Lucha Libre Volcanica, In Part

El Hombre de Leche: Ascendente

“Milky! Milky! Milky!”

A dumpy man strode through double velvet curtains into a fierce cacophony. Straight-backed and dressed all in white, a bullish confidence emanated down from his mask to his haphazard, eponymous posterior stitching. His creamy complexion and soft, wispy shoulder hair reflected the stage lights. As his opponent circled the ring above, Milk Man’s every step seemed to thicken his fleshy, bully’s sneer. Among the anonymous ranks of the assembled wrestlers, Milk Man, weighing in at over 200 pounds, was clearly not one to be easily spilt.

Music thundered and the crowed whipped itself in a proverbial frenzy over the neon pomp and lo-fi ambient menace. The announcer screamed and implored, desperately assigning each clashing, dashing brawler with responsibilities humane and otherwise. Milk Man found himself in a corner, battered, but not yet beaten; struck lower and lower, but not yet dead. His opponent gathered up for yet another assault, but, at the last possible second, Milk Man ducked and rolled to center ring, fingers curled to claws, a weary sneer again emblazoned above his exposed, ruddy chin. Shattering clacks and sighs accompanied each fall as Milk Man and his imposing interlocutor brought labored, staggering blow after blow to the other.

Milk Man, barely able to stand, sought one final knock out. His was not the soaring technique; Milk Man was never meant to fly. However, with a brutish determination and swagger, he rose from both knees to one. Through a cascade of boos and swirling mass of downturned thumbs, Milk Man saw his opponent, astride the corner, rallying the wave of derision to ever greater volume. Breathing heavily, Milk Man, still propped on a single knee, forearm resting idly on the other, watched the crowd favorite turn toward him. As the big man leapt down, Milk Man raised his chin and opened his arms, ready for the embrace to come.

The Rise of King Jaguar

Dragón Dorado never saw it coming. As had his peers before him, he worked the crowd, high-fiving, yelling and raising the decibel level with every flap of his arms. But, turned toward the hoi poloi, mid-wave, his leg buckled and he tumbled face first into the front row. Behind him, Alcotán shook with triumphant fury. In a swift kick, a heel was born. Dragón limped ringside, while his partner, Halcón Negro, seethed just inside the front right corner.

Despite their malevolent intentions, comeuppance was not to befall Alcotán and his glittering teammate, Rey Jaguar. With Dragón Dorado all but incapacitated, Halcón Negro had little recourse. Least of all from the helpless official, Mr. Mustache, who was powerless against the force of will and occasional extra-legal operations of the Rey Jaguar and Alcotán. As with any team of destiny, there was nothing to do but accept admission and strap in for the ride.


Originally published at www.alexjohnson.xyz on February 28, 2017.