My Father, the Angel of Death

by Ray Villareal

  All of a sudden, the heavy metal music for the Midnight Raiders blasted through the speakers. Multicolored laser lights flashed across the auditorium. Sean LaRue and Jason Cage, the ACW tag-team champions, appeared at the top of the stage. They were dressed in similar navy blue tights with matching navy blue boots. They wore black vests speckled with tiny white stars. MIDNIGHT RAIDERS was emblazoned on the back of their vests in shiny gold letters.

  They raced down the entrance ramp, slapping hands with the fans as they made their way to the ring.

  Seconds later, their challengers, Red Lassiter and Kid Dynamo, followed them. After the introductions for the tag-team title match, the bout was underway.

  Although I tune in to watch wrestling almost every Monday night, there is nothing like seeing it live. The match was fast-paced, with lots of moves, countermoves, and near pins. Finally, after about twelve minutes, Jason Cage pinned Kid Dynamo with the Raider Roll while their partners fought outside the ring. It was a terrific opening match, and the fans demonstrated their appreciation by giving the wrestlers a standing ovation.

  The second match featured El Azteca Dorado against Tashira Nagasaki. The article in the American Championship Wrestling Magazine dubbed it the “East Meets West” match. It was an exciting bout that, like the first one, featured almost nonstop action. In the end, though, Nagasaki made El Azteca Dorado tap out when he clamped a Cross Face Chicken Wing on him.

  Carlos Montoya had known beforehand that he would job to Tashira Nagasaki, but he didn’t mind. In wrestling, it’s not a matter of winning or losing a match as much as it is about entertaining the fans. And the match was entertaining. Carlos Montoya’s lucha libre style of wrestling blended perfectly with Tashira Nagasaki’s martial arts moves. Their match showcased their impressive acrobatic abilities.

  My mom finally arrived during the middle of the match between Jumbo Jefferson and Bronko Savage.

  “Where were you?” I asked. “I was starting to get worried.”

  I didn’t tell her, but what really worried me was what my father might have thought of her leaving after he’d made all these plans to have us be here with him.

  “Sorry, sweetheart,” she said, panting for breath. “We lost track of time and then we got lost. Anyway, I’m here. Did I miss much?”

  I gave her a brief rundown of what had happened so far.

  Bronko Savage started strong, pummeling Jefferson with some vicious right hands. But Jumbo Jefferson soon recovered. Even though the match was billed as a fight for the Iron Fist title, he mostly used his incredibly large body to his advantage rather than his fists. He tossed Bronko Savage against the corner. Jefferson followed that up with a fierce Avalanche, sending Savage crumbling down to the mat. Then, with a running start, he flew up and crashed down on him with the Jumbo Splash. One, two, three, and Jumbo Jefferson was declared the new Iron Fist champion.

  The next bout was the Mask vs. Mask match between Kronos and Black Mamba. Because of their enormous sizes, this match, like the one before, had none of the aerial maneuvers that the first two bouts offered. Mostly they pounded and kicked each other. The end of the match came when Mamba managed to break out of a Full Nelson, tagging Kronos on the jaw with an elbow smash. Then he slammed his head against the turnbuckles. With Kronos now dazed, Mamba lifted him and suplexed him solidly onto the mat. He dragged Kronos back to his feet with a side headlock. Then, to advertise what he was about to do next, Mamba raised his right arm in the air. His hand was balled in a fist, and his thumb stuck out like a hitchhiker’s. It was wrapped with shiny gold tape. The fans shrieked with excitement. Mamba jammed his thumb in Kronos’s throat. It was his famous “Mamba Stinger.” Kronos struggled to break out of the hold, kicking and flaying his arms, but after a few seconds, his legs started to buckle. His body slumped down to the canvas. Mamba, his thumb still firmly planted in Kronos’s neck, then climbed on top of him. The referee counted to three, punctuating each number with a loud hand slap to the mat.

  “THE WINNER OF THE MASK VS. MASK MATCH,” Dan Greenberg screamed into the microphone, “BLAAACK MAMBAAA!”

  The crowd cheered wildly.

  Black Mamba climbed the corner ropes and raised his arms in triumph while the thoroughly entertained fans chanted: “Mamba! Mamba! Mamba!” He leaped off and ran to the opposite corner and did the same thing. Making sure not to leave anyone out, Mamba climbed up the other two corners, letting the fans know how much he valued their support.

