Judges

El Trébol Jr

[St. Joseph Catholic church in West End of Boston was empty on this cold November afternoon, save for one. El Trébol Jr sat on the back pew, kicking his feet in the open air as he stared forward, eyes locked on the crucified Christ. After a moment, he turns his head to acknowledge the camera.]

“In the Old Testament there is a book, Judges, that focuses on the lives of several men and women, prophets and priests, who fought on behalf of their fellow men. Warriors, they were, sent by God to rescue the Israelites from whatever hand they had been trapped under at the time. The book is a chronology of a ceaseless cycle the people of God had fallen into. Destruction and redemption.”

[His last words echo through the space, as if they were being repeated again and again by others unseen.]

“The cycle, you see, was never truly broken because the Judges that had been sent to redeem them were still human. Many of them possessed shortcomings, just like the Israelites themselves, that prevented them from ever achieving true oneness with their creator. Gideon doubted. Samson was proud and broke his vows. Men and women who believed themselves to be set apart—and perhaps they were—but they were still not free from the vices that grip humanity. They all possessed shortcomings that prevented perfection.”

[El Trébol Jr pauses as he shifts position on the pew, running one gloved hand across the velvet for a moment.]

“I have not been deceived into believing you are any different, D’Von Chambers. You stand there, untested and unblemished in your coat as white as snow, but I do not believe you blameless. There is a darkness in you, as there is in all of us, and I hope to uncover it this week. I seek, D’Von, to make you a honest man because that’s the next best thing to a good one. I imagine, of course, that you’ll have a high defense towering around your truths, but that’s okay.”

[The sanctity of the space is interrupted by the sickening crunch of steel against flesh. A memory brought to sound.]

“I have ways of cracking open a man to see what’s on his inside.”

[Despite the mask, El Trébol’s smile bleeds through.]

“I’m going to circle you in that ring like the fucking walls of Jericho, bud, again and again until you come crashing down in front of me. I’m not a vindictive man. I’m not even put off by your beliefs because, in a way, I share some of them. I just believe, deep down, that any man who chooses to fight for more than himself ought to be judged early, else we all find out too late that they had been fighting for the wrong reasons all along.”

[The little luchador nods.]

“There is one story in Judges I can really appreciate. Ehud, the left-handed assassin. He was born with traits that make him inferior in his contemporary culture, but he made them his strengths. To those on the outside looking in, he was different. It was only when they looked down and saw that knife sticking out of their gut that they realized their error.”

[El Trébol chuckles to himself.]

“Sound familiar?”

[With a hop, he lands on the carpeted floor. He pats the back of the pew for a moment before returning his gaze to the camera one last time.

“You can say I’ve got a chip on my shoulder, D’von, and I intend on being the proverbial thorn in your side this week. And though I’m no betting man, I’d like to say that envy will be your vice after our match.

[Fade to black.]

“Because the last thing you’ll be seeing is green.”

[And then silence.]