El DIABLO CABEZA CONTRA
LO FAZ DELLO DEMONIO
By Dennis E. Power
“Uno!” shouted the referee, yet so thunderous were the roars
of the crowd that Ray barely heard the referee’s voice although he was but a
few feet from him.
Blood
pounded in Ray’s head, his vision grew blurry and stars danced before his eyes.
The shouts, noisemakers and horns all receded from his consciousness as Lo Faz
Demonio pinned Ray to the mat and despite Ray’s great strength held him
immobile. Lo Faz Dello Demonio had Ray in a rana hold with the tips of his boots digging into Ray’s
throat, slowly but inexorably crushing his windpipe. Although he rarely used
his great strength in the ring, Ray summoned what little of it that remained
and pushed off of the mat with his fingers. His fingers punctured the canvas
mat with a series of loud pops and puffs of powder. Yet for some reason his
fingers, which could normally have lifted five times his weight, could not lift
his shoulders off of the mat.
Ray knew
he was going to die; even worse, he was going to be unmasked.
ONE
WEEK EARLIER
Ray
Fuerte finished his morning calisthenics and cooled down by sitting in a wooden
lounge chair on the veranda of his hacienda. While basking in the morning sun
and eating handfuls of chilled grapes and fruit slices Ray thought about how
great his life had become. He was a well-regarded athlete and a role model.
Sipping boiling hot black coffee he also indulged in his daily cigarette; his
one remaining vice from the days before he became a public figure.
Up until
three years ago Ray had led a fairly directionless life. Born in
Once Ray
had been discharged from the Army he returned to a rather carefree life, taking
odd or part time jobs that gave him enough money to pursue his true vocation;
having a good time. His good times came to a sudden halt when his mother
suffered a debilitating stroke. This was caused by her great disappointment in
her son, at least so claimed Ray’s aunt. Ray soon learned that his mother had
very little money and had barely made ends meet. Her medical bills and her
inability to work soon depleted what savings they had.
As Ray
went through his mother’s papers to see if there were any hidden assets or
salable items he found some pictures of his father. Ray had seen photos of his
father before. These photos had almost always had him dressed in his United
States Army dress uniform. In these photos his father had always been alone
against a white background. Any photos that had Ray’s father and mother
together were shot from their shoulders up. The photos of his father Ray
discovered that day were ones that his mother had obviously hidden from his
sight. The photos shocked Ray so much that he nearly fainted. His mother was
not a large woman, she was very petite perhaps 120 lbs and
just about 5 feet tall but she was much taller than Ray’s father who appeared
to be about close to four feet in height at the tallest.
He also
found 8x10 glossy pictures of a muscular man dressed in black tights, black
leather boots and a leather mask that covered his entire head except for his
eyes, nose and mouth. The mask was of black leather and had a white skull motif
painted on the front. The photo showed the man holding his hands and arms out
and his legs slightly bent as if he meant to grapple with someone. A snarl
could be seen through the mask’s mouth hole. Written on the photo in white
marker were the words, Best wishes from El Terror Diminuto.
Since his mother was unable to speak, Ray steeled himself
to visit his disapproving aunt.
After haranguing him about his general laziness, his
callous disregard for his mother that was driving her into the grave and many
other topics, she finally told him about his father. Yes, his father had been a
dwarf and he had been a famous luchador in Mexico. Ray Fuerte sr. had been
known as El Terror Diminuto.
When Ray had asked how a dwarf had been able to enlist in
the United State Army, he was rather surprised when his aunt had smiled and
replied with a wistful quality to her voice, "Because he had the strength
of ten men.” She recounted how after Pearl Harbor had been bombed Ray Fuerte
had rushed back to the United States to join the Army. He had been rejected
several times but finally had been allowed to enlist in a special branch of the
army because of his great strength. While training Ray sr. had carried a whirlwind
romance with two sisters that ended with Ray’s mother winning his heart. He was
killed in the South Pacific in 1945. She closed with saying that even though
Ray sr. had been a dwarf his son was not a tenth of the man he had been.
As was about to leave, she called him back. She told him
that Ray had left Mexico rather abruptly and so he might have an estate that
his wife was entitled to receive. Ray’s mother had never pursued this because
she had not wanted to seem like a fortune hunter. His aunt told him that since
Ray had little self-respect and was not above taking unearned money he might as
well visit
Although Ray was not a follower of lucha
libre he did know El Santo was a major star in
When Ray attended the match he was unable to get close
enough to El Santo to speak to him and he realized that this is how it would
always be. However there was an announcement that El Santo would be holding
open auditions for a new class to be formed at his Guerro
Azteca School. To prove that they were worthy to be
admitted to the school the candidates had to wrestle one another, the winners
would then wrestle second tier luchadores and finally the last twenty
candidates had to stay in the ring with El Santo for five minutes. Ray thought
that is was a golden opportunity and perhaps his only chance to talk to El
Santo.
Ray made his way to the Guerro Azteca and entered the contest. Filled with an
uncharacteristic determination Ray summoned all of his old skill and strength
to win his matches. Despite being out of shape, Ra rose through the ranks,
although barely won matches against the professional luchadores. He was
exhausted when it came time for his bout with El Santo.
Although it was hard to read his expression behind the full
face mask, it seemed to Ray that El Santo eyes glittered with amused contempt
at his haggard and physically drained body. El Santo’s eyes flicked once in
what Ray thought was puzzlement. Taking a chance that he had recognized his
father in him, as El Santo came to grapple with him, Ray told El Santo he was
the son of El Terror Diminuto.
El Santo’s eyes hardened and grew hot with fury. He grabbed
Ray in a headlock and flipped him over so that Ray’s back slammed onto the mat.
El Santo somersaulted into a planca, his back
slamming against Ray’s chest forcibly jettisoning all of the air in Ray’s
lungs. El Santo rolled over to pin Ray but Ray threw him off by rolling over so
that he was on top of El Santo. However El Santo used his super strength, and
with his knees pushed off the mat, launching Ray into a flying horizontal spin.
