Michlovio bent down the short distance and pinched between his stubby fingers a bent rusty nail he had just spotted in the gutter. He had to adjust his hip pocket where his moldy wallet and visa crumpled in order to flex his knees easily. He stood up and looked down at its color of red. He often found things he didn’t dislike on the ground.

Attencion, pandejo! He heard a chirp of tires and someone shout, the blare of the horn honking behind him. He turned and barely scowled over the hood. He had a headache. The whole world was filled with cabrones. He turned and waddled over to the brick wall to lean his back against it and assessed how he hated the bastardo who squeezed his way into this parking space where Michlovio had been.

(Michlovio is not a nice Latino name. It is similar to gringo names in English like Sid or Adolf or Lucifer. Perhaps if you were innocent and young and were sitting in Spanish class in your gringo world, and asked to pick a personalized name by your maestra, and you’d asked her “Which Spanish name brings horrible luck or closely approximates certain moral downfall?” She would tell you without hesitation “Michlovio.” She would scowl when she said it. Most people did.

Michlovio hated most things, and people. His name paved him no future road without thorns. His name gave him no leg-up nor hand out; neither did the unarguable fact that Michlovio was a midget. Not only was he a midget but he was what the Mexicanos called a naco. (For those gringos trying to pronounce this to themselves at their computer screens- it rhymes with taco.) It is the word which is used to describe someone low-born, low-income and darker skinned;i.e. a Latino Wall-Mart shopper that wears chapped-plastic sandals and bright neon colored tank tops which from the side-view expose the nipples. Being half African-American and half Latino and without respectable income and with the darkest shade of skin- and being half the height of a man- Michlovio from birth was given the short half of the shitty end of the stick.

(The whiter the Mexicano- the more prestigious the first impression. Yes, racism exists in Mexico. Yes, people outside of the U.S.A. can be racist. Michlovio was too.)

Michlovios first illegitimate job was cleaning up the local concrete dog park. He had a 5 gallon bucket and a stick. A stick which was passed down from generations with two nearly indistinguishable ends; and the only way Michlovio could tell which was the business-end was to grab the middle and sniff either side and deduce from there. His nose was big, but not the sharpest. Sometimes you win, sometimes you lose, and for Michlovio – he lost most times. He would sweat in the sun of the dog park and remove hundreds of turds by flicking, pushing, rolling, and stabbing them into the bucket. Sometimes he left them to dry so that they would be easiest to handle later. It was cheaper to pay a naco kid a few pesos a week and save the money on baggies. Occasionally the local gangs of kids would come and show him that he didn’t fit in. Sometimes Michlovio kept them at bay with the stick, and most times he did his dealings with the business-end when he had been disarmed. Michlovio later at six years old discovered the value of a knife in the presence of adversity.

Thehombre blanco walked inside the building a few doors down and ignored Michlovio every step of the way. Michlovio stopped fingering the switchblade in his back pocket and moved forward off the wall and put the tip of the rusted nail to the passenger side door of the wax-polished El Camino and dragged it forward toward the head-light. The screech satisfied him. The rightness of the personal wrongs done towards him, satisfied him.

Michlovio did not care about his name- Michlovio took his name and inheritance seriously- because if he couldn’t get by in life honestly, he could get by his way.His mother Maria Ramirez Sitgas-Vargas thought he was beautiful, but like things go for Michlovio- she had died years ago in an earthquake in the District Federal. She was selling oranges in the shade of a building that collapsed. He watched her through his life with passivity. She was a god-fearing Catholic. When he was growing up, she would go in the evenings to the Santa Maria Iglesia della Santos y Benedicion; it was a hole in the wall and filled with lawn chairs for its parishioners. Michlovio sat outside on the step and found lizards to catch in his hands or bugs and sticks to let them crawl on endlessly. One time he squished a lizard in his hands and felt curious about the fact that he felt nothing.He remembered climbing up on top of their single chair and some bibles, in the single bedroom apartment in the barrio of Aguascalientes, and inspecting the top shelf of her closet. When looking through a shoebox, Michlovio had found a picture of his mother and a man- with whom he’d never met. His father was a soldier in a uniform, a negro and was photographed sitting in a restaurant with his mother at a table with his arm around her. She had confessed to him earlier that he was immaculately conceived, like Jesus Cristo. He also found a photo of himself when he was little. He had a curly black mop of hair which came to a swirl on his forehead; his nose was wide even then. In the photo, he was scowling. “Clovio, estas bonito, mi piqueno cabrito negro!” (Michlovio, you are beautiful, my little black baby goat!” When Michlovios mother died, he saved nothing but necessities in a backpack.

