I see the man. Yes. He’s right there. On Hollywood Blvd. I’m sure it’s him. To think how casual this wanted man acts after what he’s done? These so-called tourists are too busy commemorating their vacation to realize they are in the midst of a killer. Fools! No doubt they will soon have more of a show than they bargained for. Blood soaked stars of the forgotten famous dead. One more shall soon be added.
You may ask me what this man in a black mask, hat and cape has done. Just ask his victims’ families across Mexico. The sign of the Z is no mark of freedom. It’s the symbol of cold-blooded murder. My story is that of the adoring son of a police captain of a rural town in the state of Jalisco. I watched papa every morning proudly trim his mustache before reporting for duty. On my thirteenth birthday, he left for work promising me luchadore comics. But papa never returned with comic books. He returned with a giant Z slashed into his chest. My mother said this masked man was a famous bandit that killed corrupt cops. He was called a hero. An icon. I still call Zorro a murderer.
And here he is. Just standing on the street posing with children from Ohio. One of the little girls even wears a miniature Zorro hat. Her brother holds a miniature sword. Zorro’s molding future killers. The siblings follow his lead and shout threateningly at their parents manhandling the handycam, “En guard!”
The young Ohio parents clap with delight. Zorro releases the children. He makes sure to recover his child-size weapon and hat. The father slides his camera back into his Ohio State Buckeyes hoodie pocket. Zorro clears his throat. Ohio father of the year stares blankly. Zorro clears his throat again, this time nodding towards the kids. Daddy Warbuckeye finally gets it and drops a dollar bill into Zorro’s now out stretched hat. The Ohio family chases the Tin Man to hear his rendition of “If I only had a heart”. Zorro snatches the dollar with a snarl, his bald spot glowing red fury.
He curses under his breath, “Chinge tu madre.”
It is now or never. For my family’s honor. But my feet won’t move. It’s the coward gene again, the curse of my mother’s bloodline. But the vision of my father’s mighty mustache pushes me on.
“For you, papa.”
Zorro sees me approach and smiles.
“Hello, my friend. Would you like a picture with Zorro, the fiercest fighter and lover in all of Mexico?”
“No,” I blurt out. “I wish to ask you a question.”
“This isn’t for some crazy reality show is it? There isn’t a camera filming me? You know, send a weird looking dude to ask the guy dressed like Zorro bizarre questions like how many chicks I’ve given the herpes to?”
“No, Zorro. This is personal.”
“Okay, good. Because anything Jennifer says is just the ramblings of a diseased mind. You know chicks in retail, right?”
“No. Why have you killed so many innocent people?”
Zorro studies me for a moment. Then he laughs aloud.
“Well Zorro was guilty of killing the ladies with the Z.”
Zorro thrusts his crotch out me, as if to taunt me. What he said is true. He killed my mother with the Z when her heart was buried with my father. The woman who raised me was just a shell, hollowed out by his vicious Z. This shall not stand.
I scream at him, “It is time we fight, you scoundrel!”
“You got it, amigo.”
Zorro hands me a spare sword. It feels light. I can wait no longer, so I step back into a fighting stance. The people loitering around make room, forming a circle around us.
I hear a teenage girl ask, “Who’s that guy in the black supposed to be? Some gay, goth superhero?”
“Zorro!” I scream aloud so my witnesses can hear. “You murdered my father, Policía El Capitan Antonio Gutierrez, in cold blood. I swore to avenge him.”
“Bring it on, if you must,” cries Zorro. “But just know Zorro only kills the wicked that oppress the peasants. For I am the hero of the people!”
“En guard!”
Zorro points his sword at me. I point mine back. He jabs at me and we begin our fight to the death. He fights with skill only a murderer could possess. I fight back with anger only revenge can fuel. Our swords clash, but no metal clangs. I swing furiously, thrusting and stabbing at Zorro.
He calls out, “Easy there, holmes.”
I swing my blade with all my might and knock his weapon to the ground. Our audience gasps. Zorro looks at me with well-deserved fear.
“Kneel before me. Beg for my forgiveness. No, beg for mercy.”
“I’m just an actor, bro,” Zorro pleads. “I just do this to pay the rent while I audition.”
“Enough lies!” I scream and chop down with the sword. But the bastard’s head doesn’t fall off. It doesn’t bleed either. All I see is a line of red along Zorro’s neck.
“That really hurt, retard!” Zorro snatches back my sword. “It’s made of rubber.”
“You don’t dare to fight me with a real sword?”
“No, you see- I, uh-,” Zorro begins to answer, but he is interrupted by a woman’s voice.
“Owen? You wandered off again.”
“It’s him, mom!” I insist. “The man in black who killed my father.”
My mother’s arms are loaded with shopping bags. She looks to Zorro, and whispers loud enough for me to hear,
“Owen’s a little delusional. I told him when he was young that Zorro killed his daddy the cop. Easier than saying ‘your daddy knocked me up before going to jail for selling crack.’”
Zorro removes his hat and clears his throat. Mom knows instinctually to put a dollar into the hat. Zorro twists his neck to the left to reveal the battle wound I gave him. Mom drops a second dollar in his hat. He clears his throat once more. Mom puts a five-dollar bill and charges away, dragging me with her.
While my hollow shell of a mother pines for my heroic father, I stare harshly at Zorro. More children and parents surround this man, putting their arms around Zorro while wearing his cursed hat. But now I know where to find Zorro. I shall return.
BB