Moving rapidly, El Santo grabbed Ray and Ray fell towards El Santo. Ray landed hard, his back crashing into El Santo’s bent knees. With two
rapid movements El Santo had one hand on Ray’s neck and the other on Ray’s
ankles, putting him in a bow and arrow submission. El Santo pulled on Ray with
great strength and Ray suddenly realized that El Santo was not playing a game;
he meant to break Ray’s back.
Suddenly worried about his life, Ray rocked himself back
and forth, managing to rollover onto his knees. Standing up he grabbed El
Santo’s legs and arms and shifted El Santo onto his shoulders in a torture rack
hold where by El Santo was bent over backwards across Ray’s shoulders. El Santo
grew angrier and jabbed Ray into the gut with a free hand. When Ray was knocked
off balance El Santo forced Ray to fall face forward to the mat. Half
unconscious Ray was barely aware of being picked up and thrown into the ropes.
When Ray bounced off of the ropes El Santo slammed an arm against Ray’s chest
knocking him to the mat once again. El Santo picked up Ray again and threw him
into the ropes once more, this time twisting the ropes around Ray. The ropes
were entwined about Ray’s neck and legs. El Santo twisted them tighter about
Ray’s neck, choking him, as he did he told Ray he was a worthless, spineless
son of a rodent and deserved to die.
Fear of death, and oddly enough El Santo’s repudiation of
his father made Ray angry; angrier than he had ever been in his life. White hot
rage coursed through him he surged against the ropes, barely feeling them snap
as he pushed against El Santo. El Santo went flying backwards and hit the ropes
on the other side of the ring with his back, stretching them back as far as
they could. El Santo used the forward momentum of the ropes snapping back to
launch into a double somersault dive. He drove Ray back against the mat and
quickly pinned him. El Santo’s anger had miraculously disappeared.
El Santo shook Ray’s hand after the match and then embraced
him. El Santo told Ray he had seen enough of his father in Ray’s face that he
knew Ray’s claim to be the son of El Terror Diminuto
was valid. El Santo had noticed that Ray had not used his great strength in any
of his matches and understood that Ray had been afraid. El Santo had
deliberately made Ray angry so that Ray would use his strength. He explained
that it was the super strength that El Santo and the great Lucadores possessed
that enabled them to make their great leaps and throws, it was an asset and Ray
should use it proudly.
Ray did not tell El Santo that until that moment he had not
even realized that he had possessed super strength.
Ray learned that Ray’s father had indeed owned a small
estate which El Santo had converted into investments and held in trust. The
money from the estate went directly to Ray’s mother. Ray had discovered that he
had enjoyed the contest and decided to attend Guerro Azteca for the training. El Santo took Ray under his wing
as a protégé. Since Ray was too tall to be known as El Hijo
de Terror Diminutio, El Santo suggested Ray use
something else. Ray’s aunt told him that Ray sr. claimed his great strength
came from their ancestral connection to the mysterious western figure known as
El Head, El Diablo Cabeza. Ray studied up on the legends of this character and
learned he was supposed to have been a ghost or demon. El Head was supposedly a
skull who wore a blue United States Cavalry hat. This hat wearing skull rode on
a yellow horse guided by two skeletal arms. Neither the head nor the arms were
attached to one another but somehow floated around under their own independent
power. Ray designed a costume of a black body suit with a black neckpiece and
white arms and gloves. He wore a black mask a skull face fainted on it, topped
off with a tattered blue United States Cavalry hat. He called himself El Diablo
Cabeza.
In two years time El Diablo Cabeza had become one of the
most popular luchadores in all of Mexico, not quite as popular as El Santo, El
Demonio Azul or Mil Mascaras but he was getting
there.
To the shock of his aunt, Ray had not become just a bottom
level luchador who eked out a living by participating in enough battles to live
a free and easy life style, by cashing in on his popularity as a fighter. Ray
had become disciplined and driven. While it was true he was known to casually
date many women, he had almost entirely given up all drugs and alcohol. He knew
he was a role model for children and that luchadores had responsibilities
outside of the ring.
As Ray
savored his one daily cigarette the phone rang with a call that shattered his
life.
A rudo by the name of Lo Faz Dello Demonio had invoked a pelea de la sangre against him. Lo Faz Dello Demonio was the equivalent of Ray in terms of popularity although he had been a luchador for a few more years.
Ray
protested that he had never met Lo Faz Dello Demonio
much less had wrestled against him. Why the blood feud?
Ray’s
manager said that Lo Faz claimed that it was an ancient blood feud that had to
be addressed. If Ray refused the challenge, as he had a right to do, he would
be condemned as a coward and would no longer be considered a Técnico but a low class rudo, a payaso strictly for laughs. No one would ever take him
seriously again and the top luchadores would forever ignore him.
When Ray
had joined the ranks of the true luchadores he had quickly learned that beyond
the art and artifice of the ring there was a sub rosa culture among the luchadores. Although the
general public knew that the actions and personalities of the luchadores and
their matches were carefully scripted to provide comedy, drama and pulse
pounding acrobatic sporting events, the general public did not realize that
quite a bit of the comedy, drama and even the bouts themselves were true and
unscripted.
Although
luchadores had not become the subjects of popular entertainment until the
1930s, luchadores had existed for hundreds of years, although there had only
been a handful of true luchadores up to the 1930s. The first luchadores of the
1930s and most of the great luchadores such as El Santo, Lo Demonio Azul, and Mil Mascaras were all descendents of the first
luchador. Although lucha libre had come to mean free
style fighting as regarding the fighting technique by which the luchador
fought, the term originally signified what the luchadores’ true purpose was, fights free meant that he was a freedom fighter, a
fighter against oppression.
