The Oaxaca Screwjob: an Infernal Night of Lucha Libre

Hell Freezes Over In Heel Return

Unrighteous Rioters Protest the Defeat of El Satánico

By Victor Neverman, Uncharted Press

OAXACA DE JUAREZ – Fifty years after the launch of his career, a legendary wrestler rose from the ashes of retirement as a liver-spotted phoenix attempting to reclaim the Lucha Libre throne. His is a story of triumph of the human spirit, how anything is possible with enough tenacity, persistence, performance-enhancing drugs and faith in the devil. El Satánico’s return to the ring, however, would not end triumphantly. In a rather unexpected result, Good trumped Evil in what has been billed as “the Tag-Team Match of the Century” for Mexican wrestling. Shocked participants and spectators became emotionally unhinged following the result as chaos ensued. Children wept uncontrollably and the streets ran red with the barbacoa grease of an overturned taco truck. Curses could be heard in Spanish, ¡me cago en la mierda!, and the howling of Zapotec hexes rivaled the clanging of church bells. Who do the bells of el Templo de Santo Domingo de Guzmán clang for? They toll for he: El Satánico! 

“Or maybe the bells clang for bedtime. These bastards are old!” Suggested Italian photojournalist, Sacrobosco, an eye-witness to the event. But don’t mind Sacrobosco! No. The bells toll for travesty! They toll for the death of human indecency!  

The Satanic One, El Satánico, and his African-American tag-team partner, Dark Magic*, were dually pinned – two times! – in a wrestling match which will forever be known as “The Oaxaca Screwjob” for its unfathomable conclusion. What went wrong? How could the script be so controversially flipped? If there ever was a night for the return to glory for El Satánico, the time was nigh! And yet the satanic wrestler was pinned by a rival viejo luchador. Twice!

*a misfortunate calling for an African American wrestler known north of the border as “Sho’nuff”

“Me gustaría agradecer a mi mami, mi papi y…” the victorious 62 year-old masked-wrestler known as Blue Panther sweatily spoke to the media immediately after the match, thanking his parents before claiming a hunger for eating someone’s eggs, “¡Cortar y comer sus huevos!” As Blue Panther spoke amongst the boos of an angry Oaxacan mob, the referee, Don Miguel, escaped out the backdoor as a rain of plastic water bottles and crushed cans of Modelo were hurled after him. 

Criticism against Don Miguel’s officiating is certainly just, but only because the referee was entirely one-sided in favor of El Satánico. After all, Don Miguel did not allow Rey Cometa, Blue Panther’s tag team partner, to come into the ring when both El Satánico & Dark Magic were simultaneously kicking the living  fucking scat out of Blue Panther. There is no doubt referee Don Miguel was on the take. Perhaps El Satánico had bartered for Don Miguel’s soul, holding it as collateral, or perhaps El Satánico had pictures of Don Miguel making sweet majestic love to a mistress, his segundaria, in the cascading waterfalls of Hierve el Agua? We do not know. We can only conjecture. But as crooked of a cock Don Miguel had, his rooster crowed only for El Satánico. It did not matter how crooked his cock, however, as Don Miguel was impotent in swaying the match in favor of Los Infernales. It was a reluctant three-count by Don Miguel, to say the least, when he confirmed the defeat of El Satánico & Dark Magic by Blue Panther & Rey Cometa. The match was rigged in favor of Los Infernales, but to no avail. The righteous triumphed after all. 

“Mephistopheles’ bill has come due for the Satanic One”, remarked Sacrobosco. The Italian photog was all giggles despite having a thousand pesos riding on Los Infernales. “Consider my loss a gift to the people of Oaxaca!” he proclaimed as a half-stoned philanthropist. 

