
Malachi Vazquez #162249


Launcho Libre @ Art Dye

Wielding the power of Aetherial Aviator (#2), Malachi demonstrated exceptional skill by playing +71 points above their rating in this epic clash.
Masked Finale
El Ángel Volador and his Técnicos Voladores have fought valiantly to defend the spirit of disc golf, even as El Diablo Sucio's vicious Rudos Sucios unleash chaos, leaving battered discs and broken dreams in their wake. The arrival of the mysterious Wind Whisperer has reignited hope, their graceful throws a shining light amidst the darkness. Yet, as ancient disc golf powers awaken and whispers of El Dorado's return echo through the fairways, El Ángel Volador faces his greatest challenge yet. Will he find the strength to soar above the mayhem and lead the Técnicos to glory, or will the shadows of ruthless ambition consume the very soul of the Launcho Libre league?



Commentary from Flippy (your trapped narrator)
# Final Flight: Championship Chains
The chains rattled like bones in the wind as **El Ángel Volador** surveyed the battlefield of Dragonfly. Today, legends would be forged or shattered. Today, the soul of Launcho Libre hung in the balance. And somewhere in the shadows, **El Diablo Sucio** waited, his blood-red mask concealing secrets that would shake the very foundations of the league.
"*Bienvenidos, mis amigos*," El Ángel whispered, his voice carrying on the breeze to the gathering crowd. "We have traveled a long and treacherous road to reach this sacred ground. Today, our journey culminates in glory or despair."
The morning sun cast long shadows across the course, painting the fairways in gold and amber. Players and spectators alike huddled in anticipation, their breath visible in the crisp February air. The championship belt—adorned with ancient Aztec symbols and gleaming medallions—hung suspended above the final basket, catching the light like a beacon of destiny.
A hush fell over the crowd as the ground began to tremble. The air turned acrid with the scent of brimstone as **El Diablo Sucio** emerged from the tree line, flanked by his Rudos Sucios. Their masks, twisted in perpetual snarls, reflected their master's malevolence. El Diablo's championship disc—obsidian black with veins of crimson—spun menacingly between his fingers.
"The angel still thinks he can fly," El Diablo growled, his voice like gravel crushing bone. "But today, I will clip your wings permanently, *pajarito*. Today, the Launcho Libre bows to its true master."
El Ángel stood his ground, though I felt my heart flutter against my ribs. Six months ago, I would have retreated from such a threat. But the season had forged me anew, tempered my spirit in the fires of adversity.
"We shall see, *Diablo*," I replied, my voice steady. "The course will judge us all fairly."
**Vengeance Viper** slithered to El Diablo's side, his forked tongue testing the air. "The Técnicos are broken, *jefe*. Their spirits crushed, their bodies battered. Victory is but a formality."
El Diablo's laughter echoed across the course, a sound that chilled the blood of all who heard it. But before I could respond, a murmur rippled through the crowd. All eyes turned to the entrance, where a solitary figure approached.
He walked with quiet confidence, his mask a swirl of clouds and sunlight. Though I had seen him only briefly throughout the season, I recognized the bag tag hanging from his belt: number 2, the mark of the **Aetherial Aviator**. This was **Malachi Vazquez**, the rookie who had climbed the ranks with astonishing speed.
"Who dares?" El Diablo snarled, his attention snapping to the newcomer.
Malachi said nothing, simply taking his position at the first tee. There was something familiar in his stance, something that tugged at my memory like a half-forgotten dream.
The tournament director stepped forward nervously. "The championship match will begin in five minutes. El Diablo Sucio versus Malachi Vazquez."
El Diablo's eyes narrowed behind his mask. "The boy thinks he can challenge me? I will break him like I broke your **Soaring Scorpion**."
I placed a hand on Malachi's shoulder. "Do not let his words poison your spirit, *amigo*. Remember what the **Aetherial Aviator** stands for—precision, grace, honor."
Malachi nodded, his eyes never leaving El Diablo. "I am ready, *Ángel*. I have been ready my whole life."
There was a weight to his words that I could not decipher, but before I could question him further, the horn sounded. The championship had begun.
