"Donde esta Mistico?" asked a little boy, about 9 years old, seated in the row behind me as he stretched his neck to try to place his favorite hero, the shirtless masked hardbody in glittery white and gold spandex pants. "Oh...Mistico!!!" the question turned into a desperate plea.

Mistico, a favorite good-guy luchador loved especially by the kids, finally got up from where he'd been dumped outside the ring, and turned his attention to his patner Negro, who was currently getting an beating from the bad-guy duo known as Mephistos.

It's Friday night at the Arena Coliseo, and PW's copyking Jeff Barg and I have ringside Lucha Libre seats. Vendors selling ice cream, Coronas, and Cup o' Noodles blend into the commotion of bikini babes, folding chair whacks, pyrotechnics, tight pecs, horns and hollers everywhere.

"Oy!" the little boy behind me gasps, as Negro, wearing just black underpants, receives another smack against his chest.

"Oy!" again, as Negro gets thrown into the ropes.

"O-oooy!", as Negro is bodyslammed to the ground.

But Mistico has finally reentered the ring, ready to unleash his (actually very impressive) acrobatic kicks, twists and tackles, landing on the ground with one of the Mephistos' heads clenched between his thighs.

"Que increible!" the little boy behind me, stunned, whispers to himself, before launching into a refrain he and his friends repeat periodically through the rest of the match, until at last the final bell sounds and Mistico and Negro are declared winners.

"Mephee-sto! Pu-to!"