by Scott Craven
“You want honesty, here it is,” I said. “I’ve been thrown in trash cans, stuffed in lockers, and once locked in a display case so more people could enjoy my humiliation. All of this happened to me not because of who I am, but because of what I am.
“Now here’s a chance for me to be a hero. Mendoza said I would be a good guy, that people would cheer my name. They would take my photo, they would ask for autographs. Even though I’m in a mask and costume, and I’ll know the applause is for the character rather than the person, I deserve something positive for once. Not for who I am, but for what I am.”
No response.
“Go ahead,” I said. “Tell me how stupid I am.”
“Jed,” Marisa said. “I can’t pretend to know what you’ve been through, or understand what it’s like to be so different. But I guess …”
“You guess what?”
“Maybe you need this as much as you want it. If you really feel that strongly, I get it. I’m not wholly on board with the idea, but I do realize it can mean so much to someone who’s faced nothing but adversity.”
I lowered the phone from my ear and stared at the screen, still lit with Marisa’s name. Honestly, I wished it said “Anna,” but this helped. This was good.
I put the phone back to my ear.
“I appreciate that, I really do,” I said.
“Just promise me you’ll be careful.”
“Promise. No lie.”
I expected a click and silence, but Marisa added one more thing.
“Be sure to tell Luke I said hi, and that he owes me a text. Better yet, a phone call. And you better be watching out after him. He’s not the fastest armadillo trying to cross the highway in a storm, but he is the cutest.”
I hit the red hang-up button, but couldn’t forget that folksy saying about armadillos and highways. There was only one other person I knew who would say something as ridiculous as that.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
If I could reach my arm, I could whack Vampiro Tijuana over the head while he was still dazed from my vicious head-butt. Unfortunately, my other arm also was out of reach. And if I could reach them, just how was I supposed to pick them up?
The moment summed up perfectly the plusses and minuses of being a zombie luchador (wrestler, Mexican style). On one hand, I could use all of my 130 pounds as a weapon, a bash-seeking missile meant to inflict pain while feeling little in return. On the other hand, I didn’t have hands at this point. Or arms.
Against the better judgment of anyone not a zombie, I’d accepted Mendoza’s offer with one condition: Tread would be my faithful wrestling sidekick. Mendoza agreed even before I showed him how easily you could teach an undead dog new tricks.
After nearly a week of training, Mendoza declared us ready for the ring. Everything went according to script in our first few matches, complete with Tread jumping into the fray when I needed a distraction.
I also came clean about my undeadness, having a gut feeling (which proved correct) that I could trust Mendoza. He’d watched my every move and knew I was not simply a marvel of double-jointed abilities, especially when my lower arms detached a few times. When he knew the truth, he simply nodded and said, “Good news for our insurance rates.”
But based on my performance against Vampiro, perhaps I’d bitten off more than I could chew (a saying I didn’t take lightly as a zombie).
Still, I was happy about two things: Dad had no idea I was wrestling because he was so caught up in his work, and Luke stood in my corner with staples and duct tape at the ready.
A few minutes earlier, Vampiro Tijuana—310 pounds of easily agitated luchador—had put me in a full nelson, locking my shoulders in an iron grip from behind.
According to the script, I’d dislocate my shoulders and slide out, darting between his legs to complete the escape. But I fell victim to Vampiro’s short attention span, because he clearly didn’t read that far.
He squeezed and with a loud pop like that of a cork launched from a champagne bottle, my arms flew from my body. Even more impressive was how the limbs hit the mat at the same time. If synchronized dismemberment were an Olympic sport, Vampiro earned a ten.
I slid away and crawled through Vampiro’s legs, the bout’s storyline destroyed with one move. The script had me climbing Vampiro’s back, grabbing his mask and twisting it front to back, giving Vampiro two eye-holes on the back of his head. As Vampiro stumbled around the ring, I’d snap off my left forearm and beat him about the head and shoulders. Well, mostly the shoulders, because that was as high as I could reach. Vampiro would fall through the ropes, crashing onto a collapsible table that would quickly give way, the match ending when Vampiro slammed onto the concrete, out cold, and with cut-out eyes staring from the back of his head.
