The Anglo Luchador
A “weeaboo,” or a “weeb” in popular parlance, is a Western person who fetishizes Japanese culture to the point of discomfort for people around them, outside of other weebs, of course. You cannot classify The Anglo Luchador as one; though he toured Japan and always respected their culture, that archipelago off the eastern shores of Asia wasn’t where his heart lived. The old luchador was a weeb for Mexico, whatever term that is. It’s probably offensive if it exists. The smart money is that no one has really invented it yet, or the ones who truly were that thing were smart enough to expropriate those cultural norms as part of the American melting pot avoided harsh backlash.
You can’t blame him though. He grew up in a wrestling family, sure, but he rarely watched his dad or uncles in his extreme youth. It wasn’t until he was somewhere around age 8 where he found the wrestlers in colorful masks on channel 62 TELEMUNDO in Philly that he found purpose. His family, yeah, love for their work in various American promotions would come later. He religiously followed the CSWA and appreciated commentary and promos he could understand, even if the lucha libre he fell in love with had far more exciting action. Those roads led him to tape trading, especially the joshi scene. Still, the highs and lows of Mexican wrestling never left him, ever. Even at his lowest, sitting in a doctor’s office with a torn latissimus dorsi after his last match with Sean Stevens in Empire Pro, at his lowest in A1E when he was alienated in the locker room from EVERYONE, he would keep up with the wrestling companies he loved, whether he worked for them eventually or not. His main money contracts were always in America, but they always afforded him the opportunity to be a lucha libre playboy.
It should then follow to you, the person viewing the entire story of one Anglo Luchador through some magic veil, that the fact that he enjoys Mexican food, or at least some bastardization of it by Americans under the name “Tex-Mex,” regularly. He never felt his impostor syndrome more heavily than when he would when he would order a margarita out and they’d bring him some frozen monstrosity instead of the authentic ones he’d get in Mexico. Cosplay, the word was burned into his brain. On one hand, he was the son of an American wrestler who took his original ring name from a fictional pro wrestler whose name appeared to him as an interdimensional wisp. This Jericho, whoever he was, who bore a striking resemblance to this universe’s Chris Irvine, lead singer of the band Fozzy, meant less and less to him over the years, but the strain that name left on him over the years was immeasurable.
On the other hand, he competed in Mexico regularly for nearly a decade. Fans sung his praises as he’d whisk into towns. This gringo, who never failed to uphold the mantel of professional wrestling of all trades and marks in lucha libre rings, who never shied away from a fan who offered to buy him a shot of mezcal or tequila at the cantina after the show and ended up paying their tab off as a gesture of goodwill in return, who claimed over a dozen scalps and masks in his career, was never the fraud he painted in his mind at his lowest. The lucha libre gods wouldn’t choose such a fool to run their errand unless that fool was, in all his fibers, worthy. The distinction of worth, not one that can be judged by the ability to lift a magic Norse hammer, is never binary or even readily measured. The old luchador was always a terrible judge of his own abilities and mental faculties anyway.
But he wasn’t ever a bad judge of the food or liquor he put in his mouth. And that brings us back around to the “The Anglo Luchador is a weeaboo except for Mexico.” Some wrestlers play up certain aspects of their personalities for the camera. Some wrestlers lie a little before they get in the ring. The old luchador is not one of those people. He doesn’t go to Mexican restaurants to keep people quiet about his authenticity. Of course, the biggest reason for that is that he doesn’t wear his lucha mask anywhere but at the arena or for official promotional shoots. He had a few go-to spots for Mexican food. There was Hidalgo in Media, Las Margaritas in Northeast Philly, and, of course, Jose Garces’ Distrito in University City. In another life, the old luchador was a special honored guest of the former Iron Chef at the restaurant’s opening. His favorite haunt, however, was a restaurant on US 202 in Wilmington, DE, La Tolteca.
While they loved eating there with the family, the old luchador and the love of his life, Tamara, relished opportunities to have date nights, and boy, did both of them need one. For Tamara, it was Edwards, the rat bastard at her work causing all kinds of trouble for her around the office. Her bubbly demeanor would almost always skunk when he would come near her, and there were thousands of times that she wanted to enunciate her desires to castrate him, but even if she wasn’t a head muckety-muck manager, the mere whiff of her threatening violence would be a huge human relations nightmare. Her time as a wrestling manager was never a tenth as stressful as her run as a medical sales representative and then executive.