The
original luchadores represented, like many things in Mexico, a fusion of Native
Mexican and European cultures. The original luchador, the direct ancestor of El
Santo, had created a martial order that combined the elements of European
chivalry and knighthood with that of new world pre-Columbian warrior mysticism.
He forged and created a silver mask that echoed not only of the helm of the
Knight but the sacred masks of the Pre-Columbian warrior. Condemning the gun
and the sword as emblems of the oppressors, the luchadores had created their
own unique martial art that combined the discipline of the knight with the
athleticism of the sacred ball player.
Through the
generations the small but valiant band of luchadores fought against evil and
oppression to the best of their abilities. However in the 1930’s a new evil
arose in the world, an evil so vast and insidious that it threatened to devour
the soul of the world as well as causing countless deaths. To counter this
great evil El Santo and his fellow luchadores had taken their crusade public
under the guise of public entertainment. They increased their numbers by
careful recruitment and carried out a secret war against the agents of the
darkness that threatened the world. Although they were never credited for it,
the luchadores kept Mexico from becoming a fascist state and joining the Axis
powers. The Axis powers knew of their true purpose and opposed them through proxy
agents, giving rise to the conflict between the good knights, the Técnicos and the evil knights, the rudos.
It also explained to Ray why some Rudos took on the
public persona of Nazi’s.
Although
the conflict between the Técnicos and rudos was largely ceremonial, it was also quite real in
that many of the Técnicos and rudos
still represented the forces of light and darkness and a consequence; the
battles were often unscripted and resulted in “accidental” injuries.
Because
of Ray’s great strength, his descent from a dwarf, which were
highly regarded in old Mexican mythology and because of his natural talent in lucha libre, he had become a candidate to join the true
luchadores, to become one of Mexico’s modern knights. Shouldering this
responsibility he had grown up and gradually had been introduced to the true
role of a luchador as a knight and defender of the people.
The old
Ray might have thought nothing of being regarded as a coward and might fled
from the blood feud battle, sacrificing his reputation for the chance to save
his skin. However El Diablo Cabeza never backed down from a fight and never
would. He told his agent to accept the feud. His daily cigarette suddenly
tasted bitter and repugnant and he snubbed it out.
The blood
feud would however play havoc with the storyline of scripted feuds and fights
he was supposed to enact over the next few months. The escrivitos
would have fits. Blood feuds were usually carried out over a period of six
months and worked into existing storylines so as to keep secret the true nature
of the conflict between the Técnicos and the rudos. The feuds usually ended in the dreaded máscara contra mascara battle and the loser would be
unmasked. Although in these mascara contra mascara battles there were often
serious injuries on both sides.
Ray was
weight training when he received a second phone call from his agent. The agent
sounded worried and perplexed. Lo Faz dello Demonio’s people had informed him that the mascara contra
mascara fight would occur on August 6. When the agent had started to protest
that was too soon, Lo Faz’s manager had told the
agent to talk to the Técnico council. The Técnico council had informed Ray’s agent that the fight
would indeed culminate on August 6, there was no appeal.
Ray’s
manager then informed him that the match was not merely mascara contra mascara
but also a batalla de la muerte.
Cold fire
gripped Ray’s heart; he had hoped to avoid that part of being a luchador. Most
of the luchadores never had to fight a true batalla
de la muerte. They were extremely rare and had to be
sanctioned by the entire council of true luchadores. To outsiders it would
appear that Ray or his opponent had been accidentally killed in the ring when
in truth both fighters were truly attempting to kill one another. Ray was not
afraid of being hurt or killed himself; he had just had enough of killing in
Viet Nam.
Ray made
an appointment to see El Santo for some advice on what to do. El Santo could
not tell him why such importance had been put on the death match. He did give
Ray some background on Lo Faz dello Demonio.
Originally Lo Faz had been a Técnico but shortly
after Ray had showed up as El Diablo Cabeza Lo Faz had made a heel turn and
become a rudo. No real reason was given to the Grand
Council for the turn and it threw many storylines into disarray.
Ray asked
if it was necessary for him to kill Lo Faz dello
Demonio. El Santo said that the luchadores that became the great ones did not
choose to be so, they were chosen. If Ray could not answer the greater calling
of their profession, which on occasion, required him to carry out some
unpleasant tasks, then he should walk away and never look back. Those had been
called to become a true luchador had to choose all or nothing, there was no
middle ground.
Ray had
his first encounter with Lo Faz dello Demonio a
couple of days later. As per his ongoing storyline, El Diablo Cabeza was in an
ongoing feud with a rudo named El Salvaje
Que Rie. El Salvaje’s motif was to dress in a leopard skin loincloth,
wear long hair and a flesh colored mask without any adornments and go
barefooted. He emulated or attempted to emulate Tarzan and usually swung into
the ring on a “vine”. However the luchador was unable to make the Tarzan call
properly, it sounded as if he were laughing. He was thus named The Chuckling
Savage.
Prior to
their match El Diablo Cabeza and the El Salvaje had a
confrontation outside of the ring where they screamed and pushed at one
another. This inflamed their fans who shouted,
screamed and used noisemakers. Their confrontation was interrupted by Lo Faz
who pulled them apart and gave Ray an unscripted head butt that sent him
crashing against the outside of the empty ring. Lo Faz grabbed the stunned Ray
by his knees and flipped him inside the ring and jumped in after him, jumping
off of the ring in a planca against Ray’s chest.
In the
unofficial bout that took place the enmity between Lo Faz and El Diablo Cabeza
was established. Since Ray was groggy from truly being attacked without warning
El Salvaje aided him, thus moving El Salvaje from the ranks of the rudos
to that of the Tecnicos. Lo Faz challenged El Diablo
Cabeza to a máscara contra mascara, mano a mano, without out the help
of his savage friend. El Diablo Cabeza accepted the challenge albeit a bit
unsteadily for during the course of their unofficial bout Lo Faz had whispered
into Ray’s ear. “I hear you are vacillating about fighting me. You will fight
me or you will be crippled and your invalid mother will suffer a fate I would
not wish on a dog.”
