Post by Malo on May 12, 2017 13:41:48 GMT
“Juan … JUAAAAAAAAAAN!”
The air of panic in the voice of the luchador was enough for the cameraman to actually pick up his pace as he stumbled through the undergrowth of pricker bushes, brambles clinging to his pants as he burst through to the small clearing gasping for air.
“What,” he panted, “what’s going on?"
John had expected to find the mask man pinned under a tree, a wild dog inching closer to his throat, imminent death a heartbeat away. Instead, he found Malo sitting cross legged on the ground, chewing on a long piece of grass and rocking back and forth slightly.
“You,” he began, his voice filled with exasperation, “I thought you were in trouble or something … what the hell?”
Malo didn’t seem to notice the incredulous look, or tone, his eyes closed as he continued to rock.
“Amigo,” he said with an almost whisper, “Malo, he is in the troubles.” Malo looked up at John, panic etched on what little of his face could be seen without the mask. “Malo es in muy, muy troubles.”
John shook his head, unsure of whether he should approach or hang back. He half hoped that Malo would be a little more forthcoming with what he was looking for.
“Juan?” Malo asked, “Did you see mi amigo, Zasshu in your travels?”
John looked around, having completely forgotten about the other luchador. “Uh, no” he answered with a sense of happiness. The fact that the trio had, again, been out in the woods training made John, once again, question why he was doing this.
No paycheck was worth the heebie jeebies that he got whenever Zasshu was around.
But, no, he out he ventured; though he managed to talk Malo out of wearing another costume this time around. Thankfully Zasshu wasn’t in action this coming week and he told Malo that it wouldn’t make sense to dress up again if he already knew what to expect.
So, instead, the three of them went off in three separate directions without much indication of what to expect, how this would prepare Malo for his upcoming match, or most importantly – why John needed to go off on his own when he was supposed to be recording Malo.
“I is not knowing what I should be doing here, Juan … all of this,” Malo opens his eyes and spreads his arms wide to the small open space, “all of this is seeming wrong. Last time,” he continues with an almost pleading tone, “Malo, he is coming up with the perfect trainings. Los Lost Chicos, they is not knowing what is hitting them, ¡si!”
John nods his head, though quickly remembers his part in the training exercise and ceases nodding.
“But this week,” Malo continues, looking straight at John, “I is in the tag teaming match … but there is no Zasshu at mi side. Juan,” he exclaims, “how is Malo supposed to coexist with a chico like, like,” he seems to choke on the name, “Señor Gilmore?”
Truth be told, had this match taken place a few weeks prior, Malo may not have felt the same apprehension. Johnny Gillmen, as he was known in another life, had been a source of almost unending optimism. This what the type of man that Malo respected; the type of man that seemed to always push himself to do the honorable thing, even if that came at the expense of his own body.
But things changed last week, things that didn’t sit well with Malo.
“How is Malo supposed to be taking Señor Gilmore seriously when he has become one of the cabezas parlantes … the, the,” he struggles for the translation, “the talking head peoples that Malo is seeing on the Fox News channels.”
Malo’s attention has turned from John, instead focusing on one of the trees in the distance. John takes this opportunity to shoulder his camera before Malo has a chance to realize what he’s doing, hitting the record button and hoping for the best.
“It was not too long ago that Malo’s ancestors are making their way to America. Mi peoples, they is having the long tradition of immigration to the United States. Mi abuelo y abuela, they is telling Malo all about some of the peoples that they is encountering. Hatred,” he says through gritted teeth, “hatred y malice just because of they was not being born in this country.
Señor Gilmore, Malo, he is thinking often of the hardships that mi peoples is experiencing in their travels across the border. What is must have been like to leave behind amigos y familia for the shot at a better life in America.
Malo es proud of his heritage y I is reminded of this heritage when I is looking around at what Malo’s peoples has done for this country as well as the rest of the world …
Insulin;
¡si!
Peanut butter;
¡si!
The wonderbra,” he says with a grin,
“¡si!
Garbage bags, zippers, y even basketball;
¡si, si, si!
All of these, amigo,” he says, now looking at John, “all of these you has thanks to the wonderful, friendly, ingenious peoples …
… of Canada!”
The camera falls from John’s shoulder as he looks at Malo with confusion and exasperation.
“Canad … wait … what’dya mean ‘Canadian’?”
Malo looks at John, his head cocked to the side slightly.
“Malo es Canadian; I is not understanding the confusion …”
“But,” John continues, “the accent …”
At this Malo smiles, waving a hand in the air, “Ah hahaha,” he laughs “Malo is getting this all of the times. Peoples, they is having a difficult time, some of the times, with Malo’s accent. I is knowing that it is thick, but when you is growing up in Maine, sometimes you is not able to escape this, eh!”
To his credit, John didn’t drop the camera and just walk away. Instead, he positioned it once more on his shoulder and resumed filming.