---
El Diablo's opening drive was a thing of terrible beauty. His disc cut through the air like a scythe, leaving a trail of crimson energy that sizzled against the morning sky. It landed with devastating precision, far beyond where any normal throw should reach.
"*¡Contempla mi poder!*" he roared, turning to the crowd. "This is what strength looks like!"
The Rudos Sucios erupted in cheers, stomping their feet and rattling the chains of nearby baskets. I watched Malachi carefully, searching for signs of intimidation, but the young luchador remained impassive.
When Malachi stepped to the tee, a strange hush fell over the course. He held his disc—a pearlescent white with swirls of azure—and closed his eyes. For a moment, nothing happened. Then, with a fluid motion that seemed to bend the very air around him, he released.
The disc soared, trailing a brilliant blue light that reminded me of the stratosphere. It curved impossibly, navigating the dogleg with precision that defied physics, before settling gently beside El Diablo's.
El Diablo's mask could not hide his shock. "Impossible," he muttered.
But this was only the beginning.
As the match progressed, a pattern emerged. El Diablo's throws were powerful, brutal, intimidating—each one accompanied by thunderous impacts and flashes of hellish light. Malachi's were graceful, precise, elegant—his disc dancing on currents of air that seemed to obey his command.
By the ninth hole, they remained deadlocked.
"The boy has skill," **Vengeance Viper** hissed to his master. "But he lacks your killer instinct, *jefe*. Break his spirit, and his body will follow."
El Diablo nodded, his eyes gleaming with malice. As they approached the tenth tee—a treacherous par 4 with OB water to the right—he implemented his strategy.
"Your form is familiar, *niño*," El Diablo said, his voice dripping with venom. "It reminds me of an acrobat I once knew. A man who thought he could fly, until I showed him the ground."
I felt a chill run down my spine. El Diablo was referring to our infamous match, the one that had ended my acrobatic career. But why would this affect Malachi?
To my surprise, the young luchador stiffened. His next throw sailed wide, splashing into the OB water. El Diablo's laughter was like acid in the air.
"Yes, *niño*. I crushed his dreams, just as I will crush yours."
Hole after hole, El Diablo's psychological warfare continued. And with each barb, Malachi's game deteriorated. By the sixteenth hole, El Diablo had opened a four-stroke lead. The championship was slipping away, and with it, the soul of Launcho Libre.
As Malachi prepared for his drive on seventeen, I could stand it no longer. I approached him, against all protocol.
"*Escúchame, Malachi*," I said urgently. "Whatever connection you feel to my past, you must release it. Your flight is your own."
Malachi's eyes, visible through his mask, were troubled. "You don't understand, *Ángel*. This is personal."
"All disc golf is personal," I replied. "But it is also universal. When you throw, you are not alone. The wind, the earth, the spirits of all who have thrown before you—they fly with you."
Something in my words seemed to reach him. He nodded slowly, then turned back to the tee with renewed purpose.
His drive on seventeen was magnificent, a soaring hyzer that carried over the treacherous ravine and landed within circle 1. El Diablo, rattled by this sudden resurgence, pushed his own drive too far, ending up with a difficult uphill putt.
When Malachi birdied and El Diablo bogeyed, the lead was cut to two strokes heading into the final hole.
The eighteenth at Dragonfly was legendary—a 600-foot par 4 with multiple elevation changes, a winding fairway through ancient oaks, and a green perched atop a small hill. The championship belt gleamed above the basket, catching the light of the setting sun.
El Diablo's drive was savage, a forehand that sliced through the narrowest gap in the trees before skipping up the fairway. But in his aggression, he found himself behind a guardian oak, with no clear line to the green.
Malachi's drive was equally impressive, a controlled turnover that rode the contours of the land before settling in the center of the fairway, with a clear upshot to the green.
As El Diablo assessed his second shot, his frustration boiled over. "No tree will deny me my victory," he growled, pulling out his most overstable disc—a weapon he called the *Destructor*.
"*Diablo*, don't!" I called out, recognizing what he intended. "There are spectators beyond those trees!"
But my warning fell on deaf ears. With a roar that shook the leaves, El Diablo launched a throw of terrifying power. The disc, trailing flames and smoke, smashed through branches and carved a path toward the green. But its trajectory was wild, unpredictable. And to my horror, it veered directly toward Malachi.
