, handing him the phone.  “Your father wants to talk to you.”

            Esteban’s heart beat like a drum.  He readily took the phone from Gema and placed it against his ear.

            “Papa?”

            “Hello, mi’jo.”

            Esteban’s heart was filled with joy and a sense of relief when he heard his father’s voice.  He actually sounded pretty good.

            “Papa, are you okay?”

            “Yes, mi’jo.  I am fine.”

            “When are you coming home?”

            “Very soon, mi’jo.”

            “Papa, please don’t fight Calavera Verde.  Please don’t.”

            “Ay, what kind of son am I raising?”

            The question stunned Esteban.  Before he could answer, his father continued.

            “What have I taught you about life, mi’jo?  About what happens to anyone who lays a hand on you?”

            “I must defend myself,” Esteban answered.

            “When?” asked his father.

            “All the time,” said Esteban.

            “And?”

            “Every time.”

            “Exactamente.”

            “But papa,” pleaded Esteban.  “You are hurt.  He will hurt you again.”

            “Stop right now, Esteban,” shouted his father from the other end of the line.  “You are sounding like your mother.”

            It hurt to hear his father say those mean words.  But he knew he was right.  He wanted nothing more than to be big and strong like his father, both physically and mentally.  It hurt, but he had to listen.

            “If you want to be a man, son, then you must grow up and fight for your honor.  Do you understand?”

            “Yes, papa.”  A tear was falling down Esteban’s cheek.  He wiped it away quickly and defiantly, trying to fight his fear and replace it with the courage his father was trying to instill in him.

            “Calavera Verde insulted you.  He insulted your mother.  And he insulted my mask.  He challenged me for my mask, mi’jo.  You know what that means?”

            “Yes, papa.”

            “I was challenged, and I can never back down.  No matter how big or how small.  It is what a man does.  He faces challenges head on, no matter the cost. ¿Me comprendes?”

            “Yes, papa.”

            “I love you, mi’jo.  But you’re not going to grow into a man with a strong mind if you let fear rule your heart.”

            Esteban nodded solemnly as he let the power of his father’s words sink in.

 

ACT I, SCENE III

            It wasn’t long until those words were put to the test.  News spread of his dad’s injuries, but so did the ridicule.

            “Hey, Esteban.  Is your dad still hurt?” yelled Manuel in Spanish, one of Esteban’s least favorite kids at school.

            “Yeah. Are you going to cry?” said Beto, Esteban’s second-to-least favorite kid at school.  His Spanish was worse than his hygiene.

            Esteban scowled at them, then he took a moment before walking away.

            “Don’t cry, Esteban,” said Beto, running up beside him.  “It’s all fake anyway.”

            “Exactamente,” Manuel exclaimed.  “Why are you crying?  Your dad’s not really hurt.  It’s fake.”

            Esteban wanted to run away from the teasing, the ridicule.  They were wrong, and they knew it.

            But that’s when his father’s words came back to him.  It was the very words he spoke to Esteban only days before:  A man faces challenges head on, no matter what the cost.

            Esteban stopped in his tracks, gulping.  He turned to face his rivals.

            “Hey, you leave my father alone!” shouted Esteban.  The shout took Manuel and Beto by surprise.

            Manuel hesitated before shouting back.  “Well, look at you, standing up for…”

            But he didn’t even finish the sentence when Esteban cracked Manuel in the mouth.  The surprise shot took Manuel completely by surprise.  It split his bottom lip as he fell to the ground on his ass.

            Esteban stood, just as stunned as the boys were.  He looked at his fist with amazement.  “Wow,” he muttered in surprise.

            Before he could savor the glory of the attack, he was tackled to the ground by Beto, who clumsily tried to strike Esteban before they both got back to their feet.

            The two sides stood apart from each other.  A newfound respect was reforming the bitter relationship.

            “We’re going to get you back,” said Beto.

            “Whenever, cobardes,” said Esteban.

