Marcie’s only reason for buying him the sketch book was she thought all the kids in college these days carried one. Hell, they didn’t even know he could draw. No-one in what Vincent could legitimately call his family (his sister, Marcie, and her bum of a boyfriend) knew he loved wrestling. But in the end, he’d settled on a simple red design, broken by a silver zigzag diagonal across the eyes.

He’d experimented with complexity, he’d tried retro. Page after page of masks - landscape on the page. He’d sketched it on the pad his sister had brought him back from Coop’s Convenience in town. Vincent had spent any number of evenings in his bedroom designing his mask. Hiding all, whilst creating the potential for every possibility behind it. But for the luchador, everything was about the mask.

His bare chest was an inverse triangle, tapering downwards to the red of his tights and his boots. Or El Demonio Rojo, to know him by the luchador name he’d given himself.Įl Demonio Rojo’s muscles rippled and glistened. In this version of himself, he wasn’t the seventeen year old half-grown he saw in the mirror in his sister’s trailer every morning – full of semen and swagger.

Solid, built, but with light as air moves. What Vincent saw when he looked was himself on the ridge of the mountains, or flying in the sky. Vincent wasn’t impressed by their doomy, ancient range. It was the same with the crooked mountains he lived amongst. When Vincent looked up at the sky, he didn’t see its blueness or its vastness.

Abajo de la misma luna