Darkness on the screen.
“The hardest part about the magic we perform in that ring is, once it’s all said and done, people only seem to see smoke and mirrors.”
The scene opens abruptly to El Trébol Jr standing in front of a full-body mirror still in his lucha suit. Unmoving he stares at the camera, until his hand slowly begins to drift up towards the mask.
“They want to believe that what they just saw was real but then they take a step back and allow the supposed normalcy of the world to creep back into their lives. They try to rip away the mask of the moment, try to unveil the mystery so as to feel better about themselves. If they could only see the face, see how ordinary it is, just how ‘of this world’ it is, then their own shortcomings and failures wouldn’t be so bad.”
El Trébol’s hand clenches the mask, revealing a sliver of pale, white skin.
“I remove my mask and I become the face of insecurity once more. The mantra of the mottos like ‘I’m too fat to be a model’ or ‘I’m too ugly to be an actor’ or even ‘I’m too small to compete in, well, anything.”
One long, suspenseful moment passes. Then, El Trébol relinquishes hold of the mask.
“Thing is, even if I did, even if I unmasked and became only the Irish lad from Boston who can’t see his own, er, deficiencies looking at him the mirror, they still wouldn’t see the thing about me that truly makes the difference.”
If one knew El Trébol, they knew what was coming next. He placed the same hand that had once wrapped around his neck across his chest.
A small grin forms behind the mask.
“I’ve said it ever since the beginning, said it to Sabrina Baker and Skymont. And my match with Sean Jackson was just the latest example of this concept I’m trying to instill into the men and women and especially the children who look up to me: the heart matters. I didn’t beat Sean Jackson because I was bigger or stronger, but because I had more heart than him. And this costume, this mask, this persona I don every week . . . it all represents heart.
El Trébol’s grin deepens
”El Corazon just didn’t sound like a good lucha name. Besides, my hair is enough red for me.”
El Trébol turns to look at the camera.
“So where, then, does the heart go? The obvious answer would be Cleveland, Ohio where I take on another man who lives by his mind, not his heart. But there’s another place I need to go to first.”
The scene fades out as El Trébol’s final words linger in the air.
“A place where men legacies began and ended.”
El Trébol stood in the grassy knoll overlooking Elm Street in the Dealey Plaza of Dallas, Texas where one John Fitzgerald Kennedy, known by many simply as JFK, was assassinated forty-three years ago. It was a slow, meandering road with moderate traffic passing through history. In the break of vehicles, even from this distance, viewers could see the physical reminder of that fateful day: an X painted on the road.
El Trébol spoke up over the distant din, never taking his eyes off the road from his green perch.
“Many would call it irony that my last opponent hailed from the same city where my next opponent’s acronymic namesake. I call it fate.”
El Trébol nods.
“I see it as a reminder that what I’ve done, what I accomplished, wasn’t random or by chance.”
He looks at the camera.
“It wasn’t a fluke."
Stillness amongst the audible city and the leafless trees.
“Because I know that word has been used to describe my victory over Sean Jackson; his attempt to injure me following the match was the first utterance of the dreadful word, only to be repeated across the land. El Trébol, beat a former world champion? Impossible.”
El Trébol gazes back across the room.
“About as impossible as a single man, a small, obscure man assassinating the biggest man in the USA at the time.”
Cloth-covered eyes turn back to the camera.
“Of course, that’s all conspiracy; the facts, the results though remain true even when the procedure isn’t completely understood: JFK lost and El Trébol won, fluke or not. It all interpretation anyway.”
El Trébol pauses as he lets that statement sink in before continuing.
“Two weeks ago, I rambled on about how nothing ever changed in a pseudo-depressed tirade in the hopes that the picture has been clear: I’ve always been capable. I won’t say the I’m the best, won’t give myself labels like, I don’t know, prodigy so prematurely because at the end of my day, it’s out of my hands. To think otherwise would be to think I’m invincible. JFK thought so.”
El Trébol grins.
“And JFK was left looking up at the sky, wondering why he had to fall so early.”
Then, El Trébol does something that hadn’t been seen before by the little man: he crosses himself in the Catholic fashion.
“Don’t get me wrong, I’m not trying to be disrespectful our former president. I simply bring up the man and his untimely demise because of its uncanny similarity to you, Kendrix, and your own situation coming into Wrestleshow #51. You two bear more than the same initials, bruh; you’re connected by fate.”
El Trébol shakes his head.
“And not like some Da Vinci Code or Drake’s Fortune craziness either; JFK isn’t your biological father or anything, despite his willy-nilly approach to his, well, willy. The mannerisms, the self-entitlement, the success . . . that’s all you, though, Kendrix. And it is well-warranted, don’t get me wrong. Some people would come off a win over Sean Jackson and look at Kendrix as a cake walk in comparison. I mean, been in the business for, what, six months? Challenged for Prodigy Championship because he didn’t want to aim higher and, on the off-chance, lose and ruin his credibility garnered at the recent expense of Chris Hopper and CBR. To some, you would be truly underestimated, Kendrix.”
El Trébol gestures to his body.
“Take one look at me, though, and you’ll know that I’m never one of those people. To do so would only leave me sorely mistaken, both before and especially after my match with you.”
A pause as El Trébol begins to move towards Elm Street, the camera following behind as he continued to speak.
“You’re good, Kendrix, probably my hardest challenge to date. Sean Jackson was daunting, there’s no denying it, but he was also convinced that I was a viable threat. Despite his claims, my win over Chance von Crank didn’t impress him quite like claimed. But does a win over Sean Jackson convince you of my capability. I think it will, and that makes you dangerous.”
El Trébol has reached the road where it bends around the knoll. He hovers on the edge, contemplating.
“Because you’re a champion now, Kendrix, and the last thing you want to do is lose the title in the first defense, least of all to me. Because I represent everything you hate—immaturity, brashness, spunk—all wrapped up into a little, five foot tall Irish-American package. To lose to that, to lose to the very thing you despise, would devastate you. More so, it would, in your eyes, discredit everything you’ve done here in the UTA. At least Sean Jackson could walk away with his briefcase held high to emphasize his past success. What do you have besides that belt, Kendrix?”
El Trébol looks left, looks right.
“That is why you’re dangerous. This is the biggest fight of your career and there is the tiniest sliver of doubt at the outcome. You have your own ability, you have Mikey Unlikely watching your back, you have your inflated ego and recent successes urging you on and you still question the certainty of your victory. Sean Jackson thought the very same thing; he thought his own ability and the aid of Marshall Owens would seal the deal.”
El Trébol grins, though only the tiniest bit of it could be seen from the side angle the camera was at.
A car whirls by the little man on the edge of the road, hiding the X for a moment. It never does disappear forever, though.
“The thing is, Kendrix, I am capable and I have friends watching my back too. I also have a referee who probably likes me more than he likes you. All in all, it’s the opportune situation to guarantee a victory, should I choose to exploit it. But I won’t.”
El Trébol points, running it along the contour of Elm Street.
“Because to do so would be to follow the path you’ve already walked, Kendrix, and we both know where that ends up.”
El Trébol turns to look at the camera one final time as it zooms in on him, cropping out the road beside him.
“No, if I’m destined to win at Wrestleshow #51, I’m going to do so by own might and heart. To do otherwise is to accept that one has to submit to normalcy. That will be the day I throw away the mask, but not a day before. Until then, I’m going to test fate each and every day. Maybe I’m destined to greatness or maybe Sean Jackson was just a fluke.”
El Trébol shrugs.
“Either way, I’m going to fight like hell until I have an X to my name, too.”
The scene fades out.