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The Offenders
(excerpt)
Kevin was the ringleader. Every Saturday, he’d call up the other Luchadores and name a time and place.
“Don’t be late,” he’d say. He didn’t like talking on the phone. Sometimes, afterwards at the bar, he’d let loose, give them a mouthful of the Lucha Libre spirit, the way of the Mexican wrestler. Of course, everyone was drunk by then. The others joked, dribbled beer on themselves, and squeezed out the last drops of the thrill. Kevin wasn’t sure how serious he could be about these nights anymore. At least when he called, they didn’t waste words.
“Where? Yes. OK.”
Everyone would arrive at the mall parking lot in full costume, red spandex and wrestling masks, then pile into Kevin’s van and head out. The parties were never quite the same, but they began to feel that way. He tried to vary the themes. Some Tejano wedding down past the river. A wine and cheese over in the West Lake area. Even a frat house kegger. Still, the results felt predictable. It didn’t matter where they went; the piss and fear were gone.
Nick always brought a bottle and passed it around the van. That night was no different. He sat up front and fiddled with the radio. Victor, Heath and Tiny rode in the back.
“I’m gonna pull the Don Julio,” Victor said. His signature move involved grabbing Nick and landing a DDT while farting. Victor’s wrestling name was El Guapo. He insisted on calling everyone by their wrestling names. Nick was Rey Mysterioso. Kevin - Santo. Heath - Dr. X. Tiny was the exception. Everyone called him Tiny.
“Why won’t you say DDT, dipshit?” said Nick.
“Why don’t you sit on my dick?”
“Where are we going, anyway?”
“Juarez, man. Gonna get some real luchadores action.”
“Really?”
“No.”
For Kevin, even these bullshit sessions had grown tiresome. There was a time when they were legitimately scared. When they gulped Vodka and sucked at their lips through the nylon masks. They didn’t know what the fuck was going to happen. People might call the police or chase them off, punching and kicking, throwing beer bottles. Once, somebody pulled a shotgun. There’s nothing like that pump-action sound. The Luchadores would scramble over fences, past chained dogs, running with their last breaths back to the van. Grunting, the whole time, chanting “Luchas libres! Luchas libres!”
Now they were expected, minor celebrities. People cheered when they arrived. Most times, a homemade ring had been cleared. Women posed for snapshots. Fake cops handcuffed them to poles. Victor wore his mask in public until his girlfriend told him it smelled. Nick printed up business cards. They’d become no better than party clowns.
Heath and Tiny sat quietly in the back seat. Heath was a small guy, a computer programmer. He liked to climb on Tiny’s enormous shoulders and do a flip, landing on Victor’s stomach and jumping off. He had a real, natural grace and everyone in the group respected his practiced style.
“I’d jump on your dick if I was Heath,” Nick said, spitting a stream of alcohol onto Victor. “That is, if I could find it.”
Victor grabbed Nick in a sleeper hold from behind the seat. Nick kicked the dashboard.
“Cut it out,” said Heath.
“It’s…the…El Sleeper,” Nick coughed in between gasps for air.
Kevin took the bottle from Nick. They were all losing heart, he thought. Except for Tiny. He would keep going if they did. It didn’t seem like he had anything else to do. If it weren’t this, it’d be some other sad sack shit. Bowling. Or recreational rugby. Kevin tried to imagine Tiny running down a field with twelve guys hanging on him. It wouldn’t be much sport. If Kevin said they should buy business suits and crash stockholder meetings, Tiny would be there, standing in the back, staring over the audience, swallowing a tray of bagels.
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