            The boys scurried off to another part of the playground, leaving Esteban alone.  The kids who had gathered for the skirmish walked off.

            “Hey, Esteban,” came a voice from behind him.  “Are you okay?”  It was one of his friends.

            “Fine,” he said.

            Esteban was frightened.  He didn’t want that kind of retaliation.  But he somehow felt different.  Even Beto’s threat felt empty, as if he were only saying it to save face.

            He knew one thing for sure, though.

            Acting on his father’s words made him stronger.

 

ACT I, SCENE IV

            The arena was filled with electricity as Espada del Angel and Calavera Verde gave it their all in their high stakes lucha rumble, one fall to a pinfall, or submission finish.

            For close to fifteen minutes, the two exchanged holds.  The advantage bounced back and forth between the bitter rivals.

            Esteban was very upset.  Calavera Verde had responded to Espada’s scientific wrestling by fighting dirty, smacking Espada’s head into the steel turnpost.  Espada’s blood began to stain his white mask in red.

            But the ultimate insult was Calavera tearing at Espada’s mask.  A portion of the mask was ripped open near his eyes, revealing a bloody portion of his head and hair.  It wasn’t looking good for Espada del Angel.

            Esteban’s mother held him close as Espada gained an advantage.  Calavera lifted Espada up in the air for a powerbomb throw, but Espada took control of the move by locking his legs around Calavera’s head and swinging himself toward the mat.  The pendulum motion sent Calavera tumbling headfirst to the mat.  Dazed, Calavera rose to his feet only to be met with a  flying headbutt that smacked him right on the chest and knocked him back to the mat.  The tide had turned.

            “Go, papa!” shouted Esteban, cheering in a rising fury with the rest of the crowd.  This was Espada’s big chance.

            With Calavera rising from the mat, Espada kicked him in the solar plexus, doubling the reeling rudo over.  Throwing one of Calavera’s arms around his head, Espada put one of his own around Calavera’s before heaving him up vertically into the air.  As Calavera’s feet reached heavenward and his head aligned with the canvas below, Espada fell to this own back to drive Calavera’s head into the mat with all the weight of his own body. 

Brainbuster!

Calavera lay flat on his back on the mat.

            Quickly rising back to his feet, Espada did not waste a second scaling the turnbuckle to the absolute delight of the fans and his son.  It was as if Espada were a conductor of a classical orchestra as he raised his hands to signal his finishing move.  Calavera slowly rose from the mat to his feet.  His destiny was about to pass.

            As his hands rose to the pinnacle above his head, and the fans reached the height of their frenzy for him, Espada took flight.  Esteban and the fans held their breath.

            It might have been the highest Espada had ever flown.  With his arms spread, the arc of his flight was filled with the true grace and elegance of a master of lucha libre.

            Having taken flight, Espada had committed, and there was no turning back as Calavera quickly rolled out of Espada’s flight pattern.  The crowd gasped in shock as Espada crash landed on the mat, missing his intended target completely.

            The sound of his body crashing to the mat made Esteban and his mother cry out in fearful anguish.  The entire crowd felt the same way as they watched Espada writhe in pain on the mat.

            “Please, papa,” shouted Esteban in Spanish, “Please get up!”

            Calavera sat in a corner, gripping his neck and shoulder.  Then he turned to Esteban and his mother, rising slowly and leaning over the top rope.  He shouted at the family.

            “I’m taking your father’s mask!”

            “No!” shouted Esteban and his mother.

            Virginia, the old woman, prayed for Espada, gripping a rosary in her hands.  She held those hands to her head, closing her eyes tight.

            Like a cruel street thug, Calavera moved to the injured Espada and began to stomp his solar plexus and head.  Pointing to Esteban, he mocked Espada again.

            “Look at your father now,” he shouted, kicking and stomping Espada.

            “No!” shouted Esteban.

            “Get up, amor,” cried Gema.  “Get up!”