For the old luchador, it was different. Truth be told, he never took losing in the ring in stride. His ultra-competitive spirit and cocksure attitude were recipes for a mercurial wrestling personality, one who expected to win and couldn’t deal with it when he didn’t. The decade or so away from the ring didn’t face him with the same set of criteria for success in life as a homemaker, a father, an amateur social media raconteur. Fucking up the lasagna didn’t mean a lesser purse or a falter in the rankings. For Lorenzo and Vincenzo, it probably meant an excuse to order from Pizza Nerds or to make dad run out to Taco Bell for a ten-pack. They liked their father’s cooking, no doubt, but they’re kids. C’mon. When presented the choice between home-cooked meal and some shitty bullshit that has the sheen of specialness because someone else cooked it quickly and cheaply, they choose the latter each time.
Neither Lorenzo, who successfully lobbied his parents the privilege of staying home to loiter with all his friends, nor Vincenzo, with whom the old luchador’s father and mother decided to take out for dinner for straight As on his report card, joined the married couple on their date. Tamara sat in the booth, shoulders slumped, look of exasperation melting her face like she was a Dick Tracy villain. She was finished with her third Patron paloma before the chips and salsa hit the table. She generally did not like to drink to excess, but Edwards… the less said about him the better. She knew her husband would want to have a few drinks too, so they took the time to have an Uber take them into Delaware from their home in the near suburbs of Philly.
Tequila margaritas were one of the many poisons The Anglo Luchador had in his arsenal in the neverending war against the health of his brain cells. La Tolteca’s margaritas weren’t as good as the ones he got at Disney World, let alone the ones he would revel in after shows in Mexico. However, for the Philadelphia area, they did the trick. He didn’t gulp his drinks down like his wife did. His problems caused for a far more pensive demeanor. Gentle sips of the salt-rimmed glass came between furrowed brows. Again, in a past life, he didn’t lose well, but his reactions were almost never as subdued as his demeanor ever since Brandon Youngblood dropped him on his head with a move he once utilized to finish off jabroni nerds in A1E or Empire Pro. Locker room mirrors remained unshattered. Referees remained unyelled-at. There were no passive-aggressive replies to fellow wrestlers. He didn’t go out of his way to greet any of them after, but that’s an improvement over the asshole behavior he was known for.
The waiter brought over their order of frijoles y queso, a fine appetizer dish that got them nice and randy for whatever main course they were to have. The slow pulls off the comically large-rimmed glass got warmer and warmer with each successive sip. He was a lot of things, but a slow drinker was not one of them. Tamara wasn’t always the most attentive to others’ needs if she really had something else going on, one of the only pet peeves he had about his loving wife, but even with all her damage going on, she noticed her husband wasn’t on an even kilter at the moment.
“I know it’s not a race,” she said, “But usually you keep pace with me on drinks even when I’m engaged in Anger Drinkin’ Mode.”
He didn’t answer. The list of things he wanted to talk about included a lot of things: his wife’s concerns at work, the boys’ performances at school, James Harden leading the Sixers to a golden age of NBA Championships, last night’s Beat Bobby Flay. His own damage was not one of them.
“Fine, you wanna be a sourpuss?”
His shoulders slumped, and he let out a sigh.
“Look, it’s not that I don’t want to talk about it. It’s just that… I’m not sure I’m equipped to. I’m in a weird new place, and I’ve changed a fucking lot since the last time I was in a wrestling ring.”
Her face softened for the first time since, well, she got home from work three days prior.
“But keeping it inside isn’t going to do you any good. You know that.”
He looked up to meet his wife’s eyes. “You knew it too when you pushed for me to get back in the ring how things happen.”
“But you’re not an immature wreck this time. Like, I get it, the moping stinks, and I want to help you with it. But I’ll take you being emo over you being grindcore. This I can work with. This I can maybe help talk you through, so you don’t have to go back to the therapist?”
He chuckled a bit. “Yeah, I guess, it’s just…”
Then the phone his wife was pondering most of the time blared out her text alarm, which for those wondering at home, was Alicia Silverstone’s Cher sassily saying “As if” from the movie Clueless. She looked down, and her face turned a bright shade of crimson.
“Oh my fucking God EDWARDS.”
She picked up the phone and dialed a number so fast it was surprising she didn’t fat-finger a wrong number. The old luchador sighed and decided he needed a colder drink. He gulped the last of his margarita and called for his server.
“One Dos Equis, please.”