“But mi Canadian y Maine upbringings, they is not doing enough to shelter Malo from seeing the hatred that is found in many of his fellow American peoples hearts. Mi partner this week is one such American. It is Malo’s job,” he says, puffing his chest out proudly, “Malo’s duty to try and show Señor Gilmore the errors of his way y function as cohesively as we is able.
Our opponent persons, they is in the muy similar boats too. Malo, he is feeling sad that his amigo, Zasshu, is not fighting along mi side – but as Malo is looking across the ring, he is going to see dos opponents who is missing their partners as well.
Señor Braxton, uno half of Los Lost Chicos, es doing battle this week without his partner Dean; y Señor Fenell, el Pitbull, he is the newly minted singles competitor as his brother y mi amigo, Chris, is out of the actions.
Dos tagging teams, neither pairing es having any experience with each of the other peoples. What looked like it was being a disadvantage, is now more of an advantage. Malo, you see,” he grins, “he is having the mucho experiences with random teamings like this. In the other life, Malo, he is working in the pequeña promotion out of Atlantic City.
Here, Malo is making the names for himself as the luchador who is able to work with anyone; in fact,” he says with a laugh, “Malo, he is earning the nickname, ‘the Luchador who is able to work with anyone’!”
Malo nods his head as an audible sigh is heard from behind the camera.
“Amigo y enemigo, it did not matter who Malo is being paired with – win or lose, Malo, he is wrestling for the honor, the respect, the joy on the faces of all the good peoples who is coming to see him.
This,” he indicated, “this is the mindset that Malo is having this week once more. Pairing Malo up with Señor Gilmore, it is not mi numero uno choice, but at the endings of the days as long as he is having Malo’s back – Malo will always protect his partner.
Señors Fenell y Braxton, Malo has had the pleasures of facing you both before as part of your greater wholes. This week, though, I is interested in seeing if any of the tres of us is the weak links in our teams.
Los Lost Chicos, El Renegades, y the Bueno Club – tres tagging teams who has seen mucho success. Each team, though, has had its setbacks; are any of the three of us the reason for this?” he asks with a shrug. “Malo would hope,” he continues, “that this week will prove that it does not matter which of our respective pairings is walking away with the victory, tag teaming in the Imperial es alive, it is well, y it is thriving.
Good luck, gentlemans, Malo y Señor Gilmore, we are looking forward to stepping into the ring with you both.
Be bueno, amigos!”
The air of panic in the voice of the luchador was enough for the cameraman to actually pick up his pace as he stumbled through the undergrowth of pricker bushes, brambles clinging to his pants as he burst through to the small clearing gasping for air.
“What,” he panted, “what’s going on?"
John had expected to find the mask man pinned under a tree, a wild dog inching closer to his throat, imminent death a heartbeat away. Instead, he found Malo sitting cross legged on the ground, chewing on a long piece of grass and rocking back and forth slightly.
“You,” he began, his voice filled with exasperation, “I thought you were in trouble or something … what the hell?”
Malo didn’t seem to notice the incredulous look, or tone, his eyes closed as he continued to rock.
“Amigo,” he said with an almost whisper, “Malo, he is in the troubles.” Malo looked up at John, panic etched on what little of his face could be seen without the mask. “Malo es in muy, muy troubles.”
John shook his head, unsure of whether he should approach or hang back. He half hoped that Malo would be a little more forthcoming with what he was looking for.
“Juan?” Malo asked, “Did you see mi amigo, Zasshu in your travels?”
John looked around, having completely forgotten about the other luchador. “Uh, no” he answered with a sense of happiness. The fact that the trio had, again, been out in the woods training made John, once again, question why he was doing this.
No paycheck was worth the heebie jeebies that he got whenever Zasshu was around.
But, no, he out he ventured; though he managed to talk Malo out of wearing another costume this time around. Thankfully Zasshu wasn’t in action this coming week and he told Malo that it wouldn’t make sense to dress up again if he already knew what to expect.
So, instead, the three of them went off in three separate directions without much indication of what to expect, how this would prepare Malo for his upcoming match, or most importantly – why John needed to go off on his own when he was supposed to be recording Malo.
“I is not knowing what I should be doing here, Juan … all of this,” Malo opens his eyes and spreads his arms wide to the small open space, “all of this is seeming wrong. Last time,” he continues with an almost pleading tone, “Malo, he is coming up with the perfect trainings. Los Lost Chicos, they is not knowing what is hitting them, ¡si!”
John nods his head, though quickly remembers his part in the training exercise and ceases nodding.
“But this week,” Malo continues, looking straight at John, “I is in the tag teaming match … but there is no Zasshu at mi side. Juan,” he exclaims, “how is Malo supposed to coexist with a chico like, like,” he seems to choke on the name, “Señor Gilmore?”
