Filming has begun for Season Two and excitement thrills through Mil Muertes' body. Tremulous as he takes his place above the ring, ripples of anticipation suffuse his taut, physique; soon he will know the texture, taste and smell of the other Luchadores. Their vigorous, potent bodies, the harsh chafe of their hands, salt and spice, berry-dark skin and paintbox bright spandex. Muertes' hands press down, hard into his groin as he watches. Unseen and unbidden above the clamour of the crowd he sits, voyeur of spectacle and spectators alike.
He surveys the ring from his vaulted seat; Striker and Vampiro coo softly to each other at the commentators table. They don't realise he is watching them. Vampiro whispers something in Striker's ear and Striker smiles and lowers his eyes, a coy geisha girl, sweet and beguiling. Vampiro's lips barely grazing Striker's cheek, he leans in closer yet to whisper again. The hollow throb of envy aches deep within Muertes; his sinews thronging to the baying of the crowd, dark currents of jealous desire seethe through his viscera.
In the ring below Angelico, Ivelisse and Havoc go about the mundane business of the match. Muertes knows he should be watching but he cannot tear his eyes away from the hushed communion of the two men below, their quiet intercourse and snatched glances ripe and swollen with unspoken meaning. Suddenly Muertes is in the ring too, he has a match to perform. He goes through the motions, Ivelesse's feminine form of no interest to him. Tempestuous waves of wanton, jealous yearning buffet and pummel Muertes, his skin bubbling and creaking at the strain of containing the vehement forces within him. Then strong arms hold him still and the storm subsides. Muertes lies spent on the mat, glowing as the touch of Pentagon Jr lingers yet on his skin.
