Post by The Cosplay Playboy on Jul 9, 2015 15:58:01 GMT -6
July 4, 2015
¿Quién es JUNKETSU?
Now there was a question to intrigue anyone who follows Lucha Libre for a good 30 seconds. A tidbit, some speculation and that realization on how their worlds now nothing about JUNKETSU outside of the fact that she is a female and a so-called "Matadora de Técnicos." A técnico killer, an entity clad in white, an angel who has come to do the devil's work, starting with one Mr. Django within a few days’ time as (R)Evolution Wrestling and HELL partner up for a show together.
Well, perhaps nobody has gone that far just yet with that last bit of angels and demons.
But in due time.
As the one under that mask, I do look forward to the theories which will surface from it all. I want them to have the name JUNKETSU uttered from their lips with a hint of fear, a sprinkle of adulation and a whole lot of anticipation as to what in the world is going to happen when one of their favorite técnicos step foot in the ring against me only to realize that they haven’t just stepped into a HELL squared circle but that they have crossed from this world to the next and now, that they’re in my domain and furthermore…
“Ay mamacita, ¿A dónde vas?”
Nothing like a bit of old-fashioned cat calling to snap me from a good old-fashioned inner monologue while I keep on walking through the Paseo de los Héroes, which happens to be one of the most important avenues in the entirety of Tijuana. Road of the Heroes is what it roughly translates to, and in a way, the name makes me smirk every time. Being a hero - well, attempting to be one - was something I learned to do since day one of laying my eyes on the television screen and seeing a man clad in silly blue tights and a goofy grin soar through the air onto a prone opponent. I finally get a glance behind me after hearing the steps get closer and closer. Not a particularly bad looking male. Tall, chiseled, broad shoulders, a haircut of the kind that his parents would call very professional and likely to impress all the ladies, facial hair which makes him look years older than what he actually is and his steps as he continues to trail behind me are uncoordinated, like he has to put actual thought into a solid step to keep himself from stumbling.
It was only nine p.m. and this guy was already drunk off his ass in the middle of Tijuana for heaven’s sakes.
I know this because I’ve had a few of those nights myself.
Like I told you before, I once wanted nothing more than to be a hero. But in the process, somebody broke me. Physically and mentally. Beyond recovery, perhaps. Because now, instead of seeing a foolish young man who may be ready to commit foolish acts under the influence if he’s given an opportunity, I see something else entirely.
I see a threat. I see a man ready to act on impulse and attempt to prove this whole “machismo” bullshit Mexican males seem to take to heart and in turn, make me yet another foreign and pretty static to Donald Trump’s diatribe as he foolishly tries to become the President of a country he doesn’t even understand. I see somebody who sees me as a conquest, a prize to be had, rather than a human being.
“Mami, no camines tan rápido. ¡Vamos a divertirnos juntos!”
It’s at that point that I reach an alley and walk down right into it, my smirk returning right back to my face before I finally stop. I proceed to bring my purse down off my shoulders and grab on to the handles with my right hand. Waiting for the steps to get closer, I can hear him utter something else in Spanish - maybe in relief that I finally stopped after going nearly three blocks with him following behind like a love sickened puppy or maybe in the anticipation that he might be able to score with a hot foreign girl and tell all of his buddies at the bar this upcoming weekend.
Let’s have fun together, he says. Alright then. Let’s do just that.
I wait for him to put his hand across my shoulder before turning around, feeling the hand tighten around it. It’s at that point when he can see my face in full for the first time. There’s a bit of a grin as he realizes that I actually look just as good from the front and his eyes widen with a bit of realization.
“Me suena tu cara, ¿nos conocemos de algo?”
Even if the words come slightly slurred and I can smell the alcohol in his breath, there’s no mistaking that this particular gentleman here is perhaps a professional wrestling fan as well. Maybe one of the many who will now be coming into the HELL domain and watching shows. At the same time, my actual face is one that has been seen before many times on television and even at live shows here in Mexico. Yet, he doesn’t seem to quite realize it just yet...all that much more important as his hand is still on my shoulder that I show him something very important as I finally speak up in my own native tongue instead of the one I barely got past through four years of it in high school.
“My name is…”
The woman he may faintly recognize no longer exists.