The server returned quickly with the beer, cap popped and ready to drink. The golden hue of the lager poured into the glass shifted the old luchador’s mind momentarily from what had been bothering him and made him forget in the same instance what happened when he drank a Mexican lager. He put the glass to his lips, gulped, and then suddenly, a face appeared in the bean dip.
“Amigo, you have summoned me, the great El Hijo del Sobrino!”
Just then, Tamara looked up from her phone with a curt “excuse me” to the person on the other end of the line.
“Did you just say something?”
“Uh, no?” he answered nervously. “Or maybe yes? I don’t know, maybe the bean dip came alive and is talking now because this world isn’t already fucked up enough.”
She rolled her eyes and went back to her heated phone conversation. The old luchador exhaled, and then leaned into the bowl of beans and cheese.
“We can’t have this conversation here, you hear me?” he whispered so as not to interrupt his wife again.
Without modulating the volume of his voice, the disembodied luchador in the bean dip replied, “where can…”
“I’m going to stop you there, chief. Voice down, please. Meet me somewhere private. I’ll talk to you there.”
“Where is there private in here? You’re in a crowded restaurant, amigo!”
“Meet me in the bathroom.”
“El baño? Ok.”
The old luchador looked up at his wife. “Scuse me, I gotta…”
“Use the restroom, I get it. You forget I picked up Spanish when I went with you down south.”
The Anglo Luchador got up out of his chair and scurried into the men’s room like he had to take the worst shit in his life. He barreled into the handicap stall and locked the door before realizing he forgot one thing.
“AH FUCK, I FORGOT THE BEAN GHOST.”
But before he could unlock the door, he heard a flushing sound from the toilet in his stall, even though he hadn’t gone close to the handle since getting in there. The water in the bowl rose up as if unbound by gravity and formed in the shape of a man sitting on the toilet itself.
“Uh,” The Anglo Luchador said looking quizzically at the lucha water wraith materializing on the toilet seat, “you aren’t made of shit, are you?”
El Hijo del Sobrino’s face turned sour as the water on his body started transmogrifying into actual skin and spandex.
“Cabron, are you implying I’m a Golgothan?”
The old luchador replied “what the fuck is a…”
“A shit monster. A literal monster made of caca. You have seen Dogma, right?”
“Not in a couple of decades. Didn’t know luchadores liked Kevin Smith though.”
“Uno, we are not a monolith, amigo. Dos, there is a small but dedicated troupe of those among us in the lucha libre afterlife who love every single thing Kevin Smith has done.”
“Even Cop Out?”
The lucha ghost stared silently. Looking to change the subject, the old luchador interjected, “Masters of the Universe: Revelation was pretty tight.”
“Si señor. Fine animation, great story, mucho respect to the source material. Anyway, the Catholic truthers in the afterlife hate the fact that we don’t accept their viewpoint, so they screw with us all the time. The last plague they visited upon us was a wave of Golgothans. Things got messy. Forgive me if that is a touchy subject.”
“You’re the weirdest one of these yet, and I talked to a dead business magnate who died of COVID.”
“It’s not hard to be the weirdest among tres, amigo.” The ghost shook his head. “But that’s not important. What is important is your next lesson.”
The old luchador groaned. “I’m on a date with my wife. I’m trying to comfort her through a time of great struggle at her work.”
“Yes, but what about your struggles? Don’t deflect, amigo.”
The old luchador exhaled slowly and deeply, melting like a snowman on the first slightly warm day after a cold snap. “I… I don’t have any struggles, what are you talking about?”
The ghost was not moved in the slightest.
“C’mon, what do you want? She’s got to deal with real workplace drama.”
“And you lost a match.”
The old luchador shook his head. “So does that mean mission is over? See ya later, don’t let the door hit you on the culo on the way out?”
“No, no, no, amigo, you cannot win every match. Sure, we told you winning is the most important thing, but not even El Hijo del Che Guevara would demand perfection.”
“Yeah, so wins are important, but not that important, gotcha, I can get out of this stall then and…”
“NO! Amigo, you must listen to me, because the wins and the losses, they are not what the lesson is about. It is how you react to them, and señor, you still don’t get it.”
The look on the old luchador’s face turned sour.
The ghost continued on, “It’s not enough not to be a negative presence in the locker room. You can refrain from throwing folding chairs or threatening the promoters, but if you don’t engender a sense of community, where are you going to be when what you can do can’t get you past the goalpost, when who you know can be the difference?”