My faithful sidekick canine Tread was to sniff and nudge Vampiro, making it clear the wrestler was done.
When Vampiro popped off my arms, the script became meaningless. I felt as hopeless as an armless zombie trying to rescue his non-chupacabra dog from a fortified kennel. Then again, that turned out all right.
But now? Probably not so much.
My arms were on either side of a very angry looking Vampiro as he turned to stare at me. He couldn’t help but look mean, thanks to a mask featuring blood-dipped fangs, thick red lips, and eyebrows shaped as lightning bolts (I wasn’t sure how lightning went with vampires, but it worked). The forehead featured black bats flying in a red sky.
My mask was simple by comparison—silver with square eyeholes and studded with fabric nuts and bolts. It once had a series of flashing LED lights, but Ooze and electricity didn’t mix well. My first match ended after three minutes with screams of pain when batteries leaked, burning my forehead and cheeks. Thank goodness the Mexican audience didn’t understand English, especially with the words I used.
After a few alterations, I returned to the ring as Deadly Transforming Jed (Deadly Jed Transformar to the locals). After all, robots came with detachable limbs. People would applaud the amazing special effects should I come apart at the seams.
“I’d like to think we are a society that would be very zombie-tolerant,” Mendoza said. “But I’d rather they get to know you before revealing your true story.”
When I called Mendoza to tell him I was in, he invited me to meet the crew. A few nights after my bus-crash/lucha libre audition, Luke and I’d met everyone at the Kabob Cabana. Turned out wrestlers shared a love of two things—consuming large portions of meat, and beating each other senseless.
We spotted the luchadores as soon as we walked in. A line of servers balancing kabob towers led us right to a table of guys whose average size was “can block out the sun.”
Luke said something, but I couldn’t make it out through all his scent-induced saliva.
“What, dude?” I asked.
“I haven’t met any of these guys,” he said. “But they are already my heroes.”
Luke gestured to the growing pile of kabobs in the center of the table.
“Behold, Meat Mountain,” he said. “I’ve always dreamed of climbing it. Tonight, I shall.”
I reminded Luke the only reason he was there was as my agent. If I decided to join the troupe, I left it to Luke to negotiate the best deal.
But now he only had eyes for Meat Mountain. I’d lost my best friend to his food fantasy.
“Hola, Jed, venga aquí,” a voice called from behind Meat Mountain.
Mendoza rose from behind the Eighth Wonder of the carnivore world. “Join us, mi amigo. Partake of the spoils of strained muscles and torn ligaments. Or, in your case, severed limbs.”
As soon as “severed limbs” echoed on the walls, every eye around the table was on me. A quick count revealed eleven wrestlers, thus twenty-one eyes (and one eye patch featuring a flaming skull).
“¿Este es el gringo que nos estabas hablando en Mendoza?” said one wrestler, who then saw my quizzical look. “I asked Mendoza if you’re the new wrestler
he’s been talking about. But you look more like the toothpick we’ll need later.”
The table erupted in laughter. Mendoza had warned me my welcome would be less than warm, so I did precisely what he’d asked me to.
I strode to the biggest guy at the table—who also happened to be the guy who’d compared me to a toothpick—detached my left forearm and slapped him with it.
The table fell silent. The single-eyed wrestler lifted his eye-patch (revealing a perfectly normal orb).
Awkward.
Luke, who had trailed behind as I made my way to my target, whispered in my ear, “If you leave here in fewer than four pieces, moral victory.”
The wrestler, who showed no pain when I slapped him, snatched my forearm. Would he snap it into several pieces before scattering it over my grave, or stick it on one of the skewers littering the table and send it to the kitchen to be burnt to a cinder?
Neither, it turned out. He held it over his head with one hand and slapped his palm to mine.
