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The Secret Of The Luchadors; [sd-13] RP #2
Topic Started: Jan 17 2008, 03:24 AM (159 Views)
Mike Polowy
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2x Former sVo Champion
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The oversized mass of brick and steel stands proudly in the suburbs of Las Vegas, it's hulking mass watching over the residential neighborhoods in the distance. It's expansive parking lot, it's cement edge the dividing line between the commercial district and the surrounding community, is faded and worn with the footsteps of a thousand men trying to make a living and support their families. Inside, it's employees briskly shuffle around on forklifts and parade around with pull carts. Yet outside, desperately trying to beat the heat, five men stand exhausted under the barely passable shade of the building behind them. They seek to start a new life, no matter the cost. Their clothes, covered in paint and dust, sing the songs of toil and turmoil in the midday sun. The giant orange sign above them serves as a meeting place, and international symbol of work to be had:

THE HOME DEPOT

It has been a slow day. Not a single gringo has pulled up to the curb since they'd taken there place at the wall in the wee hours of the morning. No houses to be painted, no barns to be built. Some are desperate for anything, their backs clinging to the wall like it was their last ounce of hope, while others dejectedly back their things in preparation for the long bus ride home. All in all, unless you work for the Sanctioned Violence Organization, it's a hard time to be Mexican in Nevada.

Paco, the loneliest of the Mexican immigrants slumps against the wall, the long black hair he's slicked back into a ponytail scraping against the hard, tan brick behind him. His hands jam awkwardly into his pockets, as he kicks at the sidewalk beneath him. It seemed he'd worn his finest flannel and his sturdiest jeans for nothing on this day. The white man was no where to be found on a Wednesday afternoon this time of year, but Paco knew better than to give up and go home. Work would come, he could feel it deep within his bones.

A tumbleweed rolls by.

The heat was growing hotter. The midday sun had risen to it's full peak, and noon had arrived with no remorse for Paco's cracked, dry skin. Greedily, he sips at the small amount of water left in his bottle, an old Gatorade container converted into a makeshift canteen. Suddenly, Paco's sulking head snaps to attention as the familiar rumbling of tires scratching against the gravel driveway can be heard from the distance. The source of the noise, a beat up old Chevy Tahoe, begins to rolls its way towards the curb. It's light blue exterior has seen many years of wear, and two fuzzy dice hang in the rearview mirror for good luck.

"At last," he exclaims to himself with an elated sigh. "The wait is over."

The truck pulls up alongside Paco, it's tinted passenger side windows rolling down just far enough to make communication possible. A puff of smoke rolls out as the window seam cracks open, and Paco holds back a cough to keep from being rude.

"Hey, SENOR!" The voice from inside bellows. "I gotta job for ya."

Paco beams, trying to hide the desperate smile forming on his face. The few other Mexicans perched against the building scoff in disgust. Some had been here longer than Paco, while others were just jealous he'd found work while they sat on empty buckets and hummed to themselves.

"Gracias, senor. Gracias!" Paco exclaims, nodding his head up and down quickly. He scrambles to collect his tools and sleeping bag from the hot cement, but the voice stops him.

"Leave it here. You won't need it." the voice commands, with great authority. Paco winces suddenly, a bad feeling entering the pit of his stomach.

"But Senor... my tools... I cannot leave them here, they are all the tools I have." Paco nearly whimpers. He'd never negotiated a job before, and silently he kicks himself for speaking out against his potential employer. To his relief, the stranger in the truck laughs at his inhibition, a hearty chuckle that eases his mind.

"A'wright, jus' thrown 'em into the back of the truck an' get on in." he mutters, the hint of a laugh still in his voice. Paco quickly complies, tossing his bag into the back and hopping into the passenger side. He scuttles past the man in the front seat, sliding into the back with relative ease. The driver, a gruff looking man with graying hair, is surprisingly well dressed for a patron of The Home Depot. His gray suit and red tie accentuate slicked back hair and a toughened face, the visage of a man who's seen many years on the road. His passenger, a younger man in his early twenties, wears a cardigan sweater with a white button down dress shirt protruding from underneath. His eyes appear friendly, but deep down Paco can see hatred in his eyes. Not hatred for Paco, or for the driver of the vehicle, but for himself.

"What's yer name, kid?" the driver grunts, trying to sound friendly. Paco can tell he's not used to that particular social grace, and silently forgives him for coming off like a total jerk.

"Me llamo Paco, senor." Paco replies, sheepishly. He tries to avoid the driver's gaze. "I mean, uh, my name is Paco."

The man in the passenger seat smiles, now, the grim look of boredom leaving his face. He turns around, facing Paco for the first time.

"Taco?" the brown haired passenger chuckles. "Your name is... Taco?"

"Paco, senor" Paco replies, not quite understanding that it was a joke. The passenger seat's occupant shakes his head, the look of boredom returning to his face. He turns back to the driver.

"This kid's a little young, Faz. I don't know." he mutters out loud, with no regard for Paco in the back seat. Paco gets the distinct feeling that the man in the passenger seat is used to doing and saying whatever he wants. Instinctively, he begins to dislike him.

"Aw Christ, champ. Give him a break, he's just nervous." the gray haired man replies. He turns back to Paco, addressing him with a tone that is both welcoming, but implies that he is very serious. "How old are you, kid?"