It doesn’t take too long to let go of my purse, take his arm with my hands and proceed to pull him close, kneeing him right in the groin. The shock on his face doesn’t even compare to the smile on my own as I follow suit by placing my hands around his neck and clutch on to him as my knees begin to do their talking.
The right one greets the side of his cheek as if to give him a rude awakening from his booze-indulged trip to realize the pain he was about to feel was going to hit him in full stride.
The left one found its mark against his jaw, welcoming him further to the torture and doing so in a way that it was nothing more than a love tap...and that the next five or six of these were going to shatter his facial structure.
And so these greetings went on in succession a few times. Sometimes, the knees found the nose. An eye socket. The lips. Cheek bones. Don’t get me wrong, he yelled out in pain after the first three of them but shattering his jaw with the fourth shut him up real quick - likely knocked him into unconsciousness too. But I couldn’t help but to keep going. In these kinds of situations, I was instructed to not stop until I was sure that my assailant couldn’t move any further.
There was the issue of him apparently recognizing me as a familiar face. Perhaps as I donned a mask inside of the ring, I would need one outside of it as well. Just to make sure my actual name and persona didn’t show up on newspapers and tabloids across Mexico, which would then get back to the U.S.A. and beyond...and also avoid incidents like this one in the future, hopefully.
Finally, after feeling a trickle or two of his blood actually hit the skin of the rip near the left thigh of my jeans, I finally let go of his neck and let him fall to the concrete below. Grabbing my purse again, I pulled out a handkerchief from it and wiped the blood away from it before pocketing it, glancing back at the unconscious man before me. I could see the swelling on his face, the blood pouring down from his lip, even a tooth that made its way out during this entire debacle. There was that small bit of me that felt he was just a drunken fool who could have been told off properly and he’d have nothing more than a story of how even the foreign women didn’t seem to like his “machismo” and charms.
But like I told you before, somebody once broke me with that same routine. Somebody once victimized me and took away a part of me that I can never get back. Much like this man, they put their hands on me and once upon a time, I would have listened. I would have made conversation. I might have even taken him to my bed and let him have his way with me until I drowned in my own lust.
But I’m not who I used to be.
...My name is JUNKETSU.
And I will never be a victim again.
¿Quién es JUNKETSU?
Now there was a question to intrigue anyone who follows Lucha Libre for a good 30 seconds. A tidbit, some speculation and that realization on how their worlds now nothing about JUNKETSU outside of the fact that she is a female and a so-called "Matadora de Técnicos." A técnico killer, an entity clad in white, an angel who has come to do the devil's work, starting with one Mr. Django within a few days’ time as (R)Evolution Wrestling and HELL partner up for a show together.
Well, perhaps nobody has gone that far just yet with that last bit of angels and demons.
But in due time.
As the one under that mask, I do look forward to the theories which will surface from it all. I want them to have the name JUNKETSU uttered from their lips with a hint of fear, a sprinkle of adulation and a whole lot of anticipation as to what in the world is going to happen when one of their favorite técnicos step foot in the ring against me only to realize that they haven’t just stepped into a HELL squared circle but that they have crossed from this world to the next and now, that they’re in my domain and furthermore…
“Ay mamacita, ¿A dónde vas?”
Nothing like a bit of old-fashioned cat calling to snap me from a good old-fashioned inner monologue while I keep on walking through the Paseo de los Héroes, which happens to be one of the most important avenues in the entirety of Tijuana. Road of the Heroes is what it roughly translates to, and in a way, the name makes me smirk every time. Being a hero - well, attempting to be one - was something I learned to do since day one of laying my eyes on the television screen and seeing a man clad in silly blue tights and a goofy grin soar through the air onto a prone opponent. I finally get a glance behind me after hearing the steps get closer and closer. Not a particularly bad looking male. Tall, chiseled, broad shoulders, a haircut of the kind that his parents would call very professional and likely to impress all the ladies, facial hair which makes him look years older than what he actually is and his steps as he continues to trail behind me are uncoordinated, like he has to put actual thought into a solid step to keep himself from stumbling.
It was only nine p.m. and this guy was already drunk off his ass in the middle of Tijuana for heaven’s sakes.
I know this because I’ve had a few of those nights myself.