Two nights
before the fight agonized over the necessity of killing someone. If he knew for
certain that Lo Faz was a truly evil person like a child molester or murderer
Ray could have killed him with without little compunction, however not knowing
what type of person Lo Faz was beneath the mask made it harder for Ray to
resolve himself to the task. He also had no idea what possible ancient feud Lo
Faz was referring in Ray’s researches into El Head he had never come across
such a reference but then most tales of El Head were incomplete and sketchy at
best. Unable to come to terms with his decision and feeling restless, Ray
donned his El Diablo Cabeza mask and costume and left his hacienda to drive
into Mexico City proper.
He parked
his car at a garage and took to the rooftops of a neighborhood consisting of
manufacturing facilities and low income housing, an area
renown for crime during the night time hours. Once of the duties of a true
luchador, one only hinted at in the various films, comics and television
stories about luchadores, was that they fought crime as costumed vigilantes.
There were limits to how often each luchador was supposed to actually
participate in this activity, too much led to burn out and also eroded the
urban myth aspect of their legend. Ray was often criticized for overdoing his
bit but he enjoyed it. As he jumped from rooftop to rooftop he was a bit
disappointed because it was a quiet night. He was about to give up and go home
when he saw a group of gang members chasing a young woman through one of the
alleys a couple of blocks away. He jumped across several roofs and then down to
the street, the pavement stinging his feet a bit from the thirty foot drop.
Running around the corner to the alley, he was almost hit by a body thrown up
against a brick wall.
Ray saw
the gang members being pulled away from the girl and then punched, kicked or
flipped to all points of the alley. The person doing the punching, kicking and
flipping was another masked vigilante. As Ray moved closer he saw, with a
slight shock, that the vigilante was Lo Faz dello
Demonio.
While it
was rare for rudos to also act as vigilantes it was
not unknown. Yet Ray wondered at Lo Faz’s sudden
appearance. Lo Faz answered this unspoken question as soon as he had disposed
of the last of the gang members. He spun around and faced Ray.
“You have
been under observation for some time now. We had to make certain you did not
bolt. I saw you heading to take of these punks and thought it would be fun to
deny you the opportunity since I was closer to them than you.”
Ray
muttered something to the effect that he had not thought it was because of the rudo’s social conscience.
“Too bad
you will not get the chance to learn and fully understand that tecnicos and rudos are not that
fundamentally different. Although your superiors brand us evil many rudos simply oppose the autocratic way in which the tecnicos carry out their social agenda. Besides I would
have been a tecnico had fate not cursed me into the
role of a rudo.”
“El Santo
told me that you turned heel right after I showed up. Was I somehow the cause
of this?”
“Yes,
although inadvertently. When my grandfather saw your name and picture in the
newspaper he had a heart attack and died. The family curse then passed onto me
since my father had already died. Once I was cursed I truly had the Face of the
Demon and my career as a good face was over.”
“What
does this have to do with me?” Ray asked with puzzlement not following Lo Faz’s dialogue.
“I kill
you and I remove the curse, I will never be a tecnico
again but at least my heirs will never bear the mark.”
“I wanted
to show you a couple of things tonight. Follow me.” Lo Faz demanded and walked
out of the alley. Ray followed Lo Faz down the street a few blocks. Ray
suddenly recognized this neighborhood. This area contained the orphanage where
Ray often volunteered, a couple of blocks over was the gymnasium and recreation
center that he also spent time working with neighborhood children.
Lo Faz
pointed to the orphanage “Imagine how devastating it would be if several
firebombs were to crash through the window. Imagine how it terrible it would be
if this also happened at the recreation center. “
Ray’s
face flushed with anger, “I already told you I would fight you. You do not need
to threaten anymore innocents.”
A grimace flickered across Lo Faz’ face, visible through the mouth
hole. “I know
you will wrestle me and that you have been wrestling with your conscience about
killing me. Let me reassure you on that point. You will not kill me. Rather it
is you that is going to die. In fact, you are going to let me kill you.”
The
remark was so absurd that Ray could not help but laugh.
A grimace
showed through Lo Faz’s mask. “You will let me kill
you or the kiddies at the orphanage and at the recreational center will roast,
as will your mother in her home.” The grimace came again and with a start Ray
realized that this was a smile.
“Why are
you doing this?”
“Why! You
dare to ask why!” In one swift movement Lo Faz removed his mask.
Ray had
always thought that Lo Faz dello Demonio’s
bulging, bloodshot right eye and the scar tissue below it as well as the scar
tissue surrounding his mouth, a strip of which bridged over his lips, had
always been the result of additional make up underneath the mask. He saw that
it was not. A large burn scar ran from just over the right eye to the right
corner of his mouth. In addition to being red and shiny the scar tissue looked
as though the flesh had melted like wax to drip down his face.
“This is
how my grandfather looked and when he died, my face felt as though a torch had
been stuck against it. And then my face looked like this and when I die the
first born of my descendents will look like this. We had thought the curse gone
when my father never developed the Face of the Demon. But now we know it is
only when he who presently has the mark dies that it passes on. So do you
really think I could have remained a tecnico with a
face like that? As to why I must kill you, just as I bear the mark of the demon
from my ancestor, you are in a true sense the descendent of El Head. Your
ancestor was the first to have become tainted with his blood. It is that
corrupt blood that binds us into our fates. One of us must die and I have taken
measures to ensure that it is not I. Run from your fate and your family will
die. Refuse to accept your fate and many innocents will die. Your
choice, amigo.”
With that
Lo Faz dello Demonio disappeared into the shadows.
