Tía Tanya’s Taqueria
South Brunswick, Maine – December 24th
The quiet hum of Tía Tanya’s Taqueria was punctuated only by Gloria Estefan’s rendition of Feliz Navidad. Reds and greens adorned the tables in festive simplicity, but the atmosphere was far from cheerful. A few lonely patrons sat scattered along the bar, yet only one figure mattered for our tale.
Behind the counter, the bartender polished a glass, his movements methodical. “Refill?” he asked a man hunched over his drink.
The man nodded, his voice gravelly. “What’s his deal?” He thumbed toward the far end of the bar where a masked man sat, silent and contemplative.
The bartender followed the gesture. “Him? That’s ol’ Malo. Comes in now and then. Quiet guy—don’t bother anyone, so we don’t bother him.” Turning to the masked man, he called out, “Ain’t that right, amigo?”
Malo raised his head, lifted his glass, and muttered a soft, “Sí.”
The man snorted, sitting up straighter. “Yeah, but what’s with the mask? You look like a damn idiot!” He barked a laugh, his voice heavy with mockery.
Before he could react, Malo was upon him. With swift precision, the masked man grabbed him, shoving him backward into a table. Chips spilled from a nearby basket as the man gasped.
“The mask,” Malo whispered into his ear, “it is the sacred parts of los luchador. And Malo, he is the greatest luchador to come from Mexico.”
Releasing the man, Malo clapped him on the chest and turned back toward the bar. “You seem like the bueno guy. I buy you cerveza now!” Malo slapped the bar, signaling to the bartender. “Dos cervezas for me and mi amigo!”
The bartender smirked as he retrieved two glasses. Leaning toward the shaken man, he whispered, “You got lucky. Most people who question the mask don’t get off so easy.”
The man muttered under his breath, taking a long gulp from his glass. “Lucky me.”
“Hola! Yo soy El Grandé Malo, and I is here in MASQ!” Malo spread his arms wide, his grin infectious beneath the mask. “Malo, he is traveling the far and wides to hone mi skills. You see, amigos, from Mexico to Manchester, Paris, and beyond, Malo, he is learning much. Wrestling… muy bueno! Language barriers? No problem. Wrestling is the language of my soul.”
Malo’s voice grew more serious. “My first match is against El Supervillano, a man who Malo knows can not be bueno – his name is saying this!”
Malo wags his finger into the camera, “But Malo is knowing your types, Villano—men who is talking the big words but falling short with your actions. You’re like a yappy little perro. Yap, yap, yap! Malo has been waiting for an opportunity like this for the long times, and you think you’re ready? Malo says, no!”
He smirked, pointing skyward. “For Malo? The sky is the limit. Grandé Malo will be los numero uno in MASQ. And Malo, he will show everyone that he … es muy bueno!”