Like I told you before, I once wanted nothing more than to be a hero. But in the process, somebody broke me. Physically and mentally. Beyond recovery, perhaps. Because now, instead of seeing a foolish young man who may be ready to commit foolish acts under the influence if he’s given an opportunity, I see something else entirely.
I see a threat. I see a man ready to act on impulse and attempt to prove this whole “machismo” bullshit Mexican males seem to take to heart and in turn, make me yet another foreign and pretty static to Donald Trump’s diatribe as he foolishly tries to become the President of a country he doesn’t even understand. I see somebody who sees me as a conquest, a prize to be had, rather than a human being.
“Mami, no camines tan rápido. ¡Vamos a divertirnos juntos!”
It’s at that point that I reach an alley and walk down right into it, my smirk returning right back to my face before I finally stop. I proceed to bring my purse down off my shoulders and grab on to the handles with my right hand. Waiting for the steps to get closer, I can hear him utter something else in Spanish - maybe in relief that I finally stopped after going nearly three blocks with him following behind like a love sickened puppy or maybe in the anticipation that he might be able to score with a hot foreign girl and tell all of his buddies at the bar this upcoming weekend.
Let’s have fun together, he says. Alright then. Let’s do just that.
I wait for him to put his hand across my shoulder before turning around, feeling the hand tighten around it. It’s at that point when he can see my face in full for the first time. There’s a bit of a grin as he realizes that I actually look just as good from the front and his eyes widen with a bit of realization.
“Me suena tu cara, ¿nos conocemos de algo?”
Even if the words come slightly slurred and I can smell the alcohol in his breath, there’s no mistaking that this particular gentleman here is perhaps a professional wrestling fan as well. Maybe one of the many who will now be coming into the HELL domain and watching shows. At the same time, my actual face is one that has been seen before many times on television and even at live shows here in Mexico. Yet, he doesn’t seem to quite realize it just yet...all that much more important as his hand is still on my shoulder that I show him something very important as I finally speak up in my own native tongue instead of the one I barely got past through four years of it in high school.
“My name is…”
The woman he may faintly recognize no longer exists.
It doesn’t take too long to let go of my purse, take his arm with my hands and proceed to pull him close, kneeing him right in the groin. The shock on his face doesn’t even compare to the smile on my own as I follow suit by placing my hands around his neck and clutch on to him as my knees begin to do their talking.
The right one greets the side of his cheek as if to give him a rude awakening from his booze-indulged trip to realize the pain he was about to feel was going to hit him in full stride.
The left one found its mark against his jaw, welcoming him further to the torture and doing so in a way that it was nothing more than a love tap...and that the next five or six of these were going to shatter his facial structure.
And so these greetings went on in succession a few times. Sometimes, the knees found the nose. An eye socket. The lips. Cheek bones. Don’t get me wrong, he yelled out in pain after the first three of them but shattering his jaw with the fourth shut him up real quick - likely knocked him into unconsciousness too. But I couldn’t help but to keep going. In these kinds of situations, I was instructed to not stop until I was sure that my assailant couldn’t move any further.
There was the issue of him apparently recognizing me as a familiar face. Perhaps as I donned a mask inside of the ring, I would need one outside of it as well. Just to make sure my actual name and persona didn’t show up on newspapers and tabloids across Mexico, which would then get back to the U.S.A. and beyond...and also avoid incidents like this one in the future, hopefully.
Finally, after feeling a trickle or two of his blood actually hit the skin of the rip near the left thigh of my jeans, I finally let go of his neck and let him fall to the concrete below. Grabbing my purse again, I pulled out a handkerchief from it and wiped the blood away from it before pocketing it, glancing back at the unconscious man before me. I could see the swelling on his face, the blood pouring down from his lip, even a tooth that made its way out during this entire debacle. There was that small bit of me that felt he was just a drunken fool who could have been told off properly and he’d have nothing more than a story of how even the foreign women didn’t seem to like his “machismo” and charms.
But like I told you before, somebody once broke me with that same routine. Somebody once victimized me and took away a part of me that I can never get back. Much like this man, they put their hands on me and once upon a time, I would have listened. I would have made conversation. I might have even taken him to my bed and let him have his way with me until I drowned in my own lust.
But I’m not who I used to be.
...My name is JUNKETSU.
And I will never be a victim again.