Time seemed to slow. I saw the disc, a blur of malevolent energy, hurtling toward the young luchador's head. I saw Malachi, frozen in shock. And I saw myself, fifteen years ago, facing a similar projectile of hate.
Without thought, I lunged forward, my hand shooting out to intercept the disc. The impact was like catching a meteorite—searing pain shot up my arm as the disc's momentum sent me spinning to the ground.
"*¡Ángel!*" Malachi cried, rushing to my side.
I looked up, dazed but intact. "I'm fine, *amigo*. Finish the match."
But El Diablo had stormed over, his mask contorted in rage. "Interference! The angel has disqualified his protégé!"
The tournament director, a trembling man in a striped shirt, shook his head. "You deliberately threw at a player, El Diablo. That's an automatic warning."
"Warning?" El Diablo snarled, grabbing the man by his collar. "Do you know who I am? I am the soul of Launcho Libre!"
"No," Malachi said, his voice cutting through the tension like a knife. "You are its shame."
El Diablo released the director and rounded on Malachi. "What did you say to me, *niño*?"
Malachi stood tall, unintimidated. "I said you are its shame. You, who once taught that lucha libre was about honor and passion. You, who showed a young boy the beauty of soaring above the ring."
El Diablo went still. "What do you know of my past?"
"Everything," Malachi replied. And with deliberate movements, he reached up and removed his mask.
The crowd gasped. For beneath the mask was a face that mirrored El Diablo's own—younger, unmarked by years of bitterness, but unmistakably of the same blood.
"Hello, Father," Malachi said.
El Diablo staggered back as if struck. "*Imposible*," he whispered. "Malachi?"
I looked between them, pieces falling into place. The familiar stance, the inexplicable tension, the personal connection to my past.
"You abandoned us," Malachi continued, his voice steady despite the emotion in his eyes. "After that match with El Ángel, after you injured him, you disappeared. Mother said it was shame that drove you away. But I think it was fear—fear that you had become something you despised."
El Diablo's hands trembled. For the first time since I had known him, the Merciless Menace of the Mound seemed at a loss.
"I didn't know," he said, his voice stripped of its usual menace. "I didn't know she was pregnant when I left."
"And would it have mattered?" Malachi asked. "Would you have stayed? Would you have taught me to throw with honor instead of hate?"
El Diablo had no answer.
The tournament director cleared his throat awkwardly. "The, uh, match must continue."
Malachi nodded, replacing his mask. "Yes. It must."
What followed was disc golf in its purest form. Malachi's second shot soared to within twenty feet of the basket. El Diablo, his spirit visibly shaken, managed a remarkable recovery, landing just outside circle 1.
As El Diablo lined up his long putt, I saw something change in his stance. The aggression, the brutality that had defined his game—it melted away. In its place was a fluid grace I had not seen since our earliest matches, before the underground fights had corrupted his spirit.
His putt was perfect, chaining out softly before dropping in. A clean birdie.
Now it all came down to Malachi. A made putt would force a playoff. A miss would hand El Diablo the championship.
As Malachi took his position, the crowd held its collective breath. El Diablo stood to the side, his eyes fixed on his son.
"*Vuela, mi hijo*," I heard him whisper. "Fly, my son."
Malachi's putt was neither power nor pure finesse. It was something new—a harmonious blend of El Diablo's strength and El Ángel's grace. The disc left his hand with absolute conviction, cutting through the air with a trail of light that was neither blue nor red, but a brilliant purple.
The chains sang as they embraced the disc, a sound like victory itself.
Tied after eighteen holes. The championship would be decided by a playoff.
---
As they prepared for the first playoff hole, I noticed El Diablo approach his son. They spoke quietly, their words lost to all but each other. Then, to the astonishment of everyone present, El Diablo reached up and removed his mask.
The face beneath was weathered, scarred, but undeniably human. Gone was the demon of the course, replaced by a man confronting the consequences of his choices.
"I will finish this match as myself," he announced to the crowd. "As Javier Vazquez. Not as the devil I became."
The playoff was a thing of beauty. Father and son, matching shot for shot, neither giving ground. Their discs traced complementary arcs through the twilight sky, like dancers in perfect harmony.
