The Adventures of El Pinche Reynoso by Edward

Soft yellow morning hung bright, and stretched from the window to the green underbelly of the horizon. Spring brilliance pierced sweet atmosphere, and light and air flowed together and into the room where the slumbering couple lay. Lesmerelda opened long lashed eyes, laid her arm over the strong back of El Pinche, and murmured into his ear. "Time to get up, sweetheart. Today’s your big day."

El Pinche sighed and spoke. "I’m up," and headed for the shower.

This was indeed going to be a very big day. El Pinche was slated to defend his World Champion Whipmaster status in an organized competition at the CurryCorp Arena, the newest and most advanced facility of its kind. The tickets were sold out; over fifty thousand people would be in the house to watch him fight. He had worked his way up slowly but surely to this pinnacle, from his childhood lessons with the famed whipmaster Rip "Loco Lobo" Hinson, through too many dirty backwater fight clubs, and now here, where a win would insure his fame and fortune. Martial arts champs from around the globe would be there today, all had met and fought, losers were eliminated and the winners had moved on to the next round. His last match had pitted him against Georgi Scnissky, a Ukrainian Whipmaster whose padded vest experienced a malfunction. The embedded fireworks, set to go off when the presumed victor stepped onto the podium to accept his trophy, exploded prematurely, one minute into the round, distracting him and allowing El Pinche to disable him and win.

It wasn’t a good win, though. El Pinche needed a decisive victory, one that people wouldn’t forget. His new bride Lesmeralda would be in his corner cheering him on, providing the inspiration he needed. And, he thought, maybe crying when I lose. Self doubt was part of every human being’s repertoire of emotional baggage, and El Pinche was no different. However, today he had a reason to win, to stand on that dais and accept the trophy, to acknowledge the cheering throngs, and there she stood, showered, hair braided long, devastating in a red dress, sweet eyes watching him, lips moving soundlessly...

"What? I’m sorry mi amor, what did you say?

I’m ready, sweetie. Let’s eat on the way, OK?"

"OK" El Pinche placed his competition suit into the duffel bag, crossed himself and reverently laid the Revenger X into its custom carrying case, looked in the mirror one last time, then both walked out into the morning and drove down the poplar lined cobblestone streets of North Bergen toward Denny’s.

The First Annual World Alternative Martial Arts Championships were officially underway. The contestants had been fêted and interviewed incessantly during the week leading up to the televised competitions. Each individual fighter was surrounded by a cheering squad of gagglers and hangers-on that followed the celebrities about, each adoring groupie hoping for his or her own two or three minutes to bask in the national media limelight. All the major networks were there, communications vans with satellite uplinks activated jammed the parking areas. Parties roared at a twenty-four hour clip, beer and tequila flowed freely, and in later years, some would claim not to remember the First Annual World Alternative Martial Arts Championships at all.

Unlike other athletic competitions, the WAMAC rules were rather elementary. Weapons of choice, not to include firearms, lethal gas or sharp things. Bludgeons were acceptable, but protective gear was required for both contestants. If an opponent was rendered unconscious or simply humiliated, the match was over. Each fight took place in a thirty foot diameter round padded arena, and was only three minutes long. Participants were judged according to several critical criteria. First, the costumes were rated on a ten point scale for originality, color, and style integration. In other words, the fighter had to look the part. Those who used bolo nets, for instance, wore arachnid-themed outfits, the huge stick experts dressed as denizens of Sherwood Forest. Other major judging points were the impressive uniqueness of weaponry, the artistic quality of the entrance to the fighting arena, and fan response. When the points were tabulated, if the audience liked the fighter, if his weaponry was suitably eccentric but effective, and his entrance and costume were killer, he could be physically beaten by his opponent, yet still win the match on points.

The lights of CurryCorp Arena shone dimly onto a restless, noisy crowd as they

took their seats. The boys who swept the ring down between competitions had finished their work. The colorful DigiCell MegaCam screens hanging at either end of the building played commercials, mostly for soft drinks, beer, and internet dating services. Hundreds of people in the crowd wore neon necklaces, diffusing the arena with a multicolored pastel glow. The ever-present giant balloons bounced from hand to upraised hand while the crowd twisted itself into a wave that crept around the arena, picking up speed and decibels, then creeping to a halt as participants became distracted. The brilliant moving dots of text scrolling across the MegaCam screens announced that the next competition would be between a world champion whipmaster and a world champion mallet fighter and Schuff’s Beer was icy cold and available at the concession for two bucks.

