1: Kid Diablo Loco

There is a dull thump as he hits the asphalt – the speed is enough to make him bounce off it at an angle, smacking down again hard a little over a second and thirty meters later, pain screaming through his bones as he leaves a long trail, sliding across the snow-covered road.

We move in close to his face – most of it covered by the green and black Luchador mask, we can still see that KID DIABLO LOCO is exhausted, in pain. That pale Black Crow Brigadier freak´s attack hit him harder than most things that has hit him before. His dark eyes blink once, slowly, and a multitude of snowflakes are reflected in their depths.

He is vaguely aware of the fight going on still – people screaming. The Brigadiers tearing into those waywards as he was lying spread-eagled on the cold and snowy ground. In his mind, he was already up on his feet. In his mind, he could feel the strength returning to his limbs, flowing into his legs and carrying him right into the middle of the fray – fast – and as he gave in to that lava flow boiling up inside of him, as he let just a little of all the shame and pain and rage and shit leak out he could see himself tearing into them like a terror from –

- but unbidden, the memories come.

We drift into…

… another scene, drawn in a different style from Zaijian Honey Blues proper – more Western, perhaps, but also more jutting, more grapphiti-esque, more Liquid Television organic. We see a technicolor sun rise above the desert horizon, we see legions of mighty green cacti rise up against the sky and cast their shadow over the desert floor. We see –

- a village. All white little houses and trailers, Mexican-style buildings in organic little clumps. Children are playing with a dog in the street, older people lazily eyeing them from their perches in sunchairs andfrom under the precious shadows of their sunroofs. Here and there, more of the huge cacti are growing.

There is only one thing off about the whole scene; everyone is masked. To a man, child and – yeah, even the street dog – they are all wearing brightly colored, individual Luchador masks. Other than that, it´s like every cliché you´ve ever imagined about that type of sleepy Mexican desert village. Well, with the possible exception for the large wrestling ring up in the center of the village, where the eye of the camera drifts. That and the huge circle of Aztec-styled totem pillars that surrounds it.

The camera moves UP, high up in the sky – passing a masked vulture as it does – and then turns to dive straight down at the ring. In the middle of it, a small figure is struggling to get back up on his feet, and a larger one is standing still, his great stature making him loom over the smaller one. As we get closer, it is apparent that the small kid is KID DIABLO LOCO – if not from the close-up, so for the fact that

KID DIABLO LOCO

gets stamped out in huge. Mexican-styled letters across the screen. A quick cut to the larger man reveals him to be the one we´ve spied before (but really in the future, relatively speaking, for the nature of flashbacks is to play havic with the linearity of a story) as a Magistrate of Zhen Zhou City. Another name is written wirh a POW-POW-POW of mighty letters:

EL DIABLO GRANDE

He nods sagely at his son. He speaks, and his voice is deep and powerful and melodious – it contains strength and compassion, but also melancholy.. ”Do not resist your teachings, my son. The techniques are within your grasp – they are part of your being. Just breathe in, in the presence of your forefathers, and the purity of your cause will bring you enlightenment.”

”It is too much!”Up on his feet again, Kid Diablo stares up at his father. He is choking on tears of rage and frustration.

”It is too. Much! I cannot fight like this, I – every time that I am in the challenges, I – ”

His father remains silent.

”… I… it´s so close… and I lose control… and I…”

Eyes filling up with tears, he makes a half-hearted motion to wipe them away with the back of his clenched fist. After a few more moments of silence, El Diablo Grande speaks:

”This is what you must learn to do, my son. This is what we are, the men of our line. We are the Luchador – bringers of justice, defenders of the weak. We can not abandon our nature.”

He kneels down before his son – still almost twice his height – and puts an enormous hand on his shoulder.

”And the greatest enemy that you must conquer is yourself. Ponder this:”

He makes a sweeping gesture with his other hand, and the camera PANS across the totemic monuments. ”These are the Luchador bloodlines of our ancient and sacred village – all with their own masks, their own codes, their own source of power. We are not Los Verdes Lobos, whose ancient fighting styles emulates the dreaded Chupacabra. We are not Los Immortales, whose powers and fighting spirit are inherited from Aztec mummies. We are Los Manos Diables – and we are but men.”

He sighs and looks Kid deep in the eye. ”And yet, son, you have something more in you. Your condition is yours alone, and it is you alone who must master the call of los Sangre.Just remember – the rage destroys. Do not hate. Simply protect, and – when the need arises – avenge. Do not give yourself over to the rage.”

… not…

…give…

… and Kid Diablo opens his eyes again; the hands that were clenching into fists unclench, and jaws who were trembling with tension relax somewhat. Somewhat, but enough – the thumping of his heart is not quite as loud as it was just the moment before, as he claws himself up in a standing position, rubs his aching ribs.

The battle is still raging – he can´t have been out more than a few seconds.

He starts running back, choking back the sickly taste of fear as he does. This time, he managed to keep it in check. This time.

He might never be a great Luchador, but for the moment it would have to do.

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