  After the noise subsided, Mamba snatched the microphone away from Dan Greenberg. He aimed a finger, pistol-like, at his prostrate opponent. “Take off your mask, Kronos!” he commanded. Kronos slowly staggered to his feet. He stared at Mamba in horror. Then he turned to the audience and comically shook his head.

  “Your mask!” Mamba roared. “Take it off!” He pantomimed yanking off his own mask.

  “No! No!” bawled Kronos. He pressed his mask tightly against his face and pleaded his case with the fans.

  The crowd was having none of it. “Take it off!” they yelled. “Take it off!”

  What an act, I thought. Nothing would please Kronos more than to strip off his mask right then and there, but he was acting as if it was the worst possible thing that could happen to him. He was Br’er Rabbit begging Br’er Fox not to throw him into the briar patch.

  Finally, Frank Collins appeared at the top of the stage holding a microphone of his own.

  “Kronos,” he called, “I’m ordering you to take your mask off right now! That was the stipulation you agreed to when you signed the contract to this match. Take it off or you will be facing an indefinite suspension.”

  The announcement thrilled the crowd. “Take it off! Take it off! Take it off!”

  Kronos, left with no other alternative, began to undo the laces on his mask. He paused momentarily and turned to Frank Collins. He fell to his knees and clasped his hands as if in prayer. But Mr. Collins, unmoved by Kronos’s actions, yelled into his microphone, “Come on, Kronos! Take it off!”

  At last, Kronos peeled off his red and white mask. The fans laughed and jeered at him. Black Mamba raised his arms triumphantly once again as his theme music hit.

  His face now bare, Kronos dejectedly climbed out of the ring and walked through a gauntlet of unceasing taunts and insults. But I knew that inside he was smiling, relieved that finally he would no longer have to wrestle with a mask suffocating his face.

  Next on the card was the Women’s Title match with Andromeda successfully defending her belt against a former women’s champ, Libba T. Belle.

  Gorgeous Gordon Gnash lost by disqualification to Dr. Inferno when he grabbed his atomizer from the ringside announcer’s table and sprayed perfume into Inferno’s eyes.

  Demented Devlin Dredd defeated Bruce the Bruiser Brannigan with a Brainbuster, and the Blue Dragon got a win over Bulldog Max Myers when he knocked him out with a Super Kick.

  It had been an incredible show so far. I knew Wendell and the guys were enjoying every minute of it. I hoped Sara was watching, too. But I knew it was unlikely. If her parents didn’t allow her to watch wrestling when it was free on TV, they certainly weren’t about to shell out the bucks to order the pay-per-view. I’d tell her all about it when I got back to school.

  The steel cage, which had been suspended above the arena all night, now slowly descended until it encircled the ring for the next match.

  Butcher Murdock was introduced first. He snarled and growled at the fans as he paraded past them. The fans booed him in return. Murdock entered the ring through a small door on the side of the cage.

  By contrast, as he marched down the aisle, Ice Man Jacob Sloane, overwhelmingly the fan favorite, was greeted with unrestrained cheers and applause. A teenage girl held up a sign that read: MARRY ME, ICE MAN!

  Pro wrestling has a way of influencing the fans to accept what it wants them to believe. Butcher Murdock, who outside of the ring is one of the nicest men I’ve ever met, plays a heel. So most fans automatically hate him. On the
other hand, the fans idolize Jacob Sloane because he portrays a good guy, a face. But I wonder how the fans, particularly the girl with the MARRY ME, ICE MAN sign would feel if they knew what a jerk he was in real life.

  The Steel Cage match lived up to its hype. It was a vicious, bloody battle with both men blading heavily. I’m sure Manny, if he was watching, was marking out for it, big time. The fans at Madison Square Garden certainly were.

  “Jesse, I’m going to step out into the lobby for a little bit,” my mom said, looking queasy. I’d have thought that after seeing my father blade over the years, she’d have gotten used to it. Apparently she hadn’t.

  “Okay, but Dad’s match is coming up next,” I reminded her.

  After a grueling twenty minutes, Ice Man Jacob Sloane finally won the match, leaving Butcher Murdock laying unconscious in the ring, bleeding profusely.