Ray was
not even more confused as to what to do than before he went out to clear his
head. The night stayed quiet and after a few hours he headed home for some
restless sleep. After his daily call to his mother and aunt, he went to see El
Santo. He laid out the problem for El Santo leaving out no details including
his doubts. El Santo listened but shook his head grimly. “You are at the fork
in the road. I cannot give you any advice on this muchacho;
it must be entirely your decision.”
Ray spent
the rest of the day training and practicing, burning off his frustrated energy.
When the day for the death battle came, Ray was still not certain what he
should do. His gut told him that his threats against innocents Lo Faz dello Demonio proved to be a villain and should be killed.
However there were also the lives of the innocents to be considered, the
children and his mother and aunt. Even if there was the remotest chance that Lo
Faz could carry out his threat even after his death, should Ray put the
innocents at risk?
When Ray
entered the ring he noticed that ringside were several of the children from the
recreational center. At their first grapple Lo Faz whispered into his ear, “I
thought you might like to get a last look at those kids, one way or another you
will not see them again. What is your decision hero?”
Ray
decided that it was the nobler thing to sacrifice himself
for the children. He whispered back. “Okay, I will go down but you will have to
work for it.”
Lo Faz’
smile grimace came, “Let’s give them their money’s worth for your farewell performance.”
The bout
that followed was by all accounts one of the most spectacular in all of
luchador history complete with some of the greatest acrobatic moves, holds and
breaks by both of the wrestlers. After a half an hour both men were covered
with sweat, bruises and blood. Ray discovered that despite his having the
advantage of strength over Lo Faz dello Demonio, Lo
Faz was much quicker and more agile than Ray.
After an
hour while El Diablo Cabeza had Lo Faz in a cobra clutch, Lo Faz whispered that
it was time for Ray to go down. He would drop so that Ray could put him into an
armlock Lo Faz would flip out of it and Ray would end
up in a camel clutch and Lo Faz would snap his neck.
Ray did
as he was told and resigned himself to his death. Ray ended up face down on the
mat and Lo Faz sat on his back, grabbing Ray’s head around the forehead and
pulling it backwards with all of his might. The pain of Lo Faz slowly pulling
on his neck was incredible. As Ray felt and heard the creaking of his neck
bones, his vision went blank.
His
mother’s face appeared out of the blackness swimming before his eyes. “Why do
you always take the easy route, Ray. You could do so
much more.” His aunt appeared before his eyes. “You think you are being noble,
you are just being stupid and lazy.” Finally the face of his father appeared
before him, a man Ray had never really seen in real life
“You are really going to take the word of man who threatens children?
Yes, lie down. Die, it is easy to die. It is hard to live with the bitter
choices we must make at times.”
The pain
of his stretched neck finally gave Ray clarity of thought and a renewed
devotion to the cause. He remembered why he had become a luchador. To Fight!
Slamming
his palms with all his strength, Ray pushed off against the canvas and
catapulted himself and Lo Faz off of the mat. Ray broke the hold and put Lo Faz
into a headlock.
Ray
whispered to Lo Faz. “I decided not to lay down for you.”
Lo Faz
looked shocked. “Why, your family will die, those kids will die.”
“I am a
warrior. It is that simple. I do not give up. If your agents kill anybody, I
will kill them. Besides I don’t trust you. I think you are lying.”
“You want
to take that chance!” Lo Faz hissed.
“I do not
want to but I must. I am a luchador, a true luchador. When it matters I fight
for true.”
The smile
grimace, “So be it. Let the best man win for real.”
Lo Faz dello Demonio gave El Diablo Cabeza a low blow, which made
the referee break up the clutch. El Diablo Cabeza’s
manager threw him a towel so that he could wipe off his sweaty face. The wet
towel stung his face but Ray had to move quickly to avoid Lo Faz’s grapple. Ray felt dizzy and he felt like he was
moving through molasses. Lo Faz dropped him to the mat on his back with a
springboard hurricana which he quickly turned into
the rana that slowly choked the life out of Ray and
broke his neck while he lay in a torpid state. He realized too late that the
towel had been drugged.
The
Referee cried “Uno!”
“Dos!”
Whatever
was sapping his strength was also sapping his will, urging him to give up and
let the darkness claim him. The seductive siren call proved too much and Ray
succumbed to the cold embrace of Lady Death and began to dance towards
oblivion.
It would
have been nice if Ray had envisioned his last breath as being stolen by a
passionate kiss from Death as a beautiful woman but it was not to be. The last
images that registered on Ray’s mind were of the hideous mask of Lo Faz Dello Demonio hovering over his face as Lo Faz leaned
forward and increased pressure with his feet against Ray’s throat and jaw. Lo
Faz bulging, bloodshot right eye hovering over his face like a demonic sun was
the last thing Ray saw as his neck snapped.
“Tres!”
Ray did not
immediately die although his vision went black as he lay paralyzed and laboring
for air. Ray felt the pressure fall away from his neck as Lo Faz swung off of
him. Hard thick fingers grabbed the edges of his mask. Ray felt a painful
pressure against his chin and cheeks as his mask was torn off. Scream of
dismay, shouts of triumph and a cool breeze against his sweaty face were the
last things he heard and felt.
Ray awoke
with a stiff neck, which hurt considerably when he stretched out on the hard
firm mattress. He realized with a start that he was not in his own bed and then
he realized that he should be dead. His eyes adjusted to his surroundings and
he found that he was in what appeared to be a hospital room set inside a small
cavern. There were monitors and IV drips and all the other accoutrements he had
come to know from his mother’s long stay in the hospital but these were set
against walls carven from basalt and volcanic rock.
El Santo
and Lo Faz dello Demonio entered the room. El Santo
embraced Ray and told him that he was now a true luchador. His decision to
fight against evil rather than sacrifice himself proved that he was a warrior
that could make the hard decisions for the welfare of all the people.
Ray
protested that he could have also decided to fight back out of basic self
interest, putting his own life above those who had been threatened.