Michlovio went back the other way down the street and under the hand-painted sign to Abogado Senor Domingo Sanchez, a semi- licensed attorney-at-law. He went through the cramped entrance and up to the underside of the counter and thumped on the chipped linoleum panel with his fist. The secretaria was blabbering and did not know that he was there until he thumped louder. “Uno momento, per favor.” she said. Then paused, got up and leaned over the desk to look down at Michlovios head. Michlovio looked down her blouse and told her he was here to see the boss. She put her hand up in defense and with the other hand pointed a long-lacquered-fingernail to wait at one of the chairs, and when noticing they were as tall as him, hesitated. Michlovio stood in place. She turned away and went down the dark hall of the one-floor law office.

“Oy, Amigo, ven aqui! Como estas? Mack!” said Mr. Sanchez with a plasticized smile on his face. Knowing he wouldn’t get an answer to such formalities, he talked onward. He was just the kind of person you had thought. His mustache was formed more of wax than of hair. His hair was formed more of modern bryll-cream than of hair-plugs, and his eyes were like a chameleons and rolled around independently. “I have to tell you this Macky; it involves your people, es la verdad!” Michlovio stood there before his unofficial employer’s desk while he sat up against it and wind milled his hands in recounting the story. It was about a group of fighting-midgets in Bangladesh who had trained together in the martial-arts, it was a true story, and he had a newspaper clipping on his email to prove it. The midgets had made a public announcement that they would face with their dojos skills any man or beast on earth. There were twenty-six of the in the club. They were dark–skinned Bangladeshi midgets and had such pride that when they were challenged by a local man who had owned a Bengal tiger, the midgets solemnly acknowledged the affront to their pride and accepted. There was a hold-up where the Bangladeshi government put a stop to a man versus beast pit-fight; but was coerced to let the fight go on as long as any proceeds were legal and went to the government. “It was on, Macky; the men had sticks and climbed into the pit with a nine foot long Bengal tiger, teeth to tail. The midgets got slaughtered, the tiger was all piss and claw and spinning like a dervish no matter how they tried to corner it, four midgets were eviscerated before they stopped the contest.”Mr. Sanchez paused for a second and digested Michlovios response, before trying the punch-line. “So you see, they only had to build two coffins!”Michlovio nodded. “Mi dios, Macky, soy un payaso, no pedo contigo, comprende?!” My god, Macky, I am a clown, no problems with you, understand?

He then got to the real reason why Michlovio was called in. El Savior del Gente a.k.a. El Angelino a.k.a. El Gigante Blanco was coming to District Federal this Saturday evening, he needed a crew to put on a show with him and throw the fight, play the part of the bad-guy and that sort of job. He had a good chunk of money on the side for Los Numeritos.

Michlovio walked out on to the street and made his phone calls to the Los Numeritos. He and his team weren’t bad at all. In fact, what they made up for in size, they had in style and anger and crowd-hype; they were real crowd-pleasers when they lost a match. Michlovio had been addicted to action movies on the launderia television set when he was a boy. He liked to watch the films with ugly heroes and Charles Bronson was the heffe, Michlovio studied with a keen eye the world of showmanship in violence with relish. He felt that a super villain was a necessary part. He finished his call with 5inco, the smallest midget on his crew and accepted a face-time chat with Lucinda from Vegas.