  As battered as both men looked, I knew they were okay. They hadn’t really beaten each other as badly as they would like the fans to think. The punches the wrestlers threw at each other didn’t land with that much force. There is no way they could have survived if they had really struck each other the way they pretended to. Oh, there would be some aches and maybe some bruises. The cuts they inflicted on themselves when they bladed would take a few days to heal. But after a good night’s rest, they would be ready to put on another show, in another arena, in another city. That’s the nature of the wrestling business.

  After both wrestlers exited the ring, the steel cage was hoisted back up to the ceiling.

  Before introducing the final match of the night, Dan Greenberg thanked the fans for attending The Final Stand. He invited everyone to tune in to Monday Night Mayhem, which would be airing the following night on TV.

  I wished my mom would hurry back.

  My father’s match was next.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Following a brief intermission, Prince Romulus’s entrance music began to play. It was a unique mixture of tambourines, drums, oboes, and electric guitars. The Prince, accompanied by Il Gran Mephisto, ambled down the aisle, amid a chorus of boos. The Prince climbed through the ropes and stood in the center of the ring, his arms crossed, his head held high with pride and defiance. He wore a magnificent, ankle-length, purple satin robe with rows of gold sequins along the front and back. Underneath he wore purple spandex tights with PRINCE embroidered in gold lettering on the outside of one leg and ROMULUS on the other. A specially made purple headgear covered the sides of his head. The front of it was lined with imitation jewels: rubies, diamonds, emeralds, and sapphires. A tuft of curly, dark-brown hair protruded from the top. Prince Romulus projected every bit the royal image of his ring name. Mephisto, dressed in a black Armani suit with a black shirt and tie, paced around the outside of the ring, yelling at the fans, purposely riling them in true wrestling heel fashion. No one does a better job at antagonizing the audience than Il Gran Mephisto. He’s a master at it.

  As the Prince’s music died out, the bright lights faded, replaced by dark blue ones. The familiar, spectral organ music resounded loudly. A booming explosion, detonated by the pyrotechnics crew, shook the whole auditorium. Streams of fire blasted up from each side of the stage entrance, followed by a huge, wafting cloud of smoke.

  Suddenly, there he stood—my father, the Angel of Death.

  The fans jumped to their feet the moment the lights went out. Now they were rabid with excitement.

  “Death! Death! Death! Death!”

  “Aaagghh!” bellowed my father as he extended his scythe high in the air.

  Amid the throngs of people who lined the walkway to the ring, I spotted my mom. She jostled her way along the security wall that is set up to separate the fans from the wrestlers. She stood at the very front and yelled at the top of her lungs, “Mark, I love you!”

  I think she startled my father. He stopped in mid-howl and stared at her with a surprised look on his face. He quickly recovered and let out another roar. She responded by blowing him a kiss.

  As he climbed into the squared circle, my mom hurried up the steps toward me. She was laughing. “Do you think I embarrassed your father?”

  “Are you kidding?” I said. “No way. This is wrestling.”

  The organ music played itself out. The arena was relit with white lights.

  The two men stood in the middle of the ring, face to face, separated only by the official in charge.

  The Angel of Death fixed his dark eyes deeply into the Prince’s, hypnotizing him with his snake-like stare.

  “Don’t look into his eyes! Don’t look into his eyes!” Il Gran Mephisto screeched from outside the ring, furiously pounding on the ring apron. “Turn away, Prince! Look the other way!”

  Prince Romulus snapped out of his trance just in time. He turned his head and focused his eyes on his manager. The pasty, white skull of the Angel of Death grinned devilishly.

  Rocky Davis went over the rules with both men. He then instructed them to return to their corners until the bell sounded. As soon as the Angel of Death turned his back, the Prince sneaked up from behind and attacked him. Their match had begun.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  Whap! Whap! Whap! Prince Romulus’s fists savagely pounded the Angel of Death’s back. Weakening him, the Prince grabbed him by an arm and swung him against the ropes. But the Angel of Death bounced back with a thunderous clothesline that sent Prince Romulus flying into the air before he crashed down on the mat with a loud thud.

  “Yeeeah!” roared the partisan crowd. “Get ‘im!”