"Me? Uh, I am..." he struggles for a moment, searching for the English equivalent. "I'm am seventeen years old."

"See, Mike?" the driver mutters, loud enough for both men to hear. "He's nearly a man. He can handle it."

The passenger, "Mike" as Paco surmises it, rolls his eyes and turns back to face the window. The driver, the man the passenger referred to as "Faz", doesn't say anything for a moment, his eyes focusing on the road as they pull out of the parking lot and out onto the street. Paco watches nervously as the Home Depot slowly fades out of view, the dust kicking back over the winding roads making it hard to see out of the back window.

The beat-up old pickup rolls noisily down the highway, the barren flatland of the desert not providing much in the way of scenery. The silence is ominous, as Paco slowly considers the possibility that these men are going to try and have sex with him.

"Uh, senor?" Paco inquires, at almost a whisper."

"What's up, kid?" the driver answers, not bothering to turn around.

"Where are we going?" Paco asks this sheepishly, as if he's afraid to hear the answer. The gray haired man senses his fear, and chuckles. He decides to try and put him at ease.

"We've gotta a job for ya, Paco." The driver exclaims, much louder than he'd previously spoken. A smile comes over his face, but it's hard to discern if it's a happy smile... or a devious one.

"More accurately," the passenger cuts in, not taking his eyes off the window. "We have a situation which requires your particular... expertise." He says this with no explanation, nor regard for the fact that a young immigrant may not understand three quarters of that sentence.

Paco simply nods. He understands much better than would be expected of someone of his stature.

"Basically," the driver adds, his eyes once again locked on the road. "We need a little information."

Information? Paco had painted many houses in his time in front of the Depot over the last two years. He'd been paid to build barns, and cut lawns. He'd even done a little bit of roofing in Reno. But in the two years that he'd been standing out in front of the do-it-yourself conglomerate, he'd never been commissioned to provide information. Who were this strange gringos? What did they want with him?

"Senor, you aren't to be having the... sex... with me?" Paco whispers quite nervously. The gentlemen in the front seat ignore him.

"It's pretty easy, Pedro..." the passenger cuts in, quite rudely. Paco doesn't bother to correct the young man when he calls him by the wrong name. "We're going to give you five hundred dollars to tell us what we want to know, and then we're going to drop you off. You're going to tell no one what happened here today, and everyone is going to be pretty happy in the end. Comprende?"

"Comprende, senor." Paco mutters. He wracks his brain to understand what knowledge he possesses that the gringos might need from him, but five hundred dollars certainly is a lot of money.

The passenger nods. The smile returns to his face as he ushers off to a dirt road on the right.

"Pull off there, Faz." he says, pointing to the gravel maintenance road leading off into nowhere. The driver complies, turning the wheel sharply as dust flies off the back of the truck. In the back, Paco can hear his bag shift from one end of the truck to the other, and he quietly prays none of his belongs are ruined.

Suddenly, the truck screeches to a stop.

"Alright Paco, one question, one answer, and then you're outta here." The man called Faz says, spinning around from the front seat. He has turned the keys out of the ignition, dropping them into the console.

"And you'd damn well better be honest, or you won't see a cent out of me." the passenger, the man called Mike, spits out in a spurt of irritation.

"We wanna know the secret, kiddo." Faz says, the hint of a grin poking out from his chapped lips.

Paco furrows his eyebrows, confused. He doesn't not know what the gray haired man is asking him for, but he very much enjoys the concept of five hundred U.S. dollars in his pocket.

"The secret to what, senor?" Paco quizzically inquires.

"YOU KNOW WHAT HE WANTS, PEDRO!" the passenger screams, the vein in his forehead popping out as he spits angrily. Paco decides he very much dislikes this man.

"Whoa, chill out Mike!" the gray haired driver yells back at him, trying to diffuse the situation. "He just didn't understand the question, no reason to yell. Now Paco, it's a pretty simple concept. We wanna know the secret to the power of El Gimicko. We wanna know the secret to the power... of the luchadors. "

The power of the luchadors? What secret knowledge would he possess about wrestling? And who is El Gimicko? He considers telling the angry gringos that he knows very little about the sport of lucha libre and that perhaps they should find someone else, but he wishes very much to make the money and not waste his afternoon.

"Oh, THAT secret!" Paco exclaims, feigning like he understands. "That is a VERY closely guarded secret, senors. I would require much more dinero to give up the secret to los luchadors."

For a moment, Paco feels guilty about lying to the men. In reality, Paco Gonzalez was born an American citizen, in a hospital outside of Las Vegas. His parents had moved to the United States many years before he had been born, and in truth he spoke very little Spanish. He'd never even BEEN to Mexico.

"Alright," the passenger grumbles. "One thousand."

Paco quickly realizes he does not feel guilty.

Tonight, in Las Vegas, the gringos would go home feeling on top of the world. They would sit in their penthouse apartments and drink and dance and celebrate their great victory over the people of Mexico and this strange man known as El Gimicko.

And tonight, while the gringos ate lobster and drank champagne, Paco and his family would eat like kings, spoiled by the dirty money of two white morons who didn't understand the difference between being a Mexican and being an immigrant.

"Well, gringos," Paco begins, a smile sliding cheekily over his face. "It began many, many years ago, during the time of the Aztecs..."
-The First Sanctioned Violence Organization World Champion
-Winner of the Victory Cup
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