El Santo
told him that they knew that was not the case. The luchador knew why had made
his decision to fight, for the cause rather than self preservation. He had been
carefully monitored throughout the process. It was test. Normally, it truly
would have been a fight to the death between an evil rudo
and the candidate However this case was different. Ray truly did need to die.
Lo Faz dello Demonio took off his mask demonstrating that the
scars marring his face had disappeared.
“It was
all fake. Even the scars?”
Lo Faz
shook his head, “It was all too real. Here read this and I will explain more.”
Lo Faz handed Ray an old leather bound ledger filled with handwriting. It was
opened to a certain page. Ray began to read.
Journal
of Jonas Karst (sporadically kept)
May 10, 1877
For a few weeks now I been on the trail
of an owlhoot that’s some kinda
living legend, or as some tell it, a not so living legend. Folks call him
El Head or the Demon Head or the Devil’s Head. There’s a bunch of wild tales
that say he’s man who got his head and arms blowed
off or hacked off and that this head and arms ride around on a big ole yeller hoss causing all sorts of mischief. Personally I think that
it ain’t nothing but flim flam and wild exaggeration. Maybe this fellow might
use tricks like a magician to make himself look like a demon but a shotgun
shell will stop him just the same. Personally I don’t care how many folks he
fooled or supposedly robbed or killed. All I care about is the 2,000 dollar
bounty on the head of El Head. I am to collect it, dead or alive.
May 12 1877
Heard tell of a few more stories of the cuss I am chasin'. He was a soldier turned gold miner. His partners
turned on him and blasted him to bits with shotguns. These bits lived on and
chased after his killers. Over the next coupla years
he caught up and took care of them. Here the stories get even stranger. In
addition to being some kind of ghost or haunt this fella is also supposed to be
an inventor of the fantastical sort. Sorta like that
feller that invented the steam man a few years back. One of his enemies, a
printer turned preacher was put into a device that killed and skinned him. Then
using his skin and blood it turned him into a book some sort of devil’s bible.
Another fella was burnt up and left frozen in a block of ice in the middle of
the desert, another who had become a base ball player
was battered to death by a machine that threw baseballs at him. The last one
had become a law man down on the border. This El Head jasper got together a
posse filled with the worst sort of men from all over the west and invaded this
law man’s town drawing him out and killing him. The killing of the lawman is
why there is a bounty on his head put on there by the people of that there
town. Sounds like a tricky cuss. Well, so am I.
May 13, 1877
Rode into the town of Rock Ridge today. Pretty much of a ghost town. Heard tell
that when the railroad was planning on coming through they fought tooth and
nail against it coming near their town. The rail was built elsewhere and
when a new town grew up around the rail depot, Rock Ridge slowly faded as trade
moved to the new town and people followed business. There are a few stubborn
hold outs but the town has only fifty people or so. Even with so few people
here, as I rode into town I got the Stares. People averting their eyes,
covering their children’s eyes or pulling ‘em inside so’s they don’t hafta look at my
ugly ole face. Went directly to the local watering hole to
see if anyone had any information on this El Head fella. The saloon was
dark and like most of the businesses in the town none too well taken care of,
not enough customers to care I reckon. There were four or five gents in the
saloon, a couple of hard cases, a drummer who apparently made a wrong turn
somewhere and a couple of old codgers looked like old prospectors who had not
moved on when the town did.
At the bar I ordered a whisky and asked the bartender if he
had heard of this fella called El Head. The bartenders shook his head rapidly
and stepped away from the bar.
“Hey you ugly son of a bitch, you named Jonas Karst?”
shouted one of the hardcases at the end of the bar.
Without looking at him I tole him yes and downed my
redeye.
“I got a message for you from El Head. See you in hell!” he
shouted as he made his move.
He was fast on the draw I’ll give him that. Of course I
have run up against much faster. His barrels hadn’t finished clearing leather
when my bullets took in the chest and stomach. For good measure I also shot the
right arm of his hardcase buddy.
The Sheriff of Rock Ridge was a shaky drunkard by the
handle of Waco. Originally he had been the deputy but the sheriff had left once
the town had started to wither away. I remembered Waco from back a few years;
he had been a gunfighter of some repute. He’s accidentally killed a kid and
taken to the bottle. Turns out there was a fifty dollar
bounty on the fella I shot. Waco had to give me a voucher to be paid by the
state government. I knew I’d never get that money.
In the dead man’s pocket was a piece of paper upon which
was written a barely legible scrawl. “I know you are following me Jonas. Hunting me. I have no doubt that you will get past this
tinhorn. You can find me in Hedlyburg. I will be
waiting. It will be nice to see you again-however briefly. El Head.”
Stayed at the one remaining hotel in
Rock Ridge owned by a Howard Johnson. Johnson was
glad to get any business, even mine.
May 16 1877
Hedlyburg is about two
days ride from Rock Ridge. It was named after the fella who brought the
railroad through the area or so I hear. Those people considered him a hero of
sorts although the people of Rock Ridge thought him to be a scoundrel. Story is
that the former Sheriff of Rock Ridge shot that Hedly
fella outside a chop suey house or an opium den.
Well, something Celestial at any rate.
Like most towns, the good folk of Hedlyburg
stared at my handsome face. ‘Course I have been in many towns in my long
career, many of them quite odd but this town took the cake for being weird. All
the people not only glared at me but at each other in what looked like shame
and hatred. I headed towards the sheriff’s office to let him know I was in town
and would probably be killing at least one jasper. As
I passed by a barber shop, a man wearing a face full of foam and hair covered
sheet burst out of the barber’s shop. I saw the twitch of his hands beneath the
sheet as he shouted “Die Jonas Karst!”
After I planted two in his chest, I clumb
down from my horse and wiped off his face with the portion of the sheet that
weren’t soaked in blood. Wasn’t anybody I knew.
