Streets of Fandom, Late Saturday

[olympian-herc.livejournal.com]

With a flare of flamenco guitar, there was Herculio, bronzed muscles glinting in the moonlight. He wore nothing but a pair of green trunks, a luchadore mask clenched in his fist. He was disgraced, no longer the mighty warrior of the squared circle he once was.

He dropped to his knees in the streets and howled at the stars.

"Espero que no se arrastre mi gemelo malvado su salida de eso pozo que descargamos su cuerpo adentro. Para la esta noche deseo ser solo con mi dolor profundo y el sufrimiento en la pérdida de mi esposa querida que fue funcionada con encima por un caballo!" he shouted, a single perfect tear glinting on his bronzed cheek.

[ooc: Open post, and my apologies to anyone who speaks Spanish for Herc's Babel-fished Telenovella dialog.]