El Pinche swallowed nervously and prepared for his well rehearsed entrance. This was an incredible opportunity to gain respect for his profession, and he was determined to go home with a win. He would make Lesmerelda proud. He was clothed in his latest custom designed show battle outfit from Bill’s Cuff and Cravat, a red sequined, red leather jumpsuit. His tiny sombrero hung just above the right eyebrow. His favorite competition whip, the Revenger X, was loosely holstered near his right hand, ready.

The arena lights dimmed and the focused spots lanced down. The music was El Pinche’s cue. The beginning notes of "Disco Cucaracha Mambo" boomed out, signaling him to open the door in the arena’s west wall, displaying his finest entrance technique. With practiced dexterity, El Pinche opened the spotlighted door slowly, raising tension, titillating the crowd. The scream level in the arena heightened, and El Pinche opened the door all the way then, letting the fans feast their eyes on him. A brilliant red jewel, his sequins reflected laser light in every direction as he dashed to the center of the battle circle, cracking the Revenger X in rapid succession. The crowd stood as one, shouting "El Pinche! El Pinche!" Several women in the front rows fainted when he flashed them his toothy yet devastating smile.

El Pinche, he thought, You are truly the master.

Buoyed by the adulation, he danced into the center of the ring and held his hands out to the boisterous crowd, then ran to his corner and sat down on his silk traveling tuffet to await his opponent. Lesmeralda was there waiting in his corner. She

winked and blew him a kiss.

The spots swung to the east entry door just as a pyrotechnic explosion showered sparks, and head high fog rolled out into the arena. Octavio B. Fingers, World Champion Mallet Master, emerged slowly from the fog, backlit by bright green lasers. The audience stood and applauded enthusiastically. Octavio was dressed in a brilliant green silk tuxedo and heavy brown steel-toed work boots. His bald head was tattooed in red and black patterns that continued down the back of his neck. Hanging heavy in the custom polyester holsters were two enormous black rubber mallets, one for each hand. He swung them fiercely over his head, around his body, and behind his back. A hard edged hiphop beat punched out into the arena, reached a crescendo, paused, and Octavio sang out "It’s...Hammer Time!" He then slammed the mallets into the padded floor, did a backflip, and moonwalked, mallets raised, to his green minithrone opposite El Pinche.

The referee took center ring and thumbed on his mike. "Ladeees and gentlemen.....in the red corner, weighing in at one hundred seventy five pounds and standing five feet eleven inches, in..tro..ducing the Whipsnapping Champion of the World, Whipmaster El Pinche Reynoso!!" Reynosoo!

The crowd roared, a solid mass of sound, as El Pinche raised his hand in acknowledgment.

"In the green corner, weighing in at two hundred two pounds and standing five feet five inches, in..tro..ducing the World Champion Mallet Warrior, Malletmaster Octavio B., The Hammer, Fingers! Let’s ruuuuummmmble!!"

El Pinche and Octavio moved warily toward one another, circling, circling, each watching the other man’s eyes. El Pinche’s whip hand hung loose, twitching ever so slightly. His sombrero was pushed back to the top of his head, in the assault position. Sweat beaded his brow and the thrill of combat quickened his heartbeat.

Octavio shuffled his size thirteen boots in hesitation, his fighting mallets in hand, watching for an opening. In a daring gambit, he suddenly whirled around three hundred sixty degrees while flashing the now laser lit mallets over his head. The crowd roared approval.

That’s good for at least ten points, El Pinche thought.

Not to be outdone, El Pinche snaked the Revenger X out of its holster, took two quick steps backward, and lashed out in a blinding flash of speed.

KaBam! The first angry snap yanked the mallet from Octavio’s right hand, flipped it back over El Pinche’s head, and deposited it up into the seventh row, conking Pastor Elroy Sneeth in the head, eliciting a rare semi-curse. "God Dang it!!"

KaSlash!! The immediate second snap uncoiled true, faster than the eye could follow. Octavio’s kelly green cummerbund was snatched from his waist, causing his trousers to fall to the floor, exposing bony legs and oversized boxers with a yellow rubber ducky motif. The crowd was stunned, but only momentarily. The chant began low, and magnified, louder and louder. "El Pinche!...El Pinche!...El Pinche!...El Pinche!"