—

The evening began innocent enough. I was drunk on wild agave mezcal & fattened on chapulines (salty fried grasshoppers), goat-face pozole (soup of hominy & meats), and hongos (wild mushrooms of unknown origins). Perhaps I had suckled too long at the teat of Mayahuel, local goddess of fertility & inebriation, as I found myself lost in the city and without a press-pass. It was Sacrobosco who recognized the sound of body-slams as we walked Calle de José María Pino Suárez. And it was Sacrobosco, similarly without media credentials, who properly bribed the doorman to allow us entry. We didn’t realize it at the time, but the doorman happened to be Don Miguel, tonight’s main event crooked referee. We should have sized-up his shadiness from the start.

I bought a couple of Modelos for us, but Sacrobosco refused the beer, stoned enough as he was on Ibogaine mixed with cacao & goat milk. I lapped-up the suds as the first wrestler of the final match was introduced. Rey Cometa looked like Johnny Depp playing Tonto with an extra dash of vainglorious ass-wagging. He was muted while his rival, Dark Magic, was loud. Introduced next, Dark Magic played the heel well, spewing cheap-heat by yelling to the crowd, “USA is number one!” Dark Magic repeated this simple tagline, using English easily deciphered by locals who were quick to boo his jingoism. Blue Panther was introduced next. An elderly wrestler in a blue mask, Blue Panther has an ingenious side-hustle running a chiropractic clinic. Blue Panther is a relic, a rudo-turned-technico, a redeemed villain, but also a life-long expendable, gristle for the hounds of hell to chew. Or so we bet, putting our pesos where our mouths were, convinced this abuelo was no match for the spawn of Satan. 

Last to be introduced was the legend, El Satánico. The crowd lost their goddamn mind at the arrival of the elder statesman. Shouts and whistles and joyful shrills filled the air. Mothers covered children’s eyes before bearing their matronly breasts in an effort to win El Satánico’s favor. Boys of every age dropped to their knees to pledge their obeisance to this devil. El Satánico, at 73 years of age, began his wrestling career fifty years ago this year. Tonight was to be his return to glory. 49 years ago, El Satánico was involved in a Lucha de Apuesta, a wager involving stakes beyond the belt. The loser must remove his mask. All wrestlers in Mexico begin as enmascarado; this is part of the allure of Lucha Libre: the mystery of it all. To lose the mask is to lose the illusion. Once the mask is lost, the wrestler’s identity is revealed. He can never hide again. El Satánico lost the match 49 years ago and he has been exposed to the world ever since. There was never any turning back for El Satánico.

—

Tonight’s match began with the ringing of the bell. I immediately noticed my chair began sinking into the the gymnasium floor. “¿Viste ese puñetazo, Señor Nunca-Hombre?” Asked the chica I shared my extra beer with. “Sure I saw”, I said, “but have you noticed the floor is melting? Is this a sinkhole? ¿Es esto un cenote?” I continued to watch the match. I watched as Rey Cometa was involuntarily flung from the ring. I watched as Dark Magic leapt from the top rope to bodyslam Rey Cometa in a field of spectators & folding chairs. Nevermind the collateral damage of broken spectators – Blue Panther is handing out business cards to his chiropractic clinic. But what I saw was not as strange as what I felt. I became overcome with empathy for these combatants. I could feel the hair growing out of my scalp. I listened to the bursting bubbles within my beer as they popped in their symphony.

Ahh, shit. 

I’m fucked, I realized. Fucked, fucked, good & plenty fucked. What’s more – Sacrobosco’s eyebrows had left his face and were crawling up my ankles. “Get your fucking critters!” I requested of the photog, but he was entranced with the wrestling match, screaming “rope-a-dope!, rope-a-dope!, rope-a-dope!” as if he were front row for the Thrilla-in-Manilla. 

“I think I ate some bad hongos…” I said to Sacrobosco backwards. I found my hands, but not where I last left them, and I used them to slap my face. It took a few faces before I found my own. Frightened by the violence unfolding before me, I turned away from the wrestling ring, but regardless of how far I turned – 180 degrees, 360 degrees, 720 degrees – I could not escape the omnipresent death match. I only made myself dizzy. 

“¡Te voy a carnear, pendejo!” Someone threatened to kill someone. “¡Relajate, chavo!, relax, dude!”, I said to myself or to the night in general. 