The Anglo Luchador looked like someone jammed a dagger into his chest.
“Amigo, and this difference can go either way. If everyone hates you, the bad fortune will cascade like the caca off the back of a Golgothan when you smash it with the piñata stick.”
“Fair enough. But when you have people on your side, they can lift you up…”
Just then, their conversation was interrupted.
“Hey man,” the voice from outside the stall asked, “I really gotta take a shit and the other stall, like, there’s a bunch of piss on the seat. Are you almost done?”
The ghost answered before the old luchador could chime in. “Señor, just wad up the toilet paper and wipe down the seat so you don’t have to touch the pee.”
“Are there two people in there? Are you having a conversation in there? I mean, I’d rather use…”
Both toilets and all four urinals flushed simultaneously and all the hand-dryers kicked on at full tilt.
“OKAY I’ll wipe the seat off. Christ.”
The ghost turned back to the old luchador. “Now, where were we? Oh yes, people are the difference.”
The old luchador started to bristle. “So you want me to make nice nice with a fed full of people whom I could be bashing in the skull any given biweekly show?”
“No, no, not all of them. You remember back to A1E, right? All the people you alienated?”
“Why do you keep bringing that up? Are you bonding yourself to the Fair Use Act of 1976 and trying to make me feel bad for the Fezziwigs and Belles I wronged?”
“No, señor, I am not. It’s just the best example to use because you were less feisty in Empire Pro and never got the chance to put roots down in Greensboro. My point is that there were some people in that promotion you were right to alienate. Like Beast, for example.”
“Yeah, he sucked. AND I heard he was driving a big rig into Ottawa last week.”
“That cannot be confirmed or denied, but I mean, I feel you, señor. But the point was, the way you acted coarse to him before he showed his true colors. And to Euclid, Big Dog, Andrew Gilkison. Those wrestlers, they could have been allies in time of need. Everyone needs, as you gringos call it, a squad.”
“I still don’t fully believe you. I mean, yeah, I was immature then. But, like, if I’m going to try to make someone hurt as much as possible, how can I look them in the eye and be cool with them?”
“The same way that Cristiano Ronaldo and Lionel Messi can embrace after games even after they try to slide tackle each other, get in cheap elbows jostling for position on free kicks. Or in your American football, how the man running with the football can accept the hand from the one who collided with him? It’s just business. Nothing personal.”
The old luchador looked at the ghost with dismissive eyes, the ones that teenage girls give their fathers when they start prattling on about prospective boyfriends. “I still don’t know what you’re getting at. Weren’t you murdered in your sleep in 1998? What would you know about camaraderie?”
“I mean, I am teaching you through negative proofs. I am the living example of someone who coasted along in lucha libre fraying every bond of brotherhood possibly available to me. Look at my name. El Hijo del Sobrino.”
“The son of the nephew.”
“YES! Do you know how far nepotism takes you in pro wrestling, south of the border or in America?”
Once again, the ghost was interrupted with a knock on the stall door. “It’s the manager. Can you tell me what you’re doing there, por favor? Are you doing the sex acts in there? Because I…”
The old luchador nodded at the ghost and took lead this time. “Even if I WAS engaged in a sex act in here, it’s none of your goddamned business.”
“But I don’t want to scare away the customers. You’re taking up our biggest stall.”
“If you want to know, I’m practicing for my one-man show at the Wilmington University Amphitheater that starts in 40 minutes, and I get really shy if I practice it anywhere but in a handicapped bathroom stall.”
The silence from outside of the stall was eerie.
“Please, if you believe in art, you will let me finish in here.”
The manager finally spoke up again. “I’m going to check in across the street, and I swear to God, if you are lying to me…”
The bathroom door slammed shut.
“Okay, US 202 is hard to cross on foot, so I’m thinking we have 30 minutes before he comes back.”
“That’s more than enough time, señor. Anyway, as I was saying, I burned every bridge in Mexico because I thought that with family embedded everywhere, I’d always have a chance. I was ruder than the rudos, more high and mighty than the tecnicos. I pissed everyone off, had no backup when the ruling gangs wanted to flex their muscles. My rope ran out in 1991, but I kept annoying my family for those other years. I was a nuisance to them, antisocial. Do you know how I got murdered?”
“With an icepick?”
“No, that was Trotsky, and I wasn’t asking how as in the mode, which was a claw hammer to my brainstem.”
“It didn’t hurt that much because I was dead pretty quickly.”
“Ok, so how did you come about being murdered?”