He’d just delivered my very first disembodied high-five. He tossed the arm across the table to another wrestler, who did the same, thwacking my left hand with his meaty palm.
The arm traveled around the table, each luchador offering the same salute. These guys could bench-press three hundred pounds, consume a side of beef in one sitting, and clear a room with three angry words.
But none of them could take off a limb as easily as detaching LEGO blocks.
Mendoza beamed. I was in. Happiest of all was the guy I’d slapped—Diablo Verde, the Green Devil. Over the next hour, the dozen of us concocted scenarios that would best take advantage of my talents. I’d also be the only luchador with a sidekick—Tread, who I boasted about when it came to detachment of limbs.
And my name would be Deadly Jed, the Transformer. Two things worried me. First, would fans freak out when an arm came off?
“Fans want to see us pummeled,” Mendoza, known as El Mercenario, said. “Severed limbs only add to the entertainment value.”
Secondly, would the makers of the Transformer toys and movies sue us, especially if their brand was represented by a zombie?
“Point taken,” Mendoza said. “We can defeat all types of foes, but not copyright infringement.”
My name was altered to Deadly Transforming Jed, the wrestling robot. My mask reflected the mechanical nature of my character, and Tread would wear a silver cape. He specialized in limb retrieval, fetching arms and legs just in time to save the match (but since I was the rookie, victories would be few).
Mendoza and Luke negotiated my contract. Sort of. The process went like this.
Mendoza: “We will pay Jed two hundred pesos per match.”
Luke: “Does that include meals?”
Mendoza: “No. But we can do one hundred pesos and a plate of nachos.”
Luke: “Do I get as much cheese on the nachos as I want?”
Mendoza: “No.”
Luke: “Deal.”
When I told Luke that one hundred pesos equaled about eight bucks, he shrugged. “Nachos, baby. I landed us nachos!”
As I now faced an angry Vampiro, it occurred to me: Are nachos as tasty when fed to you? I counted on Luke to shovel them in my mouth, thanks to my armless state.
Vampiro stood in the middle of the ring staring at me with those dead eyes. His villainous character often drew jeers, and I reminded myself that the man inside the costume was a decent guy. Ernesto Villalobos had been a luchador for more than fifteen years, a long career in a field where broken bones, ripped tendons, and ruptured internal organs shortened careers.
Ernesto changed when he pulled on his mask. He grappled to win, wrestling as much with the script as his opponent. Those matched up with him remained wary, knowing serious injury might result. His desire and effort made him one of the more popular villains, so the crowd roared when he popped off my arms. Never mind they roared with boos, emphasizing their displeasure with words I fortunately did not understand. Still, such strong reactions usually swelled Vampiro with pride, energizing him to commit deeds more atrocious than the last.
He threw his hands up and roared, handing me the opportunity I needed. I ran toward him, head down, and slammed right into his most sensitive spot like a below-the-waist-seeking missile.
Bull’s-eye. Vampiro dropped to his knees, the resulting ring-quake registering at least a 6.4 on the lucha libre Richter scale. He clutched the targeted area.
As he gasped for air, I whistled twice, and Tread leaped into the ring. Just one problem.
His cape caught on a turnbuckle in the corner. Tread strained to free himself, but the fabric of the taut cape held firm. I could see where the cape had snagged, catching on a frayed wire that connected the ropes to the padding.
Luck, and one of my detached arms, was on my side. My left arm had landed in that corner, propped against the ropes and so very close to the snag. Tread hadn’t noticed it when he leapt in, focused instead on my right arm on the other side of the ring.
I thought back to that moment in the kennels, when I was able to move my detached fingers just enough to make a difference.
Could that possibly happen again? Or was it merely a fluke of unpredictable zombieness?
Time to find out.
I focused all my energy (at least what was left) on that arm, imagining it still attached.
“Brain, I need you to do this. Stretch those fingers, curl the wrist.”
The fingers moved, extending. The wrist curled, the index finger so close to the snag. I felt my finger touch the fabric.