I closed my eyes and saw the Tula Tree. Mariposas were fluttering by. They say this tree is the stoutest, girthiest tree ever measured. Anywhere. Widest tree in the world. Thick. I was here before; here I am again. Tula has been standing for at least 2,500 years. Maybe longer. I reached up, towards the tree, into the tree, becoming absorbed by it. I became the Tula Tree. I saw the civilizations flow & ebb. Through the foliage, I saw the arrival of a traveler, a robed Levantine speaking Aramaic to the Zapotecs. Holy shit, I realized it was Jesus Christ, here in Oaxaca, doing messiah stuff, walking on water and then turning it into pulque, washing the feet of las intocables. I’ll be damned: the Mormons had it right all along. Jesucristo left me at the tree and moved north on his world tour. His mother, La Virgen, stuck around, asking the Mixtecs where to find the Guadalupe River. And then the sneezy conquistadores arrived with their picnic basket of pestilence. Missionaries introduced a version of Jesus who doesn’t laugh. Colonizers ruined potatoes by inventing potato salad. Agricultural Revolution. Industrial Revolution. NAFTA. Somewhere in between, María Sabina, the wise woman who unintentionally introduced hallucinogenic mushrooms to Western Civilization arrived. María Sabina waved at me, saying, “¡ya jódete, Vic!” It’s rude behavior for a medicine woman, but not undeserved. ¡Vete gringo!, she said. Fine, fine, si claro, I said to her, I am leaving. But it is María Sabina who left first. In her wake, I see dos pálidos, a pair of güeros, an Italian and a Florida Man. They arrive, taking pictures of árbol muy gordo. They were us! But I wasn’t only me. I was also the Tula Tree, staring back at my own face as the bats pollinating the agave plants tapped me on the shoulder.

Hmm?

“It’s fucking over, man, El Satánico has been defeated, the bar is closed – nienite piu mezcal o birra.” Sacrobosco said. The match was Mountevans Style – best of three – and Los Infernales were double-pinned twice.

And that is when the chaos began. Danza de los Diablos. I prayed for deliverance, I prayed to the Sacred Beard of Baby Jesus, I prayed hopelessly as devils danced before me. Were they real or mere symbols of spiritual upheaval? I do not know. There was a rush for the exits. A group of Dutch tourists were ducking, cowering, crawling Low Country style, trying to avoid being the next sacrifice of the night. The Netherlanders lost their cool, lost their civility, and at least one must have lost the use of his sphincter. One dreadlocked Dutchwoman, Nicolette, grabbed me by the collar. Her bloodshot eyes were full of fury as she yelled in English, “You! I will have you tried at the Haig, hanged for international crimes against humanity!” 

“¿Por qué yo?” I asked Nicolette. I mean, I washed my hands after pissing on her father in the gutter. 

Fuck! I grabbed the nearest nun and spooned her for protection. “Get off the ground!” Sacrcobosco insisted, lifting me before the Dutch could fall upon us with their hollandaise sense of vengeance, tearing off our ears and extracting teeth with acid reflux-inducing vitriol. I followed him across the street and into the relative safety of the dark botanic gardens. “Yes, but…” I said to the Italian photog, “How will I explain to my pharmacist these bite marks on my armpits?”

Of course, I shouldn’t have complained. After being confused for John F Kennedy, Jr., Sacrobosco lost a finger in the melee. He recovered it, or, in the least, he recovered a finger. But this finger was darker in complexion and held a Rosicrucian ring. As we stared at the finger on ice back at the hotel, I asked Sacrobosco if he was a Rosicrucian. “Not that I am aware of”, he said, “But I have a few unaccounted days in Mexico City. Perhaps I was indoctrinated between masses.”

Before we reached the hotel, we stopped at In Situ mezcaleria for a piece of ice for Sacrobosco’s finger and enough agave aguardiente to clear the fog of the hallucinogenic hongos. I feared we were undeserving of the sacred spirits, but Mayahuel filled our cup nevertheless. It was in the post-sip clarity, we remembered the king was dead. 

El Satánico está muerto. ¡Viva El Satánico!