  Il Gran Mephisto immediately slid into the ring and pulled his nephew out to safety. While the Prince cleared his head, the Angel of Death turned to the crowd. With a fiery look in his eyes, he pounded his chest wildly. “Aaagghh!”

  The fans ate it up. “Death! Death! Death! Death!”

  Prince Romulus tried to climb back into the ring, but each time he did, the Angel of Death tossed him back out. Finally Mephisto leaped up on the ring apron just outside the ropes. The Angel of Death reached out to grab him. As he did, the Prince, still on the floor, yanked the Angel of Death by the ankles and dragged him out. Both men battled each other until the referee separated them and ordered them back into the ring.

  My heart palpitated with excitement as I watched the action. The man in black with the sinister-looking skeleton face, who was pummeling his opponent with vicious chops and punches, was the same person who used to carry me on his shoulders when I was little. He read to me before I went to bed. He wrote poetry and love songs for my mom. He played the guitar and the piano. And after tonight, he would spend the next few weeks at home with us. But at the moment, he was the Angel of Death, the emissary from the Netherworld, sent by the Dark Forces to destroy his enemy.

  Prince Romulus gained the upper hand with two forearms to the face, a standing drop kick, and a suplex. While the Angel of Death lay face down on the mat, the Prince climbed on his back and firmly clamped his finishing hold on him, the dreaded Procrustes Stretch. Pinning his arms behind him, he pulled the Angel of Death’s head back, bending him backwards. It was a submission hold the Prince used to make his opponents tap out. But of course, there was no way the Angel of Death was going to give up. Not because he was strong enough to withstand his painful predicament. Not because he was able to summon the Dark Forces to energize him with supernatural strength. Simply put, it wasn’t scripted for him to tap out.

  After several agonizing moments, the Angel of Death out-powered the Prince and broke out of the Procrustes Stretch. He lifted the Prince over his head, then slammed his body hard over his knee with a brutal backbreaker. Next he went for his own finishing maneuver, the Death Drop Pile Driver.

  Once again, Il Gran Mephisto jumped up on the ring apron in protest of what was happening to his nephew. The Angel of Death, distracted, released the Prince without finishing him off. He seized Mephisto and dragged him into the ring. The Prince recovered in time and managed to rescue his uncle from the hands of the Angel of Death.


  The fighting continued for about eighteen minutes with both men putting on a spectacular performance. And the fans loved every minute of it.

  Finally, while the Angel of Death had the Prince pinned against the corner with his fingers gripped, vicelike, around his neck, the referee leaned in close to both men. I saw his lips mouth something that looked like: “Let’s take it home, boys.”

  The wrestlers understood.

  The Angel of Death flung the Prince to the ropes. As he rebounded, he whacked him with a clothesline, knocking him down to the mat. With cat-like speed, he scrambled up the turnbuckles. He spun around and readied himself to deliver an elbow drop to the defenseless Prince.

  He coiled his body and sprang from the top of the ropes. But his boot slipped on the slick turnbuckle cover as he jumped. Off balance, he landed, full force, on his right ankle. His foot folded from the pressure of his weight.

  “Aaahhh!” he screamed. It wasn’t his trademark Angel of Death roar, but one of genuine pain.

  “Mom, Dad’s hurt!” I cried, jumping out of my seat.

  She smiled condescendingly. “He’s fine, Jesse. It’s just part of the show. You know that.”

  “No, it’s not!” I watched in revulsion as my father reeled on the floor in agony. “Look at him, he’s hurt.”

  Rocky Davis rushed to my father’s side. I could tell that he was asking him if he was all right. Prince Romulus rose to his feet, wondering what had happened. When he saw my father on the mat with the referee kneeling next to him, it didn’t take long to surmise that something had gone wrong.

  With twenty thousand fans watching in the arena and millions more watching from their television sets across the country, the Angel of Death knew he had to keep the show going. The Prince strutted arrogantly around the ring and yelled at the fans. They, in turn, booed and jeered. Il Gran Mephisto jumped in and raised his nephew’s arm in victory.

  The Prince headed over to my father and half-heartedly stomped him on the chest a couple of times. I knew he was really checking to see how badly hurt my father was. The referee ordered him back, threatening to disqualify him. The Prince retreated to Mephisto and whispered something about the situation at hand.