The two massive men shoved me into what was supposedly my dressing room. I say supposedly because the door to the cramped, foul-smelling closet I was shoved in had the vestiges of a sign hanging from it stating it was, if fact, a dressing room. Upon gaining my bearings, I dug through my bag, grabbing my tights and wrist tape, as I began to prepare for the bout.
As I wrapped the slightly-used tape around my wrists and forearms, I began to think of my father. I wonder if he started in a place so…unwelcoming. I mean, of course he didn’t just start at the top, obviously, but to see my father, the legendary Mano Azul changing in a nasty broom closet, really puts things into perspective.
I was jerked out of my thoughts by a knock on the door.
“You’re up, molero.”
I took a deep breath, half in annoyance of my new nickname, half in an effort to calm my nerves,, fastened the clip on my mask, and opened the door.
“Let’s do it”
I was led through the back halls of this bar, until I stood behind the curtain to the venue proper.
“Wait here until they call you.”The man said, before vanishing back through the halls.
After a few moments, that grating Rodrigo rasp begins to speak over the tinny speakers of the bar.
“Ladies and Gentlemen, the following match is an official NLA sanctioned match, and will be fought under standard NLA rules. Best 2 out of 3 falls, pinfall or submission…”
The crowd swells in elation as he speaks.
“...and it is for the NBW World Championship!”
At this, the crowd explodes, unable to contain the frenzy that they have over whatever champion they have.
“Introducing the Challenger…hailing from the pits of starving luchadors, mole con arroz, and garbage wrestling, I bring you…El Molero!”
At this, the elation from the crowd began to twist into boos and jeers, as I pushed aside the curtain, making my way to the ring, still standing tall and proud, even as half drunk beers and peanuts rained down on me. Unlike my father, I was never hung up on the reaction of the crowd. That kind of care tends to be a liability in serious combat.
After a short walk to the ring, I nimbly hopped over the ropes, and walked by way to the corner. As the crowd’s heat reached a fever pitch, I managed to get a better look at the ring. It was old, and slightly smaller than a standard ring. Its canvas looked like It had never been washed, and the turnbuckles creaked and groaned with age as I leaned on them.
“And his opponent…hailing from the Mountains of Montana…”
I roll my eyes at the gimmicky introduction.
“Weighing in at 450 pounds…”
I took a double take at that comment.
Did he say 450 pounds? How can someone that big even wrestle?
“He is your NBW Woooooorld Campeon! He is the Mountain of Montana, Eeeeeeeeel Prueeeeebaaaaaa!”
And from the curtain came a massive mound of blubber, fat, and sugar dressed up as a man. He was in a singlet that was FAR too small for him, and a cheap mask that stretched over his massive face. He was covered in hair, and as he lumbered towards the ring, the drunken crowd could not have been louder, and I couldn’t help but laugh at this…thing. As he climbed into the ring, raising the cheap plastic belt that I assumed was this so-called title, I caught a whiff of his stench, it was…indescribably foul, smelling of sour milk and dying hopes. I wouldn’t be surprised if all his wins were by forfeit. But I sucked it up, and prepared for the match ahead of me, and just like that.
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The bell rang.
And he was on me far faster than I thought, Swinging at me with a massive hook. I dodged it, rolling between his legs, and shuffling towards the center of the ring, just to buy myself some distance, but just like before, he moved with such insane speed, attempting to grab me. I ducked under the attempt, and landed a strong kick to the chest, causing the mass of fat to stumble back a few steps.
Taking the advantage of the opportunity, I backed him into the corner with a few more strikes to the chest and head, ending the flurry with a massive chop across his chest, one that echoed throughout the bar, causing all of its denizens to wince in sympathetic pain.
In anger, the massive ogre charged me, landing a massive shoulder tackle, sending me rolling across the ring.
I gripped the ropes in my hand in an attempt to reorient myself, only to receive a boot to the chest in response, sending me reeling out of the ring, leading to a massive pop from the crowd. I took a moment to get to my feet, attempting to catch my breath as I gripped my side. That boot must have cracked a rib or something.
1!
I tried to suppress the mild panic and wave after wave of pain surging through my body as I tried to think.
2!
So obviously punching until he drops won’t work on him…
3!
And he’s like a foot and a half taller than me…
4!
But I feel like if i can just get one opening, just one moment…
5!
I can get him down just once.
6!
The second fall is 7 an issue for future me.
7!
Think!
8!
What would the old man do…?
9!
I got it.
I struggled back into the ring just before the countout, and that greasy slob looked at me with a look of confusion and fury. He opened his mouth and began to speak, but the words were drowned out by the chorus of boos coming from that bar patrons. I stood tall, trying to hide my injured ribs.
“That's all you got?”
That sentence enraged the champ, as he once again attempted to blitz me.
I took a breath as I rolled under his legs.
And low blowed him right between them.
His pained howls echoed through the ring, as El Campeon dropped to his knees. Using the new momentum this gave me, I ran back past him, gaining momentum from bouncing back and forth from the ropes, gaining more and more speed, before finally jumping towards the ugly, twisted face of the champ, and landing a flying knee to his nose. The crack of the bones and cartilage of his face reverberated through my body as it connected, causing him to fall back onto the mat.
But that wasn’t enough to get the fall, I knew that.
I tried to ignore the screaming pain in my side as I moved swiftly across the ring.
I eyed the nearest turnbuckle, and began to move towards it. At this point, a few of those violent boos from before began to turn into cheers as I did. I finally climbed to the top rope, and took a deep breath.
I know Father would be proud.
I launched myself from the top, performing a picture perfect front swan dive, before rotating at the last minute, dropping my leg directly across the champ’s throat, the only noise coming from the champ’s throat being a quiet gagging noise.
I lifted up his massive leg to sink in the pin.
1
2
3.
I rolled off the man, standing up triumphantly, as the raucous crowd fell silent in shock. I scanned through the crowd, before locking eyes with Rodrigo and, as I expected, his eyes were filled with rage.
“How’s that for a molero, puta?” I taunted over the silence.
I turn back to just in time see my opponent grab me by the waist.
Mierda.
I braced as the man lifts me up, andbelly-to-bellyd'd me into the mat, pinning me to the mat as I cried out in agony.
1
2
3.
The champ slowly stands to his feet before roaring and beating his chest, sending the crowd into a frenzy.
At this point any movement I made made me want to scream. But I didn't care.
I let that thing lay hands on me. I let this joke of a luchador touch me. With gear like that, and the disrespect his form brought, I saw him no different than Infinidad Cero. I struggled to my feet before whistling at my opponent. As he turned, he was met with a big boot to the face. He flatbacked onto the mat with a massive thud. I slowly swaggered my way to the prone body. Breathing coarsely, I took one of his wrists in each hand.
And stomped on his head.
Over.
And over.
And over.
Fuck you.
Fuck you.
Fuck.
You.
I kept stomping until his body went limp. I then gingerly placed my foot on his chest
1
2
3.
No reaction came from the crowd.
The ref looked at me in horror as he handed me the cheap belt. And no reaction as I slipped out the ring.
