LUCHA VAVOOM WRESTLERS BECOME REAL-LIFE SUPERHEROES WHEN THEY STEP INTO RING.

Byline: Story by Brent Hopkins, Photos by Hans Gutknecht Daily News

Long ago, back before he pulled on multicolored tights and learned to throw a man through the air, Fabuloso Hernandez watched the wrestlers and dreamed.

Shuttled off to Tijuana to stay with an aunt as his parents worked out a separation, the 5-year-old immersed himself in lucha libre. The masked men, with their flamboyant costumes and outsized personalities, seemed like gods.

He begged his aunt to let him go to a match, pleaded with her to let him see his idol, a massive man named Kiss. Huge, muscled, encased in shining stretch fabric, Kiss looked unbeatable. When she finally gave in and took the young Hernandez, his hero strutted by, a luchador in full.

``I knew right then that this is what I wanted to do,'' Hernandez said.

Now, during the day, the 27-year-old Canoga Park man works in the import-export business, using his real name and not letting on about his dual life. He hits the gym, works on his cardio and lifts weights for hours. By night, he oils his chest, flexes his huge arms and becomes Fabuloso Hernandez, the sneering rudo of the ring.

His sport, which dates to the 1930s, perches on the verge of mainstream success. With the Jack Black flick ``Nacho Libre'' a hit in theaters and the animated ``Mucha Lucha'' on kids' television, it has crossed over from dank social halls and parking lots into the realm of families and kids.

Hernandez stepped into the ring at the Mayan Theatre downtown on a recent night as part of the Lucha VaVoom review, a freewheeling wrestling and burlesque show that booked three sold-out nights in the 1,500-seat house. A crowd of roaring enthusiasts, hipsters, guys in sport coats and ladies in next to nothing cheered them on with unabashed adoration.

``It's about good and evil, characters sketched in broad strokes,'' said Liz Fairbairn, girlfriend of wrestler Gringo Loco and co-producer of Lucha VaVoom. ``It's very comedic, sure, but there's some very, very serious athleticism involved.''

The skills of these men and women cannot be overemphasized. Even massive combatants who must weigh in at nearly 300 pounds can flip and fly like lithe, little gymnasts. They twist off the ropes and tackle one another, slamming into the sweat-slicked mat with mighty crashes.

In a sport known for its comic excess, the performers are dead serious. They're as close to real-life superheroes as you can get, refusing to be photographed unmasked, not disclosing their dual identities to all but their closest intimates.

Like American-style wrestling, performers break down into the good (technicos), bad (rudos) and another, unique category known as exoticos. Heavily made-up and lavishly costumed with headdresses, the exoticos pull off a strange blend of manly strength and flamboyant femininity.

Fairbairn, a special effects costumer, got into the sport while on a movie shoot in Mexico nine years ago. Intrigued by its moves and in love with Gringo Loco, she began busing her friends south to watch fighters pound each other in Tijuana clubs.

Four years ago, she began putting on the wild shows with her burlesque- dancing partner, Rita D'Albert. Spurred on by the review's popularity, the pair is now considering a national tour, a television show and a permanent home in Las Vegas.

``We have a danger you used to see in rock 'n' roll, back before the corporate guys and fire marshals took over,'' said D'Albert, a friendly woman with eye-catching blond hair, false eyelashes and nearly microscopic shorts. ``You go see the Rolling Stones now and no one's smoking pot or throwing things. Here, people are throwing chairs and midgets. There's an element of danger.''

Backstage, Fairbairn readies a costume for one of those diminutive wrestlers, known in the industry as a mini. D'Albert clicks around on platform leather boots, part of her costume as Ursulina. The ladies do their hair, the men unpack elaborate layers of costumes.

The wrestlers, stuffed into their shiny get-ups, work out moves and talk shop. So they can make a more glamorous entrance, they sprint up the back stairwell, working themselves into a frenzy.

They are the best, the strongest, the prettiest, the wildest, whatever blown-up adjective suits best. Up on the street, they pile into loud, old cars whose engines roar and whose frames scrape the ground.

It's almost time for lucha.

``I'm looking for mayhem, looking for midgets, looking for burlesque and it's hard to find those all in one place,'' said Nate Knetchel, 30, of Hollywood, dressed in spectacles and a red mask, a can of Bud Light in his hand. He writes for children's television and calls himself ``The King of Nothing.''

He's a fan, not a performer, but the line gets somewhat blurry at times.

``I just hope no one pulls my glasses, which are worn outside my mask,'' he said. ``That's my Achilles heel.''

Below in the dressing room, where the performers have retreated after making their grand entrances, wrestlers discuss moves and debate holds. They speak in the same matter-of-fact way that people with regular jobs would say, ``I'm going to finish the taxes on Wednesday,'' or ``Did someone fix the printer?''

Shamu Jr., who wears an orca costume and has a mask tattooed in between his broad shoulders, directs the fighters on who'll go flying first. A pink-hatted exotico wearing ruffled shorts agrees while two chicken-suited warriors known together as Los Gallineros practice their punches. A wheezing mini huffs through as a referee smokes off on the side.

``Ay, Gabriel! Que barbaro!'' cries out Cassandro, the exotico star, as another mini adjusts his costume to reveal parts not seen in the show. ``To do this, you've got to have a lot of guts and a wrestler's heart. It's not easy. You sacrifice your family, you sacrifice yourself.

