Luciano the Lucadore

“Hmmm,” thought Luciano. “Should I do a reverse knee-splint or a San Paulo claw finger?”

Too late. The folding metal chair hit him square in the back with a squelching ‘thud’ that spoke of one too many chalupas and a rather delinquent training regimen.

On his way for an unscheduled meet and greet with the front row, Luciano spotted the reflection of his iridescent mask in the massive earrings of a spectator. He smiled. Quickly. Then he braced for impact.

Sounds resembling the tin-man attacking a Spanish turkey farm erupted from the audience. Luciano didn’t care about his body, but that gorgeous mask of his was a totally different matter.

Wedged between two lumps of writhing human, Luciano checked for rips. Checked the seams. Gave everything a quick tug. Phew! Perfect!

Getting up with renewed vigor, he charged back towards the ring. The pain he can handle, but looking good never felt so right.

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