            Calavera lifted Espada off the mat and dragged him to the middle rope.  He draped Espada’s neck and arms on the rope, choking him mercilessly in front of his family.  The crowd knew exactly what he was doing to Espada’s family, and began to throw things at the rudo.

            “Your man is finished,” Calavera shouted at his rival’s family, laughing.  He fish-hooked Espada before tearing at his mask again.

            Esteban began to weep for his father.  The beating Espada was taking was completely unneccesary.  He was finished.  The crowd howled with disgust.

            Calavera led the stumbling Espada to the center of the ring, taunting the angry crowd all the while.  Bottles were littering the ring.  A triple-A battery struck his chest.  Calavera simply pointed at the crowd and laughed.

            Calavera threw one of Espada’s arms over his neck while placing one of his over Espada’s.  He then gave the audience a thumbs-up, signaling the start of his finishing power move:  The Gravedigger Screwdriver.

            Everyone in the arena (apart from the rudo fans) cried out in a panicked frenzy as Calavera flipped his thumb down.

            “No!” shouted Esteban over and over again.  His mother would not watch.  She turned her head away.

            Virginia watched in sadness.  Her hands remained together in faith, like a votive statue, holding out hope.

            Like a miracle, before Calavera could execute the power move, Espada fell to the mat and rolled to his back, bringing Calavera to the mat with him.  With all the science of a pure técnico, Espada hooked Calavera’s legs with his other arm and a leg.  Wrapped tight as if in a ball, Espada rolled Calavea on his shoulders.  The rudo struggled to be released from the scientific pinning maneuver, but was locked in place skillfully by Espada.

            The ref started the count.  It would be considered slow by all standards.  The crowd counted along with every slow slap to the mat:  ¡Uno!  ¡Dos!  ¡Tres!

            At the three count, Espada broke the hold as the victor.  The entire arena exploded in ecstatic joy.

            And just like that, Espada avenged the dishonor placed on him, his family, his fans, and his mask.  He stumbled to a corner, catching his breath, and looking to his family.  He waved at his wife, signaling her to come over.

            “Come here, Esteban,” she said, lifting up her son with strength and elegance, even in heels.  They moved to the corner.

            Espada leaned through the ropes and kissed his wife on the lips before kissing his son on the forehead.

            “I love you both so much,” he whispered to them.

            “I love you, too,” they both replied as he rose to his feet to the cheers of the crowd.

            In the ring, Calavera was making a fuss to the referee.  It was all in vain as Espada demanded Calavera to remove his mask and reveal his identity.

            Officials and athletic commission members stepped into the ring as well as an announcer.  Calavera tried to use the transition to escape, but Espada quickly pulled him back by the trunks.

            Espada moved to the announcer and took the microphone, talking in Spanish.

            “It’s time, Calavera.  It’s time to remove your mask.”

            Calavera hesitated, then tried to leave again to a chorus of boos.  Esteban clinched his fists and teeth in frustration.  “¡Cobarde!” he shouted.

            Virginia was outside the ring, pointing and shouting at him.  Calavera glared at her, yelling right back when Espada grabbed him by the arm.  Spinning the heel around, Espada punched Calavera about the face.  Calavera quickly submitted, cowering in the corner and holding up his hands.  Esteban could hear him crying out, “Stop!  Stop!”

            It was time for vindication.  Calavera now had to relinquish his mask.

            Espada led Calavera to the center of the ring and shouted, “Remove your mask now!”

            Calavera reached behind his head and started to untie his mask.  The Boxing and Lucha Commissioner entered the ring.

            Esteban’s heart leapt.  It was the utter humiliation Calavera deserved for attacking his father.  Justice was to be served.

            As the commissioner handed Calavera Verde’s secret identity to the ring announcer, Calavera tried to leave one last time.  But Espada reached out to him and grabbed him by the now-loosened mask.  With one strong yank, he removed the mask from Calavera’s head.