``I've been hurt so bad, had surgery on my wrist, surgery on my knee, I've been paralyzed, hit with bottles and chairs ... but I love it.''

He's 36 and has been wrestling for the past 19 years. He wears his hair in a huge, fiery pompadour and applies sparkly blue makeup to his eyelids and lashes. And he's an amazing fighter.

As one of the stars, Cassandro can get thousands of dollars in the white envelopes handed out to performers after the show. Entry-level fighters make around $100 per fight and top-level talent in Mexico earns millions annually.

But those dollars are paid back in blood, as thick ridges, brought on by blows to the brow, at Cassandro's hairline attests. Though they take tremendous care not to hurt each other in their ultraviolent sport, the purple scars that dot their bodies serve as unpleasant reminders that hitting can hurt. A lot.

And soon, that's exactly what they're doing before the screaming fans. It's an all-out battle royal, with everyone smacking and swinging and punching and slamming into each other.

It's sex and violence, Spanish and Spandex. Every so often, one goes hurtling out of the ring, a shiny cannonball in tights. They flip and turn and whale on one another with a fury -- and this is only the first match. Before they're done, even a referee whups someone.

After a few of the initial matches have finished and the burlesque ladies are plying their trade before the ring, the luchadores head back to their dressing room to change into street clothes. Disassembling the match, the scene of extreme machismo takes on a surprisingly tender element.

The men congratulate one another on victories and offer compliments, then venture into wrestling-related conversation.

``Man, I've got to ask you,'' wonders one, now maskless and stripped down to his black briefs. ``How do you shave your legs? 'Cause it's been killing me.''

They debate brands of razors, advise one another to stay away from Nair and question other hair-removal products' efficacy. Not 20 minutes after they appeared to beat one another senseless, they're sharing a friendly bond, developed in this world that few understand.

``I only tell my close friends, but a lot of people wouldn't understand what I do,'' Hernandez said. ``They don't get going out here for $80, $100 a night with a mask on and getting beat up.''

He's been at it for just two years after training in a tough Pacoima gym under the tutelage of a pair of masters known as Profeta and White Pork. Relishing the role of the rudo, he plays up his evilness before the crowd. If things work out like he plans, he'll wrestle until he's 50, then ease into refereeing, promoting or training.

In the meantime, he calls himself ``a mental-physical therapist.''

``I see myself as an athlete and a performer,'' he said as he prepped for his match, his dislocated thumb taped back into place. ``Say you hate your wife, get mad at your kids, your job. I want people to have some beers, eat some nachos, watch the show and go home and enjoy themselves for another week. It's cheaper than therapy or the movies these days.''

Later on, during the headliner match that teamed Cassandro and the pale- eyed Mistico versus the evil Averno and Mephisto, the crowd screamed as the stars slammed one another.

One of the horned-mask rudos gets Mistico tangled up on the turnbuckle. Grinding the hero into the ropes, he begins unlacing his opponent's mask, threatening to reveal his true identity before the crowd. This would be unthinkable, akin to telling the world that this guy named Superman is really a dorky reporter named Clark Kent.

But Mistico busts free, does some fancy footwork and, after an absolutely stunning bit of acrobatics -- climbing the ropes, leaping into the air, flipping backward, ensnaring his opponent's head with his ankles and twisting him to the mat -- fires up the crowd. Soon, his theme song's playing, the audience is cheering and he and Cassandro deliver a tremendous beating that does not lend itself well to the confines of print.

A quick uno-dos-tres and it's over. The rudos have been vanquished, and soon everyone's down in the dressing room.

In their jeans and polo shirts, gear loaded into duffle bags and little, rolling suitcases, the luchadores look like a bunch of regular guys out for the night. They could be teachers, cops or accountants.

They shake hands, slap backs, hug good-bye and wish each other luck for another day.

brent.hopkins(at)dailynews.com

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CAPTION(S):

9 photos

Photo:

(1 -- 2 -- color) Above, luchador Biggz attempts to escape a foot to the neck during a match at Lucha VaVoom at the Mayan Theatre in Los Angeles. Left, Mexican superstar luchador Mistico, dressed in elaborate attire, gets ready backstage for his match.

(3 -- color) A luchador flies into the crowd during Lucha VaVoom at the Mayan Theatre in Los Angeles. The freewheeling wrestling and burlesque show was sold out.

(4 -- color) Luchador Shamu Jr. lies on the ground amid fans after being thrown out of the ring. Often battered by opponents in the flamboyant sport, luchadores nonetheless love performing for adoring audiences.

(5 -- color) Luchador Cassandro puts on his makeup backstage. Cassandro is counted among the luchador stars who can receive thousands of dollars after each show.

(6 -- color) A sold-out crowd cheers the luchadores during Lucha VaVoom at the Mayan Theatre in Los Angeles on June 20.

(7 -- color) The two chicken-costumed luchadores who make up Los Gallineros pose in the back of a classic pickup truck as they prepare to make their entrance at Lucha VaVoom.

(8 -- color) Luchador Mini Octagoncito makes his way to the ring. Smaller wrestlers, known as minis, are a fixture of lucha libre.

(9) Luchador Fabuloso Hernandez jumps out of the ring onto Biggz. The 27-year-old has been dedicated to the sport since he was 5, when his aunt took him to see his idol in Mexico.

Hans Gutknecht/Staff Photographer