She was the only prostitute he had ever developed a long-distance relationship with. He had done this on an app. She had shown him hints of her shapely figure which drove his mind wild with possibility. He had been with women before, any others were strictly business and charged extra for a midget to be entertained, occasionally they showed sympathy and he would end the arrangement at the first sign of this. Lucinda was different. She called him her Toreador (bullfighter), and only one time, her little black sheep. They had never met in person, but Michlovio had been hooked, lined and sinkered. She didn’t care if he was grumpy, or scowling, because she liked it. He had to have her- it didn’t matter the price. He had to get to Las Vegas and he had worked out the tourist visa to do so, now he needed enough money from Saturday’s event. He needed to show her a good time in the exchange rate of the glorious American dollar.

In the tented locker room for the outdoor event on Saturday, Michlovio was a little late and hurried in to get dressed; he was putting on the absurd grey and black leotard and trying not to fall over. 2os, 3res, 4uatro and 5inco were prepped in their suits and were stretching and coordinating moves they could do with and on El Savior del Gente. He was a muscular and gigantic Mexicano. He also had a bright smile with perfect teeth. He was finely-white skinned and well groomed. He had a barrel chest and a bright green, white and red suit. His face-mask was the eagle head of Mexico, with a yellow mouth beak illustration and brown feathers shaded in air-brush over leotard. The Los Numeritos had never wrestled him before, but they had seen his matches on TV and grown up knowing of his undefeated status in the Luchador circuit. He was at the age of retirement nearly, but still held his glorious title. He must have been in his early forties. The champion was toasting himself to his fans and had passed around a small flask of tequila. 5inco had coughed loudly and questioned what he was drinking. El Angelino smiled. Michlovio had not shown interest in the offer. Michlovios phone rang next to the bench where his team was crowded around their idol, and El Gigante Blanco picked it up and answered it. Michlovio heard the specific ring-tone for Lucinda and stumbled over half in his suit to prevent the inevitable. “Mi dios, estas bonita muneca!”Gigante exclaimed, he answered the face-time and pulled the phone back to give her a full view of his muscular body. Michlovio heard her exclaim “El Angelino?! El Savior del Gente?!” He had turned the phone briefly to get a shot of Michlovios doubled up body rolling in the dust, partially naked and back-side exposed, wrapped up in his leotard. She cried out in laughter and said “Aye, mi pobrecito!” Michlovio was livid and covered what he could of his tiny body before ripping the phone out of El Gigante's hand and ending the call. The champion had held it aloft for a second and pantomimed the size of Lucinda’s breasts with his free hand. “Michlovio, tus chiquilla es un angel! Cabrone!”

Los Numeritos stood in the entranceway of the tent, watching El Angelino accept great cheers from the crowd. It was a lively and exciting night. Like them, the crowd had watched this golden warrior mold a career across decades, and none knew if this would be a final showdown in his career. He usually battled fully grown opponents like his rumored-to-be-dead nemesis La Fantasma. He was a legend of five s’s of the ring: skill, speed, strength, sportsmanship and mucho suavisimo. The ramshackle flood lighting was turned up, and mixed with the weather and humidity- it was going to be a hot, sweaty and pain filled night. 2os, in his purple spangled suit was clapping his hands, a look of nervousness and jitters before the match. 3res in powder blue kept checking the straightness of his mask with his compadres; fingering the triangular eye-holes. 4uatro in orange had just arrived from behind the maintenance tent where he had vomited, but he was okay now with nerves of steel. 5inco in lime-green prayed by pantomiming the cross- he had mouths to feed and wanted to give a good show; he secretly nursed someday having his own premier match. If they could increase the popularity of Lucha LibreWrestling and Los Numeritos against the great El Gigante Blanco, things would be looking up for the tiny villains. The beetle-browed MC was speaking in a torrent of modifiers, building up the legend without introduction, enticing the crowd to his glories. They hooted and yipped and whistled like firecrackers. Children in the front squeezing themselves and unable to sit down, hopping in circles, mini plastic sombrero’s bouncing slung on backs of their necks. The adults with left hands slapping the holes of their mouths- filling and chomping on candied cucharachas, burnt peanuts, or hormigas dipped in chocolate, sunflower seeds covered in cayenne and lime, all the snacks. They had balloons and cotton candy, or ears of corn on a stick slathered in montequilla-crema and red pepper. Everyone was wearing their starched and best Saturday nights.

