One of Arcangel’s many voices boomed from the speakers, “Ladies and gentlemen! Welcome to the Pacific Rim Auditorium here at the very Borders. (And you thought it was a giant bookstore. Ha!) It’s the Ultimate Wrestling Chammmpppionnnnshhhipppp! El Contrato Con América. Sponsored by a generous grant from the Ministry of Multicultures. Brought to you by the CIA, the PRI, the DEA, and the INS . . .
(a murmur ran through the audience)
“Of course the fight’s not fixed. Why should anyone want to do a thing like that?
(sighs of relief, and snickers)
“Today, ladies and gentlemen, witness the battle of two of the world’s greatest fighters: SUUUPERRRRRNAFFFFFTAAAAA . . .
(a great boo flooded the auditorium)
“and ELLLLLLL GGRRRRRRAAAAAAAAANNN MOOOJAAADOOOO!
(cheers)
“But first, let’s meet and talk to the challenger and the champion before the battle begins.”
Automatically, all eyes focused on any one of four giant screens. The flipping photographic image of a masked man in a titanium suit with a head of raging fire somersaulted and spread itself neatly over each screen. He stood, arms crossed and legs spread like the Terminator or Johnny Mnemonic or the Five Million Dollar Man. National heroes like SUPERNAFTA were usually replicants of some sort. The accompanying intro of majestic horns and a mean electric bass drowned out any disapproval from the crowd. A moment of awe and sincere speculation about the flames tripping off the top of his head dissipated into the embarrassment of being fooled by effects.
SUPERNAFTA never smiled. Humorless, he pointed his finger at the camera and intoned his cold bluster. “Today, my fight represents a challenge, not only to that Big Wetback,” he spit, “in the other corner, but to all the children of the world. To that multicultural rainbow of kids out there.” Upon saying children his eyes became slightly droopy like a puppy dog’s. “Kids, this is your challenge, too. And the challenge is this: It’s the future. And what’s the future? Well, isn’t it what everyone really wants? It’s a piece of the action! And that’s what progress is all about. A piece of the action. How about 12 percent? You don’t think 12 percent is enough? Look at it this way. What’s 12 percent of a billion dollars? One hundred twenty million! That’s multimillions. And it’s not a lottery. It’s your cut. And you don’t have to do nothing to get it except to say no to drugs and sex. There’s an entire machine of banking computers and technological research and development that’s working day and night to put together this billion-dollar package so you can have your cut. That’s progress working for you. Some people don’t want progress. My opponent doesn’t want progress. He doesn’t care about the future of all you wonderful kids. He thinks you ought to run across the border and pick grapes. Think about it. Before any one of you can be truly free, you need to have enough money to do what you want. The only way that’s gonna happen is to free the technology and the commerce that make the money go round. You’re not asking for much. Just 12 percent. That’s your ticket to freedom. Kids, it’s about freedom and the future. Together and with the blessing of God, we’re gonna meet this challenge today. We’re gonna hasta la vista this baby’s face!”
Fifty percent of the boos in the crowd turned to cheers. It was amazing what a 12 percent cut plus toys for all the children of the world could do for one’s popularity. A lot of people started to think the fire FX from NAFTA’s head was pretty cool.
But before too much thought could be devoted to any of this, the flipping photographic image of a personage in a ski mask of camouflage nylon, blue cape with the magic image of Guadalupe in an aura of gold feathers and blood roses, leopard bicycle tights, and blue boots, somersaulted and spread itself neatly over each screen. He stood, arms crossed and legs spread like a Power Ranger or a Ninja Turtle or Zorro. International heroes like El Gran Mojado were usually freaks of nature.
El Gran Mojado looked into the eyes of the people and smiled. “Hey,” he asked predictably, “Have I finally lost my accent?”
“No!” Everyone yelled back in unison. With straggling voices also yelling, “You still sound like a Chihuahua dog!”
“You sound like Ricardo Montalbán!”
“Nah, he sounds like Marcello Mastroianni.”
“That guy was Italian!”
“What’s the diff?”
“He speaks English like an Argentine!”
“You only say that because you hate Argentines!”
“Only the Argentines love themselves!”
“Your mother is an Argentine!” Predictably, a fight broke out in the stands.
In the meantime, the video continued. El Gran Mojado spoke plainly,
Noble people, I speak to you from the heart.
There is no future or past.
You all know that I am a witness to this.
There is no aging. There is only changing.
What can this progress my challenger speaks of
really be?
You who live in the declining and abandoned places
of great cities, called barrios, ghettos, and favelas:
What is archaic? What is modern? We are both.
The myth of the first world is that
development is wealth and technology progress.
It is all rubbish.
It means that you are no longer human beings
but only labor.
It means that the land you live on is not earth
but only property.
It means that what you produce with your own hands
is not yours to eat or wear or shelter you
if you cannot buy it.
I do not defend my title for the
rainbow of children of the world.
This is not a benefit for UNESCO.
We are not the world.
This is not a rock concert.
This is not about getting a piece of the action,
about dividing into tiny pieces what is always less and less.
How will 95 percent of us
divide 12 percent?
The fight in the stands was spreading. El Gran Mojado continued,
What will you each receive but a tattered piece
that will give you a pleasure as ephemeral
as a single night of torrid lustful juicy
prohibited sex?
He swayed and pumped his hips lasciviously with every adjective.
