Urbano rearranges his spit-shining curls for the hundredth time before leaning over the table his timid companion is seated at. His hair has always been his vanity, and fortunately so, since the rest of his sun-parched features are nothing to be proud of. His cheeks were marred by scars incurred at an early age from the ravages of smallpox, his chin was perilously close to non-existing and seemed attached directly to his collarbone. His nose was a strange, acne-ridden bulb with pin-prick nostrils. His eyes were tiny and constantly nervously twitching. His hair, however, was thick and curly, a lavish waterfall tumbling to his shoulders, and impressive, in spite of his nasty habit of making it shine with whatever greasy or wet substance was closest at hand.

“How bad would it really by,” he asked his doubtful cohort.

Of course, that was back when he had hair. Now, as he lurched into lucha libre ring, he shivered with the well-known rage of what he had lost. After his first trial as a heretic and subsequent immolation, some of it had grown back in thin, wiry tufts. The second time he was found heresiologically culpable, nothing had been left. Now, after having been latched to the stake and set ablaze no less than 27 times, (breaking the previous record by a substantial amount, according to the almanacs of the inquisition) his skin had been bleached a ghastly white from the scarring, and nothing was willing to grow anywhere on his body. It was after the 22nd incineration attempt that he somehow reached the conclusion that being fire-proof would secure him as unprecedented success on the lucha libre circuit as it had breaking records as the least flammable man in the Empire.

It didn’t, of course. Only 0.7% of lucha libre deaths are even tangentially related to fire, and as he hurtled to the floor shortly after the beginning of his first match, he discovered that the unbreakability of his neck was inversely proportional to his inflammability.