“My uncle was fed up with my freeloading and my attitude. He was also high on crystal meth, but I mean, that’s not the reason why he killed me. That just gave him the extra push.”
“This is all disturbing. But I’m struggling to see the point. Like, is winning matches the key, or is being respected in the locker room?”
The ghost shook his head. “You’re not getting it.”
“I think I am. You went to every promotion, right? Even if I don’t fit in here, there will be…”
“No, there won’t. The original messenger said lucha libre was dying here. People already have the perception that luchadores are fickle primadonnas who will bail on a moment’s notice. If you burn out here, then who is going to accept you? Who is going to carry the mantel of lucha libre here when you stripped the screw slot for good?”
“So it’s serious?”
“And they sent you as the ultimate failson to tell me that I should befriend everyone?”
The ghost shook his head again. “Señor, you deal in absolutes too much. Are you really that dense, or are you fucking with me for interrupting your dinner?”
“Wouldn’t you like to know.”
“Fack. Anyway, I’ll pretend you aren’t being intentionally facile and tell you. You should be choosy. Name some people in the company you wouldn’t want to be associated with. Thought exercise.”
The old luchador stroked his chin. “Well, there are at least four cults with their tentacles reaching into PRIME.”
“Right! You don’t want to get involved in a cult. Tijuana Lucha Libre Prestige let in one Scientologist, and before you knew it, they were rebranded as Lucha XENU.”
“The third-oldest promotion in Mexico!”
“Yeah, it’s a real stain on the country.”
“So, no cults, got it.”
“I can’t tell you with whom you should or shouldn’t associate. That depends on if you want to go full rudo or keep your glossy tecnico sheen. I’d say that the latter fits you well, señor.”
“Thanks, I try.”
“But PRIME has a big roster. You don’t need to trust all of the others. There are some you want to befriend. There are some you don’t want to intentionally antagonize and watch from afar. And then there are some you need to be intentionally wary of.”
“Like Cancer Jiles?”
“You read my ectoplasm, señor. He is a slimy son of a xolo.”
“Which is weird, because Bobby Dean seems like a really pure soul, and Doozer, well, I can barely see him.”
“Sometimes, people associate with bad people out of reasons you or I cannot understand.”
“True. So, what about people I should targ…”
They were interrupted once more, this time by what sounded like a battering ram thumping against the door of the stall.
“SHIT, they’re taking extreme measures.”
“And that’s my cue to get out of here, señor.”
“What do I do??!!”
“I can’t answer that for you! But I trust your judgment. Now deal with this!”
El Hijo del Sobrino disappeared into the toilet, taking all the water with him leaving no trace of any chance encounter. In fact, he left the stall cleaner than when he had made his entrance. As soon as he descended into the septic system, the authorities broke down the door. In walked the manager, looking harried and harangued.
“Hey, did you check in with the guys at the U across the street?”
The manager answered, “yes, and your story checks out somehow. But we had to get the door down because we have a dignified guest needing to use the bathroom.”
Into the stall rolled former Secretary of State Henry Kissinger, flanked by private security agents. The Anglo Luchador’s eyes grew wide as saucers.
“I’m gonna do it. I’m gonna give him a swirly.”
Before the last word left his lips, the security agent leading the pack shook his head and slightly pulled out the gun from his waist.
“You know what, nevermind, you big jerk.”
The Anglo Luchador got back to his table to find Tamara was finally off the phone.
“Took long in there, huh? Did you blow a gasket out your o-ring?”
“Gross, babe. But no, I was talking to a ghost again.”
She looked at him incredulously for a moment, then shrugged. “Anyway, are you getting the carnitas or the chimichanga?”
The old luchador chugged his Dos Equis and wiped his mouth. “Nah, I think I’m gonna get the carne asada tonight.”
“Ooh, I love that here…”
After returning from the restaurant, The Anglo Luchador went into his study and got to work. He figured the best place to start wasn’t with an active competitor, but someone he crossed swords with in the past, a wrestler with whom he had mutual respect, someone whose daughter just punched her ticket to the Five Star Championship match at Culture Shock. He picked up his phone and scrolled through his contacts.
“Hey Dan, sorry for not texting you sooner. Your daughter’s got something. Raw, but talented.”
Send. He put the phone down, then realized it was impersonal and maybe a little creepy. He picked it up again.
“Just wanted to let you know that. Hope to hear from you again. And if anyone accuses her spot here in this company of nepotism, lemme know. I’ll beat them up so you don’t have to get your hands dirty.”