A titter floated through the crowds, and the commotion in the stands abated. “Sex? What did he say about sex?” People shifted in their seats and crossed their legs. The criers of Argentina felt all their erogenous zones swell and suddenly made excuses, running off to wait impatiently in lines for the restrooms.
“No!” El Gran Mojado looked squarely from his video.
I do not defend my title for the future of
starving children or the past of suffering ancestors.
I defend my title for life and death.
The life of our people or the death of our people.
Cheers and tears rose in the throats of young and old, the great anguish of life spilling into death filled their hearts. The heroics of this superclown would tell the tale. Laughter and tears. Tears and laughter.
The video image swallowed itself up into a pinhole, and all eyes rested on the square ring. The fanfare of horns, its theme song from Rocky, and dimming lights announced the entrance of the wrestler with flaming hair. It was the consummate effort of a Hollywood art director. Those who cheered, cheered for the twelve fabulous babe escorts whose bosoms preceded their buttocks in coordinated swimwear which, when pieced together (a gymnastic event), represented a big can of Bud. All that was worked into the soundtrack like one more digital element. Maybe no one offered a peep, but the sound of applause was explosive.
As for El Gran Mojado, he appeared by magic in the center ring, as if he had dropped in from the rafters above. He was accompanied by a choral symphony that came from outside the auditorium and slowly swelled to fill it by the people themselves. Everyone knew the music and the words in their own language, knew the alto, bass, and soprano parts, knew it as if from some uncanny place in their inner ears, as if they had sung it all their lives. Some people jumped up to conduct entire sections of the auditorium. It was very weird.
In the meantime, El Gran Mojado held Sol up on his shoulders and paraded around the ring. He juggled the orange and the ears of corn while Sol held on to his head. SUPERNAFTA, too, strutted the stage with his flaming head. People wondered if he was actually on fire. Occasionally the fire sputtered upward like a geyser or torch for heightened effect. No one had to remark that all he had to do was lower his head and El Gran Mojado would be a pile of cinders. Parents in the audience reached out for the little boy on El Gran Mojado’s shoulders. Was that any place for a child? Even if that orange were not poisonous but undoubtedly a plastic representation. Even if he were a child actor. Indeed!
El Gran Mojado spotted a man sitting ringside with a big condom balloon, and announced with some irritation, “Where have you been? What do you think I am? A baby-sitter?” The wrestler slung the child over the ring and into his father’s arms. There was one more thing, and Sol turned to get it back. El Gran Mojado tossed him the orange. Sol’s hands were too little to catch it. There was the slightest moment of indecision, Bobby wondering how to keep the balloon and catch the orange. But the symphony of the moment spoke for itself as he released the balloon, letting it float into the spotlights, and caught the precious fruit in midair.
El Gran Mojado nodded, and the fight commenced. They faced each other like two toreadors, circling furtively. The choreography of the fight dictated the usual sparring and posturing. El Gran Mojado catapulted from the ropes and picked up SUPERNAFTA, twirled him around like a baton, and threw him to the mat. SUPERNAFTA lowered his head and singed Mojado’s behind. Mojado, in turn, ran after NAFTA with a bucket of water, followed by a frantic referee. The crowd roared appreciation. Round after round they went—flying and leaping, dancing and taunting, scissoring necks, crunching legs, pummeling stomachs, pulverizing faces, butting heads. As everyone speculated and feared, SUPERNAFTA holographed himself into three, but Mojado instinctively knew the real villain, entered the visual range of the hologram, and gave the audience the pleasure of seeing the fight simultaneously from three different angles.
Finally the bloodletting and breaking of bones commenced.
Charred pieces of Mojado’s cape
fluttered from the ring.
NAFTA’s titanium body suit shredded,
bled in shiny tickertape to the floor.
Mojado’s eyes were nearly shut in two purple lumps.
NAFTA’s jaw hung to one side and his teeth
dropped like microchips,
one by one.
They flailed at each other,
the sound of human hysteria rising all around.
And when they could flail no more,
they wrapped each other in a grapple so tight
no one could distinguish one fighter from the other.
Inevitably the flames from NAFTA’s head spread.
Mojado gripped his opponent like a splash of gasoline,
clawing the titanium suit and pressing the fire
into the flammable parts of NAFTA’s body.
It seemed that Mojado would be engulfed
and would also engulf his opponent,
taking them both in a vengeful double death.
But when the fire finally penetrated
NAFTA’s superficial protection,
Mojado released him and staggered back.
NAFTA screamed within his titanium confines,
for he had become a red cinder within,
a burning furnace.
Miraculously,
Mojado sprouted giant wings that
fluttered like white parachutes from his very back.
As NAFTA thrashed about the ring,
Mojado’s great wings flapped back and forth
and back and forth,
fanning a great storm,
fanning the flames to cold smoke and
stoking NAFTA to a live nuke.
Everyone gasped as the great SUPERNAFTA imploded.
But only Bobby saw SUPERNAFTA’s final weapon, his pointing finger a missile launcher that sent its tiny patriot into Arcangel’s human heart.
And perhaps it was only the catastrophic finale to another fifty-two-year cycle.
The clash of a flat world
with a round world. The clash
of the same world
with itself, its hands
meeting in a prayer of blood.
The performance was over. The audience, like life, would go on. Perhaps they would abandon their labor for a short vacation—a contractual two weeks to celebrate, or perhaps, heaven forbid, they would never work again. Somewhere the profits from the ticket sales were being divided. A new champion was being groomed.