“Excellent, Brain, now push. Push that bit of cape up and over the wire.”
Ooze slicked my forehead as I reconnected with the wayward arm. I pushed up with my index finger, felt the sharp point of the wire.
Success.
Tread sprang free and fetched my right arm, dropping it at my feet. As he circled back for the other arm, I wedged my toes under the limb and flipped it to Luke, my always-prepared corner man already peeling silver duct tape from one of the dozen rolls he carried.
Luke caught the arm in mid-air. Vampiro struggled to life, planting one foot, then the other, and pushing himself upright, shaking his head free of the cobwebs.
I had a minute. Maybe.
Tread dropped the other limb at my feet and leapt from the ring, all that training paying off. I flipped that one to Luke as well and raced to the corner.
Luke popped an arm into my right shoulder socket, wrapping it in tape, the roll a blur as it went around and around.
“Eres hombre muerto!” screamed a voice behind me.
I didn’t need a translator to figure that one out. I was a dead man. No argument.
With one arm secure, I asked for the other limb.
“Hold on a sec,” Luke said.
“I don’t have a—”
Luke disappeared. One second he was there, the next he was gone, his space taken by Vampiro’s enormous, and very hairy, back.
My opponent cold-cocked my corner man, sending Luke to the concrete floor two feet below.
My right shoulder tingled, but it would still be several more minutes before my right arm was full strength.
Only it wasn’t my right arm. Luke had fused my left arm to my right shoulder. I couldn’t move it at all. It was like trying to download Android on an iPhone. The two were incompatible, like cross-wiring the right and left brain and causing a short.
I did the only thing I could.
I ran.
Vampiro lunged left. I dodged right. Vampiro dove right. I jumped left. He zigged. I zagged. I could do this all day.
“You can’t do that all day!” Mendoza’s voice. In addition to wrestling, he booked our appearances and was in charge of the shows. And this match’s entertainment value plummeted the more I evaded attacks.
“You have to face him and fight,” Mendoza yelled over the booing crowd.
I stopped undead in my tracks. Prepared
for my doom, I turned to face Vampiro.
A silver flash to the right caught both our eyes. Tread dashed into the ring, my right arm in his jaws.
Vampiro had no idea my left arm (on my right side) was useless. I called to Tread, hoping my opponent would focus on Tread. Vampiro had little chance of catching me when I was in Flee Mode. He had no chance at grabbing Tread.
Tread zipped between Vampiro’s legs, the lumbering giant swiping at the space Tread had occupied two seconds before.
I whistled three sharp bursts, Tread’s command to play keep-away.
Determined to keep me from my other arm, knowing it could come in handy as a club, Vampiro focused his energy on Tread. The crowd stood as the zombie terrier mix dashed about, Vampiro lurching about as if he were the zombie.
I waited for just the right opening, a small window where Vampiro would—
My concentration broke at a sharp squeal of pain. Tread had cut too sharply, his left rear leg snarling on a stray bit of canvas.
My dog was uncatchable on four legs. But with three remaining, Vampiro had a chance, especially as Tread stopped in an effort to reboot and adjust to the missing limb.
My window opened.
Vampiro cornered Tread, leaning down with both heavily muscled arms out to his side. Tread could have ducked under the ropes and escaped, but his doggie brain was still playing keep-away, and surrender was not allowed.
Just fifteen feet away from the two of them, I envisioned my line of attack. Vampiro closed in on Tread when I whistled, calling Tread to me as I ran toward the hulking luchador.
Tread ducked just enough to get under Vampiro’s arm. Vampiro twisted his upper body toward me at the same time I launched, our heads connecting with a loud, somewhat sickening, thud.
I bounced off intact. Vampiro slumped to the mat.
Tread trotted over to the fallen wrestler and dropped the arm on him.
Just as scripted.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
“So then Tread drops my arm on top of Vampiro, and everybody goes nuts.” I hoped it didn’t sound as if I was bragging as I told Anna all about the match that made me feel semi-famous in the lucha libre community.
