Face Turn

A gringo buried under ten tons of lucha libre masks, I am the

rudo, evil edition El Generico, muchos gracias as the bookerman

lets me pull your skin off. Texan and don’t speak a lick of Spanish, I took

French to commune with my fellow fake. It’s fitting my faux-French

accent sounds like the truth is stuck in my throat, though I’m getting sick

of choking on myself. Can’t wrestle anything under these layers of lycra

and vinyl, Psicosis and Mysterio, the former second Black Tiger all

dropped the facade at some point. Hell, Guerrero was honest scum and all I want

is to lie, cheat, steal and hear the people cheer like I’m Guerrero, puff my chest

out and shimmy, scream Viva la Raza! la Raza being my social hucksters from

other madres, die young and beloved, no one holding anything against me, but

this work hasn’t been working and I’m considering a face turn. All I want is to

strut from the right tunnel to some corny song I love like “Hold On” by Wilson Phillips,

pop the pyro, get my shit kicked, rally back, throw caution to the wind, earn

that pin but I’ve not earned that earnestness yet. Here’s the thing I’ve learned from years

of wrestling: if you want to turn face, you need to show yours first.