Truth be told, had this match taken place a few weeks prior, Malo may not have felt the same apprehension. Johnny Gillmen, as he was known in another life, had been a source of almost unending optimism. This what the type of man that Malo respected; the type of man that seemed to always push himself to do the honorable thing, even if that came at the expense of his own body.
But things changed last week, things that didn’t sit well with Malo.
“How is Malo supposed to be taking Señor Gilmore seriously when he has become one of the cabezas parlantes … the, the,” he struggles for the translation, “the talking head peoples that Malo is seeing on the Fox News channels.”
Malo’s attention has turned from John, instead focusing on one of the trees in the distance. John takes this opportunity to shoulder his camera before Malo has a chance to realize what he’s doing, hitting the record button and hoping for the best.
“It was not too long ago that Malo’s ancestors are making their way to America. Mi peoples, they is having the long tradition of immigration to the United States. Mi abuelo y abuela, they is telling Malo all about some of the peoples that they is encountering. Hatred,” he says through gritted teeth, “hatred y malice just because of they was not being born in this country.
Señor Gilmore, Malo, he is thinking often of the hardships that mi peoples is experiencing in their travels across the border. What is must have been like to leave behind amigos y familia for the shot at a better life in America.
Malo es proud of his heritage y I is reminded of this heritage when I is looking around at what Malo’s peoples has done for this country as well as the rest of the world …
Insulin;
¡si!
Peanut butter;
¡si!
The wonderbra,” he says with a grin,
“¡si!
Garbage bags, zippers, y even basketball;
¡si, si, si!
All of these, amigo,” he says, now looking at John, “all of these you has thanks to the wonderful, friendly, ingenious peoples …
… of Canada!”
The camera falls from John’s shoulder as he looks at Malo with confusion and exasperation.
“Canad … wait … what’dya mean ‘Canadian’?”
Malo looks at John, his head cocked to the side slightly.
“Malo es Canadian; I is not understanding the confusion …”
“But,” John continues, “the accent …”
At this Malo smiles, waving a hand in the air, “Ah hahaha,” he laughs “Malo is getting this all of the times. Peoples, they is having a difficult time, some of the times, with Malo’s accent. I is knowing that it is thick, but when you is growing up in Maine, sometimes you is not able to escape this, eh!”
To his credit, John didn’t drop the camera and just walk away. Instead, he positioned it once more on his shoulder and resumed filming.
“But mi Canadian y Maine upbringings, they is not doing enough to shelter Malo from seeing the hatred that is found in many of his fellow American peoples hearts. Mi partner this week is one such American. It is Malo’s job,” he says, puffing his chest out proudly, “Malo’s duty to try and show Señor Gilmore the errors of his way y function as cohesively as we is able.
Our opponent persons, they is in the muy similar boats too. Malo, he is feeling sad that his amigo, Zasshu, is not fighting along mi side – but as Malo is looking across the ring, he is going to see dos opponents who is missing their partners as well.
Señor Braxton, uno half of Los Lost Chicos, es doing battle this week without his partner Dean; y Señor Fenell, el Pitbull, he is the newly minted singles competitor as his brother y mi amigo, Chris, is out of the actions.
Dos tagging teams, neither pairing es having any experience with each of the other peoples. What looked like it was being a disadvantage, is now more of an advantage. Malo, you see,” he grins, “he is having the mucho experiences with random teamings like this. In the other life, Malo, he is working in the pequeña promotion out of Atlantic City.
Here, Malo is making the names for himself as the luchador who is able to work with anyone; in fact,” he says with a laugh, “Malo, he is earning the nickname, ‘the Luchador who is able to work with anyone’!”
Malo nods his head as an audible sigh is heard from behind the camera.
“Amigo y enemigo, it did not matter who Malo is being paired with – win or lose, Malo, he is wrestling for the honor, the respect, the joy on the faces of all the good peoples who is coming to see him.
This,” he indicated, “this is the mindset that Malo is having this week once more. Pairing Malo up with Señor Gilmore, it is not mi numero uno choice, but at the endings of the days as long as he is having Malo’s back – Malo will always protect his partner.
Señors Fenell y Braxton, Malo has had the pleasures of facing you both before as part of your greater wholes. This week, though, I is interested in seeing if any of the tres of us is the weak links in our teams.
Los Lost Chicos, El Renegades, y the Bueno Club – tres tagging teams who has seen mucho success. Each team, though, has had its setbacks; are any of the three of us the reason for this?” he asks with a shrug. “Malo would hope,” he continues, “that this week will prove that it does not matter which of our respective pairings is walking away with the victory, tag teaming in the Imperial es alive, it is well, y it is thriving.
Good luck, gentlemans, Malo y Señor Gilmore, we are looking forward to stepping into the ring with you both.
Be bueno, amigos!”
Well howdy there pardner.