Twisting a rope around his foot I drug him down to the
Sheriff’s office. The Sheriff’s office was closed, locked and dark. I drug the
dead fella down to the undertaker and gave him a dollar to plant the fella who
had came gunning for me. The undertaker was none too
pleased to see me mainly becuz I busted in on a wake
in progress. As I was jawing with the undertaker, I heard the high pitched
voice of an old woman shout, “Die Jonas Karst.” I spun around and saw that one
of the mourners, an old lady dressed in a black dress and shawl and long wild
gray hair was running at me with a hairpin out to stab me. I reckon she had
pulled the pin out of her hair to run me through. I sidestepped and grabbed the
old lady’s arm as it stabbed at me and squeezed until the pin dropped from her
hand. She fainted from the pain and fell to the floor. Dropping her where she
lay, I gave my leave.
Yes, sir Hedlyburg was shaping up
to be a strange town.
I did not know if this El Head character had paid these folk
to attack me or hypnotized them or if they were all just plumb crazy.
Saddling up I walked my horse up the street a few blocks
towards the nearest saloon. I was attacked four more times before I reached the
saloon. I buffaloed a crazed butcher who came at me with a carving knife,
booted in the face a whisky Indian who tried to grab my leg, slapped down a
Chinee laundryman trying to choke me with a towel and shot out the knee of a
blacksmith that tried to smite with a sledgehammer.
Once I was in the saloon I still had that sense that
everything was a bit odd but the saloon seemed normal. People were drinking,
gambling, carousing, flirting with dancehall floozies and going on about the
normal business of a saloon with out paying me no never mind. Then I realized
that was odd in itself, I have never stepped into any place without attracting
stares.
The barkeep smiled and took my order for a red eye as if I
were a normal looking fellow, his eyes never once
flickered to the hideous scar marring my face.
I admit I was a bit lulled by all the
normalcy and almost felt normal when the barkeep refilled my glass with a
smile. He dropped his bar rag and stooped to picked up with a small self
recriminating shake of his head. He was smiling pleasantly and in a cordial
manner when he said, “Die Jonas Karst” and pulled the triggers on the shotgun
he had picked up when he had dropped the rag. I felt the heat of the blast pass
over my head as I flung my self backwards.
As I tumbled for the floor the entire saloon said in
chorus, “Die Jonas Karst” and began hauling out shooting irons. Jumping back
over the bar I tore the shotgun from the bartender’s hands, butt stroked his
head and fired into the mob. I fired until the shotgun was empty which
fortunately took out just about all of the crazy folk attacking me. My six
shooters spoke a few times and then the room was silent.
Well almost silent. There was a fellow sitting at table by himself softly laughing.
He was a young fellow in his mid twenties dressed like a gambler
with a fancy gold colored vest, frilly shirt and wearing a low crowned Stetson.
“You are as fast as they say, Jonas. Fast enough to face
me. I am quicker than lighting, quicker than light. I am quick as thought, as a
matter of fact.” He said with a dazzling smile. “I brought you here because I
had some unfinished business with the town. I wanted to see the results of one
of my earlier pranks, a mysterious bag of gold that turned the town against
each other.”
“Nice to see you again Jonas, I rarely see anyone from my
old life. Too bad about your face. That’s Apache
handiwork, isn’t it?” he smiled sympathetically but the emotion never reached
his eyes. Shaking his head and sighing, “I have had my encounters with them
before. I have heard it was in fact your adopted father that did that to you.
Took a burning torch and held it up against your face until the skin melted
like lard on a griddle.” Clucking his tongue, “Musta hurt like the devil, huh?”
“Look friend, I do not know who the hell you are so why
don’t you stop acting like an old lost compadre. If
you are this El Head sidewinder I’ve been chasing, either surrender peaceably
or fill your hands.”
“I am an old friend, Jonas. Paul Ichabod.”
I barely remembered the name. He was a fella I had met
during the War Between the States, he’d been in
another unit. We had played cards and drank a bit together. However this dude
did not look anything like Paul Ichabod had. I said
as much.
The gambler smiled and said, “Oh yes, I forgot. All of
sudden Paul Ichabod was sitting there, looking like
the last time I had seen him, even dressed in his Confederate Uniform.”
“Alrighty Mr. Trickster, I have
about had enough of your playing around. I think you are this El Head varmint
and I really don’t care if you are also Ichabod or
not. I never much liked the fella, besides I heard he was dead.
Icabod smiled, “I’ve
heard that too.” His eyes hardened and all humor fled from them. “Let’s end the
game then. Let’s settle this the good old fashioned western way with a showdown
in the street.”
“Suits me just fine.” I watched him
by focusing my special eye as he stepped up from the table. Ever since that
torch had been stuck up against my face and scorched the flesh around my right
eye making it always appear bloodshot and swelling up so it bulged out from
socket, I have been able to see things with it lots better. It tracks faster
than my other eye and sees with great detail. However today it was not working
all that well ‘cause Ichabod looked all blurry and
staring at him made my eye water and ache something fierce.
We stepped out into the street and walked backwards several
paces. Ichabod and drew at the same time however as I
fired he disappeared into thin air. I fired two shots off to the left of where
he had been standing but did not hit anything. I heard the crack of a shot and
a slug punched into my shoulder.
“Could have killed you if I wanted”, he said and suddenly
appeared to my right. As I aimed my finger stopped on the trigger. Ichabod was no longer standing there but I was. Me before I
had been marked with the Face of the Demon.
Another trick. I blasted
three shots into figure’s stomach but my bullets passed through like I I’d shot
thin air.
Ichabod’s voice came out
of my unscarred lips, “Like me you have no trouble killing your old self, eh?
Keep on firing and when you are done, I will show you how much I hate anyone
dogging my trail. When I finish you will think getting the Face of the Demon
was one of the highpoints of your life”.
