The bus was taking

too long from

El Rosario, Sinaloa.

His mascara

lay

forlorn

in his seat;

a luchador

unmasked

is no one.

Not one.

“Stop the bus!” Falling

out the bus

door into the

tormenta. Not

Fray Torementa. Just

a luchador

unmasked.

He drowned

alone, unseen, and

yet hitting the

mat that night

in Mexico City.

¡Qué vergüenza!

¡Qué la canción!



EN MEMORIA DE ABISMO NEGRO, 1971-2009.

Hailing From Parts Unknown, mostly cause he’s too embarrassed to admit it’s the Inland Empire, Joe Hilliard comes in at a less than optimal 6’2″, 260. But he makes up for it in gritty jobber love. His knowledge of lucha libre names far outweighs his actual ability to do a frog splash. His knees ache too much.

Joe Hilliard. Writer. Luddite. Teller of Tales. Grew up as a teen in Los Angeles on a diet of Blue Demon, Doc Savage, Philip K. Dick, the Circle Jerks, Mildred Pierce, Judge Dredd, and 50s science fiction films, on the fringe of 80s Hollywood. Graduate of the University of Michigan, which only added Kawabata, Krazy Kat, and William S. Burroughs to the mix. Marks time as a paralegal in sunny California.