When Los Numeritos were announced, the groan and cheers mixed through the crowd, the competitive intensity bubbled, the catcalls rang out, and the laughter began. A mariachi band struck up a variation of Bad to the Bone with guitar and horns. The men had kicked up some dust and began their jog to the ring; gesturing to the crowd. There were a few handfuls of seed kernels but nothing messy. When they reached the raised platform at the center, Michlovio turned around and bent over and formed a step with his back, while 2os, 3res, 4uatro and 5inco bounced up onto the edge of the ring and turned to face the crowd, spreading out to the four sides. 4uatro went under the ropes and traveled diagonally across the ring, taunting El Angelino on the way and cartwheeling for the start position in the far corner. The crowd was prepared and getting excited- the match was beginning with four of them on the outside, preparing for a tag team match- before things got real wild. Just then, 4uatro turned and pulled down his orange leotard bottoms, wagging his bare tiny buttocks to El Angelino! Who had gone into a pretended rage, stomping around his corner. The crowd hissed and whooped and screeched in laughter. 4uatro might have winked at Michlovio a.k.a. 1no, but he couldn’t tell through the mask holes. Michlovio was ready and gripped the rope tight in his hands.

They performed moonsaults, hurracaranas, sunset flips, close-line-takedowns, flying elbows and dropkicks. They were slammed, smacked, and bowled over into each other. Los Numeritos were tossed, flipped, launched and flung in each direction. He fought like the ferocious symbol of Mexico and for the people. They used his body and momentum to fly across the ring and bounce off the ropes. Michlovio first climbed a turnstile and stood up there facing the crowd, raising his hands in the air for silence, working the crowd into a frenzy of booing, he then helped 3res up onto the same ropes and up onto his shoulders, escalating the noise, while the other three maneuvered and fought to get El Angelino facing the other way and backing up toward their hidden two-man attack. The crowd tried to warn him- and just then they launched in the air, a double-barreled body slam, each landing on his shoulders and sending him to the canvas in a pile of grasping limbs. They held him down for a false-pin but he was too strong- he rolled over top of them and started pushing them back down onto their rumps. They reformed their attack as a team, 5inco and 3res rode on-tops of the shoulders of Michlovio (1no) and 4uatro. They charged in a blare of color while 2os knelt down behind their enemy. He did not fall for the charge but instead turned and hefted 2os by his pants and collar and flung him into the quad like bowling pins.

Michlovio saw the side-bets and money changing hands in the crowd, he saw Mr. Sanchez with his trophy-wife and trophy-children greedily eat up the night and its profits. He saw the Legend of Mexico’s reputation build to a crescendo amongst the crowd. Senor Sanchez’s scheme hinged on only one thing- and this Michlovio knew: the value of a perfect villain. When the time was right, and Michlovio received the signal from his own bookie in the crowd; he signaled the Los Numeritos to reverse the match. The time was right at the precise moment when 5inco’s stomach began to lose control of itself after a brutal leg drop from El Angelino, a brown spot began to grow on the seat of his pants. The four that had drunk from the flask before the night’s bout knew with gravity what sort of trap had been laid for them all within a twenty minute period.

The tone on the midgets’ faces shifted in turn. Their attacks became more brutal and coordinated. El Angelino’s face turned from confusion to anger before anguish when he realized he was not going to win, he saw them as they baited him and closed in for the kill. He fought madly, he fought for his honor, his reputation, he fought for his pride, he fought for the purse he assumed he should win at the end of the night; none of that mattered. Los Numeritos took quite a beating when they weren’t careful at how they were chipping away at the hero. Like lumberjacks of old, with persistence, blood, sweat, and determination over technology- the tree would eventually fall. They would nurse their wounds in their personal time and place. It was controlled and methodical compared to the show-boating they had done in the beginning of the match; the crowd watched transfixed as the mood and fates shifted. The bad bets made started to groan and yell. The children of the crowd grew excited. Leotards were torn, noses were bleeding through masks, fingers were jammed, and ribs were cracked. The crowd didn’t grow quieter, it grew fascinated and hungry. The hero of Mexico might just well have been something different all along- the undeniable force of the down trodden to resist at all costs, and never die.