I shut my left eye and strained with my bulging right eye
until I thought it would pop out of my skull. I saw a faint wavery
figure standing not three feet from me. With my good arm I unloaded what left in my six shooter at that faint outline. I was rewarded with
a screech that gave me a headache and dragged needles down my spine. Brains and
blood splattered my face, filling my mouth with something that tasted worse
than the worst rotgut I had ever had the misfortune to drink.
I tried to stand only to fall in a paralyzed heap. What I
saw still makes me think I’d been doped in that saloon.
Instead of a dead fellow laying in
the dust next to me, I saw a skull with a strips of dried and rotting flesh
hanging off of it. The top of the skull was broken and leaked fresh brains and
blood. Although every other part of the skull was all dead or dried flesh or
even bare bone, the eyes were still living eyes. They reminded me a bit of my
special eye, bulging out of their sockets. Parts of the spine still clung
to the skull trailing out of it like a snake And just
like a snake the spine twitched and moved. The snakey
spine put the skull in an upright position. The shattered part of the skull was
closing up, bone rapidly growing up around the naked brains.
Off near my feet was a sight that was almost more shocking
than the living skull. A small child lay face down in the dirt of the street.
The child stirred and pushed up from the dirt. It was not a child at all but a
dwarf and he had a burn scar much more horrific than mine. He had no ears of
lips to speak of and his entire face and hairless scalp were made of wattled red flesh like the skin of a lizard or a gila monster. When he put a top stovepipe hat on his
hairless head it furthered my conviction that I was dreaming. The top hat was
made of wood or metal. The dwarf picked up the skull and placed it atop the stovepipe
hat which apparently had a opening up there cause the
skull settled down in there like a scorpion backing down into its nest.
“So you see why they call me El Head. You ain’t the ugliest son of a bitch in the world, after all”,
the skull said with some jocularity. “You hurt me like no one has hurt me in a
long time. Killing you would be too easy. You’ve been on a suicide run since
you got that face, even if you won’t admit it. As you can see I am damned hard
to kill and I may live forever. The kicker is, like you, I want to die. You
have tasted my blood now and I have power over you. While it my blood is still
fresh in you I can shape you in any way I wanted. I could even fix your face
but I won’t. I curse you instead Jonas Karst. Jonas the
cursed, the hexed. The Face of the Demon is now in your blood. If you
can manage to truly kill me, your face will be fixed. If you don’t then the
Face of the Demon will pass on into your family, the oldest of your line will
inherit it upon your death.” The skull closed its mouth showing its ever
present grin. “Happy hunting.”
The dwarf and the skull shimmered and the form of the young
gambler stood in front of me once more. I fell into darkness.
June 18, 1877.
I awoke up in Howard Johnson’s hotel in Rock Ridge where I
had been put after wandering into the town in a daze. I see what I have written
in the journal but do not remember any of that having happened. Someone in Hedlyburg must have doped me all up..
June 22, 1877
Rode into Hedlyburg
today. It is a ghost town and has been for some time. A
few stragglers hanging around claim that the people in the town had all gone
their separate ways after a mysterious stranger had hoaxed with them a false
bag of gold a few years back.
The trail of El Head is cold. One day I will find that
tricky son of a bitch.
Ray finished reading and handed the book back to Lo Faz dello Demonio.
“Jonas Karse died in 1904 and his
son inherited the Face of the Demon. It has passed through the generations up
to my grandfather. El Head supposedly died or was destroyed in the Hiroshima
atomic bomb, yet the curse remained because it was not my grandfather who had
destroyed El Head.
“When you arrived on the scene and adopted a name and motif
similar to El Head at the same time the curse was passed onto me, we thought
that it was too much of a synchronicity. Consulting with a magician friend of
El Santo he determined that we were indeed connected.
“El Santo thought that you were ready for the Test, as was
I. We chose August 6 because that was the twenty-fifth anniversary of El Head’s
destruction. It was determined that this would also be a good way to rid
me of the curse, if I could kill you.”
“So it was a symbolic killing that released your curse?”
“No I killed you but those of the blood of El Head do not
always stay dead. Besides the Grand Council was
certain that the machines of Dr. Kroger could resurrect you or I without
turning us into zombies because of that special blood.”
Ray was angry he felt not only used but betrayed. He had to
prove himself and die in order to join the order of
the true luchador but Lo Faz dello Demonio had done
so after turning rudo because he was upset about his
facial scarring.
Lo Faz nodded with understanding. “My heel turn was just a
ploy. I was not driven insane by the scarring since I had been prepared all my
life that this was a possibility. No I accepted my fate but when the
possibility to lift the curse arose I did it, not for me but for her.” He
showed Ray a snapshot of a beautiful little girl with vibrant red hair. “When
it looked like the curse had passed me by I had a family. However I cannot have
anymore children. Since we life in a violent world and are in violent professions
I did not want this curse to pass onto my little girl. It has happened to one
other woman with tragic consequences.”
Ray felt better about the situation but could not help but
feel some residual bitterness.
When El Santo told him that El Diablo
Cabeza would arise from the dead and convert Lo Faz dello
Demonio back into a tecnico and that they would
become partners. Ray doubted that it would work out.
Epilogue
1990
Reuters
May 16, 1990
Famed model Joanna Six surprised the world by suddenly
retiring from the world of high fashion. There are rumors that the sudden death
of her father or a bizarre facial scarring incident led to her abandoning the
runway.
1991
Galavision (translated
from the Spanish)
“The raucous screams of rabid fans hailed the appearance of
the newest incarnation of Lo Faz dello Demonio. Like
many of the new luchadores in recent years this new version is a woman. Like
her predecessor she has teamed up with veteran lucador
El Diablo Cabeza. This often contentious partnership always provided fans with
thrills and drama, we can only hope that the tradition
will continue.”
ã2006 Dennis E. Power All rights
reserved.
Special thanks to luchador extraordinaire, The Masked Savage.