On the banks of the Detroit River in Cobo Arena, a crowd of nearly 10,000 Motor City residents waits with bated breath. The typical clang and furor of a packed house has briefly quieted in the anticipation of the moment. In the center of the arena stands a wrestling ring, currently occupied by a short, chubby gentleman wearing the black-and-white striped shirt of the referee; a tall, skinny young man in a horrendous tuxedo and glasses, holding a microphone; and standing tentatively in the corner, a short, stocky middle-aged wrestler with flowing brown locks, in non-descript blue trunks and boots. Every now and then, he looks up from the canvas to the locker room entrance about 50 feet up the aisle. A couple of years ago, they were making him wrestle in a Batman costume in Pittsburgh. In about five minutes, he’ll be longing for those halcyon days.

“And now for our next match here at Big Time Wrestling!” announces the man with the mic. He lifts his hand in the air and then lowers it in the direction of the blue-booted grappler before continuing. “The following contest is a special attraction, scheduled for one fall! Introducing first, in the corner to my left, from Italy, weighing 235 pounds… Tony Marino!”

With a nod, Marino half-heartedly raises his arm to the crowd, fingers semi-clenched in a weak fist. A smattering of hopeful cheers breaks through the silence, but quickly dies down. Suddenly, the sound of a door slamming open can be heard, as the long black curtains which obscure the locker room entrance are quickly parted. As a rising chorus of preemptive boos and hisses begins to fill the auditorium, stepping out onto the hardwood floor are two figures who are definitely not among Earl “Big Cat” Lloyd’s Pistons.

The first to be illuminated by the spotlight is a sweaty hobgoblin waving the red, white and black colors of Syria while sporting a polyester suit of checkered yellow and brown, of a variety that would be unlikely to set the buyer back by very much. The fat cigar clenched between his teeth doesn’t seem to be impeding his angry growls to the unappreciative masses as he leads the way for his charge. With a greasy mass of curly hair, a silver-dollar sized Star of David medallion hanging from his neck and thick brown sunglasses, he is the anti-Semite’s worst mental image of the crass, obnoxious, loudmouth Jew, come to life.

But whatever minimal restraint the crowd had previously been showing in its vociferous antipathy is completely abandoned once emerges into the light the individual for whom this flag-carrying cretin was merely preparing the way. Draped in the traditional white cotton keffiyeh headdress and billowing red and gold Bedouin robe, he doesn’t so much walk through the curtain as explode, screaming in unintelligible syllables as if in mid-conversation with some mad deity. He gesticulates wildly, a hint of drool seeping out into his neatly trimmed beard, black with just a touch of gray. As he lunges forward, wild-eyed, children scatter, the police escort and security staff seemingly there mainly to protect them from this raving lunatic.

“And now, making his way down the aisle, his opponent,” the ring announcer resumes his intonations as the duo continues its erratic progress to the ring. “Accompanied by his manager, Eddy ‘The Brain’ Creatchman… from Syria, weighing 242 pounds, The Noble Sheik!”