Masks and capes and fancy flashy outfits. People running faster than the wind, people lifting cars in the streets, people bending spoons with their mind alone – the age of heroes.
But bloody tears started to show themselves on The Great Lucha’s mask. They weren’t real tears, no, the painted-on tears, on the mask. The Great Lucha knew something was wrong.
Once upon a time, he used to be an alcohol smuggler. A bright, fast-talking Mexican lad, who smuggled booze over the border.
He remembered what those days were like. The glory days, the wild days. Prohibition days. Days when double-barreled rifles and shotguns ruled the streets. Days without powers and silly masks and cliche villains. The glory days, the noir days.
It happened decades ago, but The Great Lucha remembers, the day when he started doing it with a mask. He had felt a compulsion to hide his face then, not knowing what was happening. Shortly after the first smuggle job with the mask, he started to paint it. It was good fun, at first, dressing like a luchador – a Mexican professional wrestler.
Soon, he gained enhanced stealth. Soon, masks became the norm. His special stealth power suddenly not so stealthy as policemen who saw through walls started showing up.
The Great Lucha saw the change, he adapted. Many didn’t, many died. And he sensed it now. It was happening, another change. The read teardrops on his mask, the sinister curve of the painted-on smile of his mask. If he were to guess, it was the era of horrors. Yes, the era of horrors that now awaited.
After the mask’s disfigurement, The Great Lucha’s skin started to melt. He had seen this happen, change, that is. He would adapt. The Great Luc- no – Danse Macabre will survive. He will adapt. What will you do?