Michlovio stood at the Mexico City airport. He had never been on an airplane before, and was flying internationally to Las Vegas. He swept his eyes across the giant glass windows and stared out at the murky endless night. He had not had time to clean up his sweat or his wounds since the match, but only disappear into the crowd, find his stashed backpack and get a taxi. The money would be transferred in the morning into his account; and more later when the bookies finished their rounds of persuasion. The once title-belt of El Savior del Gente would come to the Los Numeritos or not. He did not care. He saw a small child staring at him, and he made a face in return that made the child cry.

When he landed he cleaned himself up in the airport bathroom as best he could; and through an effervescent text message Lucinda told him where to go. He took another taxi cab and arrived at the address, where the most modern looking high-rise building Michlovio had ever seen shot into the desert like a knife into the heavens. Before he could take in the scenery a stiff-backed guard opened the door for him. He was faced with a metallic door which opened to an elevator with a lone bellhop that took him to the top floor seconds later.

There, sitting in front of an infinity-edged pool in a white wing-backed chair was Lucinda. She rose like mist and floated toward him, her smile was as well impossible to describe. Michlovio felt different in her presence and felt a chill of until-now-forgotten-experience burn up his spine. In her face were many things Michlovio understood: the pain of the world, images of a squished lizard in his palm, entrapped feelings and words unspoken among loved ones, a photograph of his mother with a new man- yet the same negro all along, the burdens of mankind, the passions and faults and impetuousness which drives nature to destroy or evolve. The face and body of Lucinda altered and shifted over top of itself. In a new and old voice he heard his father say in languages he never thought he knew:

“You’re just on time, Michlovio. I am so delighted that this day has finally come. There is much work to be done now that you have returned. This will all seem very natural to you in due time, after all, that’s how it has always been. For the moment and to assist you in our endeavor, I have a need to tell you of a story.” Michlovio nodded. “The Sicilians told it quite well.” His father continued with the slightest of a smile and a pause. “There once was a very, very clever little fox. This fox was so clever, he could never be out-smarted. He survived so well in the forest, that nothing had harmed him or could. This fox was so sure of himself and how everything was, and, in truth, there really was no comparison to the fox in the whole forest. Then one day, the fox came upon a wide river and prepared to swim it when he heard a tiny voice say: ‘Hello, Mr. Fox, I am Mr. Scorpion. I would like you to help me cross this river.’ The fox thought this through from many angles, you know, and he just never could arrive at a reason not to help his new friend. ‘You will sting me.’ Said the fox, to which the scorpion replied: “Why, heavens no, if I stung you in the middle of our journey across this river, we would both drown for certain.” The fox thought this through, of course Mr. Scorpion would do no such thing. And so he assented to let Mr. Scorpion climb up his fur and onto his head. He then proceeded to swim across the river with his head held high.” Michlovio waited. “When they were in the deepest part of the water, Mr. Scorpion dug his stinger into Mr. Fox’s nose. As he began to lose strength and drown, he asked the scorpion Why?” Michlovio knew the answer. “Because it is my nature, said the Scorpion.”

“That’s right!” Said Michlovio’s father with a smile. “So you see Michlovio, you have a choice to make. What is your answer?”

“If I work for you, can I bring my friends?” asked Michlovio.

“Michael, I thought it very appropriate when you put that diahretic into that man’s flask. I see everything, and you know this to be true: You have no friends, Michlovio.”

Michlovio thought for a moment of what he was to do.

“Can I bring my associates, then?”

“As you wish.”

Michlovio nodded and for now, the deal was done.