            Outside the ring, Virginia’s eyes widened, seeing the face of the hated rival for the first time.  She clapped with joy, watching the triumph play out.

            Calavera stumbled out of the ring, humiliated, as the ring announcer read the card the commissioner handed to him.

            “Ladies and gentlemen, I have in my hand Calavera Verde’s true identity.  His name is Humberto Cuevas Gutierrez.  He was born in San Miguel de Allende, Guanajuato on February twenty-sixth, 1968.”

            Esteban jumped for joy, moving from his seat and taunting the disgraced Calavera Verde.

            “Haha,” laughed Esteban, pointing at Calavera.  “¡No vale nada, payaso feo!” he shouted, calling him an ugly clown.

            “¡Callete lo sico, pinche carbón!” shouted Humberto, walking up the ramp in disgrace.

            “Mi’jo,” shouted Espada to his son.  Esteban turned to see his father signaling him to the ring.  “Ven,” he said, signaling for him to approach.

            Along with his mother, Esteban dashed to the ring.  Climbing up on the apron, his father reached over the ropes and pulled his son into his arms.  He handed Esteban the mask.

            “Another trophy for our family,” said Espada.

            Esteban waved the mask at the retreating and humiliated Humberto to the wild applause of the crowd.

 

 

ACT I, SCENE V

            Esteban and his mother sat with anticipation in Espada’s locker room.  Espada’s trainers were having cigarettes in another corner of the room when they all heard the members of the press begin to call out Espada’s name.  Camera flashes could be seen from under the space in the doorway.

            “Papa,” shouted Esteban, jumping from his seat.

            In mere moments, his father opened the door and walked in, followed by his manager.  They quickly closed the door before the press could come inside.

            As the door was locked, Esteban ran to his father and jumped.  Wrapping his arms around his father’s neck, the boy was embraced with paternal love.

            “I’m so proud of you, papa.  You beat him.”

            “We beat him, mi’jo,” said Espada.  “I couldn’t have done it without your support.”

            Esteban embraced his father again.  “I love you, dad.”

            “I love you, too, mi’jo,” said Espada, carrying his son to a chair.  He sat his young son on his lap, looking into his boy’s eyes.  Into his own eyes.

            Then, he said, “I want you to understand this, mi’jo.  One day, when you have committed yourself, when you have trained, and when you are ready, you will wear this mask.”

            Incredulous, Esteban’s eyes widened with joy.  A smile spread across his face.  “Really?”

            “You have to, mi’jo.  One day, I will not be able to fight like this anymore.  My body and my mind will be too old to compete.  This is a young man’s sport.  Someone will need to carry on the tradition of our mask.  That someone is you.”

            Esteban gulped.  The weight of that future responsibility suddenly struck his soul with power, with excitement, and inspiration.

            “On your 13^th birthday, you will begin training if continuing our family legacy is what you want to do.”

            “I do,” said Esteban.  He reached up and touched his father’s mask tenderly.

            In spite of the mask, Esteban could see the pride swell in his father’s eyes.

            “One day,” said Espada, “you will wear this mask and be the hope of the people.”

 

=====

Find out where the rest of the story goes as the legacy of Espada del Angel moves forward in 'Sword of the Angel' in paperback or Kindle today!

 

 

Follow the adventures of El Aire in the comb sports series, 'Pit Fighters'.  'Pit Fighters: Baptism by Fire' and 'Pit Fighters: Double Cross' are combat sports-themed books that features fights from the early days of MMA, and plenty of underground money fights.  You've got to check them out, and they're available on Kindle or paperback today.

 

 

BOWIE V. IBARRA is the author of the 'Down the Road' zombie horror series from Permuted Press and Simon and Schuster.  His latest story, 'Tejano Star and the Vengeance of Chaplain Skull' is a Tex-Mexploitation superhero story in the tradition of 'Machete' and 'Black Dynamite'.  Get it in paperback or Kindle today.