“That was painless,” he said to himself.
Hours started to pass with him bouncing between jabs on the phone and computer and sitting back in his leather chair thinking about what the ghost said. He texted Lindsay Troy, but he didn’t put too much thought into it because she actually was his boss now. As a proponent of worker’s rights, he tried to stay at arm’s length from the Queen whenever he could. He then opened up to donation pages. The first was obviously Fighting For Nora. He made a sizable donation, and sent a note to Jon Rhine. “Hey, I’m not doing this for the pub. Don’t tell anyone I made this donation, but tell Nora she’s got a lot of fans in the PRIME locker room.”
Then he did a google search. The bullshit happening in Texas and now Florida and Idaho didn’t hit home for him, but it still hit him just as hard as hearing about girls like Nora. Cancer at least is random. Republican governments? Their cruelty pointing at trans kids was unfathomable. He made another sizable donation, this time to The Trevor Project. He then sent a note to Ria Nightshade. “Hey, uh, I don’t know how to say this. You’re gonna get a notification from the Trevor Project. I made the donation in your name. I hope you don’t find it too patronizing. Anyway, I sense a lot of anger in you. No matter what someone says, that can take you a long way in this business. Just don’t let it consume you.”
The next missives would be more personal, above the paygrade for texting. He ordered a gigantic teddy bear, with the shipping address located in Marble Falls, TX, to Adeline, care of Craig Maloof. The note that would come with it said “Hey Craig, us old guys gotta stick together. You have a beautiful granddaughter. She deserves the world.” That was even easier than texting Dan Ryan. The second gift he’d send came from his Postmates app on the phone, with two orders of al pastor tacos to an address in Brooklyn, addressed to Cally Rose and Randall Knox. The note on it said “hey you crazy kids. Wish I was facing off against you instead of Youngblood, but sometimes, them’s be the breaks. Best of luck. You’ll need it. He’s an intensely tough nut to crack. These should pack enough protein.”
The third gift was a lot harder to send, not because of what he was intending to send, but to whom he decided upon. Pro wrestlers can be graceful in defeat all they want to, but unless they’re the most zen motherfuckers in history, pride can be hard to swallow. The Anglo Luchador was not a zen motherfucker. Still, game had to recognize game. Brandon Youngblood was as legit as they came, and he felt it firsthand. His good side was one you wanted to be on. He still had to sleep on it, but the morning came, and he ventured back down into Delaware to Total Wine. A bottle of Patron Silver tequila and a Romeo y Julieta cigar and a trip to the FedEx store later, and all he had to do was write a note. “Hey… better man won at ReV 4. Keep your dance card flexible so we can go again and see if you remain the better wrestler. Until then, if you need someone to watch your back, I can do that.”
There was one more package he wanted to send out. The simpatico he had with El Hijo del Sobrino chilled him, and that particular wrestler, the one with the two minions who seemed like they deserved better, seemed destined to hook and crook his way to the Universal Championship. He had to look all over the place to find what he wanted to send, but the Philly metro area had anything you were looking for, even human kidneys. Especially human kidneys. He wasn’t looking for a vital organ. Just a facsimile of one.
He started writing his note. “Ted, I know you have no reason to think me of anything, but let’s call this a gesture of mutual deterrence. Your opponent this week? Yeah, he’s got an evil presence. Maybe you vibe with it. Maybe you don’t. All I know is, I’d rather ride with you. I sent a gesture of goodwill. Hope your friends don’t think me an enabler, but I know more than anyone else that chemicals get the job done better than anything else. I choose alcohol, so I’m not one to judge those who use anything more… narcotic. PS, tell Red I’m glad I drew him in my return match. Not because he was an easy out, far from it. He helped me get back on my game.” He affixed the note to a Whizzinator, this one for a caucasian male.
The old luchador thought of more people he’d want to reach out to, but he didn’t want to tempt overkill. He was unsure whether his gestures would bear fruit, but he didn’t do it for them anyway. It was his own way of starting, changing. It was only a start, an expensive one, no doubt. Luckily, he didn’t gamble away his purse this week. He had enough left over out of it to buy himself a bottle of tequila, Don Julio Reposado. The weeb for Mexico wasn’t a gimmick. Tequila relaxed him. He needed that relaxation though. The future was still unwritten, but for once, the old luchador wasn’t completely jacked up over where he thought he would be going in PRIME.