On the third playoff hole—a challenging par 3 over water—Javier's drive caught a gust of wind, sending it drifting toward the OB. It hung on the edge, wobbling precariously.
Malachi's throw followed, a perfect line that landed safely on the green.
As they walked to their lies, I saw Javier place a hand on his son's shoulder. Not in intimidation, but in pride.
Javier's approach from the edge was magnificent, salvaging a par from disaster. But Malachi's putt was true, finding chains for a birdie.
The championship was decided.
As the crowd erupted, Malachi stood stunned, unable to comprehend the magnitude of what had transpired. It was Javier who lifted the championship belt from its perch and approached his son.
"This belongs to you," he said, his voice thick with emotion. "You have earned it, not just today, but through years of dedication I never witnessed. I am sorry, *mi hijo*. Sorry for all I missed, and all I became."
Malachi accepted the belt, then did something unexpected. He removed his mask once more and held it out to his father.
"And this belongs to you," he said. "Not the mask of El Diablo Sucio, but the mask of a teacher. The mask of a father. If you will wear it."
Javier took the mask, tears streaming down his weathered face. "*Gracias, mi hijo*. I do not deserve this chance."
"None of us deserve the chances we are given," I said, stepping forward. "We can only strive to honor them."
As the three of us stood together—teacher, student, father, son, rivals, family—the sun dipped below the horizon, casting the course in twilight. The crowd, both Técnicos and Rudos, surrounded us, their divisions forgotten in the face of something more profound than victory.
"*Amigos*," I called out, my voice carrying across the hushed gathering. "Today we have witnessed more than a championship. We have witnessed rebirth. The rebirth of a father. The emergence of a son. And perhaps, the renewal of our beloved Launcho Libre."
I gestured to Malachi, standing tall with his championship belt. "In our new champion, we see the best of both worlds—the power and precision of the Rudos, the honor and grace of the Técnicos. Not enemies, but complementary forces, like the flight of a perfect S-curve."
Javier nodded, his expression solemn. "I have walked a dark path, driven by bitterness and the memory of pain. Today, my son has shown me another way. A better way."
"The mask does not make the luchador," Malachi added, his voice strong despite his youth. "The heart beneath it does. And disc golf does not divide us—it reveals us, in all our strength and weakness, our glory and our shame."
As darkness fell, the baskets of Dragonfly began to glow with ethereal light—reds and blues merging into purple, illuminating the course like earthbound stars. It was as if the very spirit of disc golf was blessing this moment of reconciliation.
One by one, luchadors from both factions stepped forward, removing their masks in a gesture of solidarity. Beneath the colorful facades were not heroes or villains, but people—united by their love of a sport that allowed them to soar beyond their everyday limitations.
Even **Vengeance Viper**, after a moment's hesitation, slithered forward to lay his mask at Malachi's feet. "The venom is spent," he said simply.
As the celebration continued into the night, I found myself standing alone by the eighteenth basket, the chains still gently swaying from Malachi's winning putt.
"*¿Y ahora qué, Ángel?*" Javier asked, joining me. "What now?"
I smiled, feeling a weight lift from my shoulders—a weight I had carried since that fateful match where he had ended my acrobatic career. "Now we build something new, old friend. A Launcho Libre that honors the past while embracing the future."
He nodded, his eyes reflecting the glow of the baskets. "I have much to atone for."
"We all do," I replied. "But disc golf, like life, is not about the throws we regret, but the ones that lie ahead."
As we walked back to join the celebration, I knew that the story of Launcho Libre was not ending, but transforming. The rivalries, the drama, the over-the-top personas—they would continue, for they were the lifeblood of our beloved league. But beneath it all would beat a heart of genuine respect, a recognition that we were all, in our own ways, trying to defy gravity and touch the sky.
Malachi had shown us that the future belonged not to those who crushed their opponents, but to those who elevated them. Not to those who fought alone, but to those who soared together.
And as the discs flew into the night sky—each trailing its distinctive light, each following its unique path, yet all part of the same beautiful game—I knew that the spirit of Launcho Libre would continue to fly, higher and truer than ever before.
*Fin.*
Flippy's Hot Take