Can't Fight Fate
Postmodern 240-pixel cubism aside, this is a pretty freaky match. Karagias's cornrows aside, this is a pretty freaky match. And Mysterio's Joe Boxer-meets-Army Navy pants aside, this is (to quote Larry David) a pretty pretty pretty freaky match. Ostensibly this is a title match, with Evan Karagias purportedly within an arm's reach of snatching the cruiserweight belt off Rey Mysterio Jr's waist. Hm. As if.
Still it is a compelling show, even knowing that, whatever pounding the "Outrageous" Evan appears to give to Rey, in the end Rey will exact a sudden and humiliating vengeance on the bouncy, Hasbro-molded body of Karagias. With every arrogant miming of the outline of the belt's golden crest over his firm abs and well-shaped navel, Evan Karagias is digging the hole deeper for himself.
Greek tragedy isn't this chock full of fate.
One of the melodramatic features of pro wrestling I do love is the obliviousness of pretty-boy heels to their certain doom at the hands of unmistakable crowd favorites, preferably scions of revered wrestling legends, preferably high-flyers approximately 79% their size. The narcissistic heels' puppy-like confidence would be almost exhilarating if it weren't for the hatchet dangling so obviously over their heads. The fact that they are allowed to dominate a great percentage of the match only fuels our pity and fear and, in the end, our cruel laughter.