Post by La Cucaracha on Jul 31, 2016 5:12:34 GMT
A lot of people don’t know that after Mexico, Canada is the world’s single greatest producer of luchadors. And luchadoras. Check Wikipedia if you don’t believe me, smart ass. Go ahead. I’ll wait.
And that’s where our story begins. From humble beginnings in a Toronto trailer park, the browner side of the Great White North, to the humble continued existence of a white van parked in a Las Vegas parking lot. The second finalist in GoL’s Rey De Reyes tournament, the bastard daughter of Canada and Mexico, the antithesis of everything Sam Washington stands for: La Cucaracha.
La Cucaracha missed the IKEA mattress in the back of her van. Her Tijuana hotel room came equipped with a bed fit for the soft, the weak. She was a warrior, born with an unquenchable fire in her cast iron stomach. A stomach that was hungry for gold and Pollo Bucket chicken. La Cucaracha might not have looked like a champion, but there was no denying she had the heart of a champion.
Her alarm sounded. It was time for her to get up. Time for her to face the world, her fellow warriors, and most important Sam Washington. The man whose values of isolationism and hatred were what she would spend an entirety battling. The man who sought to put a Red, White and Blue stranglehold on the top title in GoL. The man who La Cucaracha would be facing in mere hours. The alarm continued, it’s glaring blares of sound ricocheting around the hotel room. La Cucaracha opened one eye.
La Cucaracha: Mugh.
She hit the snooze button.
La Cucaracha: Oh fuck oh fuck oh fuck oh fuck.
La Cucaracha regretted hitting the snooze button. Fortunately, she slept in her ring gear. She also generally wore her ring gear most of the time, which could make laundry a bit of a quandary, but worked wonders for her ability to roll out of bed(or out of a van) and head straight to events. Today was a big deal. Today she would fulfill her dream of becoming the King of Kings. Or Queen of Kings. Or Queen of Queens. Kevin James was already the King of Queens, and as far as La Cucaracha knew, he had yet to sign a GoL contract. Sooner or later, he’d let his guard down, and when he did, Hiss of Death time. But for now, Sam Washington had to die. Die in the wrestling since, which mean, he had to be pinned for a three-count.
Bounding down two flights of stairs, La Cucaracha was at the ground level in no time, sprinting across a sea of asphalt and Tijuana heat. Roaches can survive anything, she told herself, be that inhospitable weather or good ol’ fashioned American jingoism. A backdoor to the arena flung open ahead of her, courtesy of a GoL stage hand. He mumbled something about good luck, she mumbled something about the location of the bathroom. She added, “Por favor,” so as not to seem ungrateful. Post match rituals were important, even if those rituals just involved a bathroom break and a few sad Tinder swipes. La Cucaracha considered promoing from toilet-side, but thought better of it. That would just be unprofessional.
La Cucaracha: Sup?
Said La Cucaracha into a camera phone, YouTube ready and Facebook accessible.
La Cucaracha: Here we are. Eternal Lucha. The end all, be all of GoL. Me in my domino mask, Sam Washington in his American flag underoos, American flag pants, American flag button-up, American flag cap and American flag cowboy boots. I feel like the American flag is a bit busy. Do you really need fifty stars? How many of those states even deserve it?
Not like our Maple Leaf. One leaf, one Canada. A nation united in the face of waffle-haters, syrup-spurners, and moose attacks. RIP Uncle Ivan. I gotta rep two countries against a racist dickwad, who’s gonna come at me guns blazing, all loaded up on crappy beer and Trump quotes. Am I worried?
Sure. He’s bigger than me. And heavyset guys with dyed hair gimme the goddamn creeps. Sam Washington’s a problem, a danger, a threat. Me? I’m an annoyance, an irritation, a pest. That’s what I got going for me. That and the lyrics to “O Canada” I wrote on my arm before falling asleep last night. I know them by heart, but this is symbolic.
America’s always been the big guy, who instead of making a point, just says dumb shit really loudly. Canada, on the other hand, is a smaller guy in a parka, who says weird but amiable shit and only ever disagrees politely. For the sake of the Rey de Reyes title, I’m putting my inherent politeness on the shelf in Tijuana.
Sam Washington can be an ignorant asshole in America. That’s America’s thing. But he can’t be allowed to carry on abroad. And he can’t be allowed to beat a broad, either. Broad meaning female, and female meaning me. Eh, you get my point.
I’m the ultimate hybrid here. Woman and insect, wrestler and luchador, Canada and Mexico. Both borders are closing and we’re about to make a sandwich out of the land of the free. Bring your assault weapons, bring your amendments, bring your weapons of mass destruction.
A nuclear blast can’t kill a cockroach. What’s makes Sam Washington think he can?
Fade out to a commercial for Pollo Bucket, this one featuring a historically inaccurate battle for the Alamo that takes place on the border between Canada and the USA.
And that’s where our story begins. From humble beginnings in a Toronto trailer park, the browner side of the Great White North, to the humble continued existence of a white van parked in a Las Vegas parking lot. The second finalist in GoL’s Rey De Reyes tournament, the bastard daughter of Canada and Mexico, the antithesis of everything Sam Washington stands for: La Cucaracha.
La Cucaracha missed the IKEA mattress in the back of her van. Her Tijuana hotel room came equipped with a bed fit for the soft, the weak. She was a warrior, born with an unquenchable fire in her cast iron stomach. A stomach that was hungry for gold and Pollo Bucket chicken. La Cucaracha might not have looked like a champion, but there was no denying she had the heart of a champion.
Her alarm sounded. It was time for her to get up. Time for her to face the world, her fellow warriors, and most important Sam Washington. The man whose values of isolationism and hatred were what she would spend an entirety battling. The man who sought to put a Red, White and Blue stranglehold on the top title in GoL. The man who La Cucaracha would be facing in mere hours. The alarm continued, it’s glaring blares of sound ricocheting around the hotel room. La Cucaracha opened one eye.
La Cucaracha: Mugh.
She hit the snooze button.
***
La Cucaracha: Oh fuck oh fuck oh fuck oh fuck.
La Cucaracha regretted hitting the snooze button. Fortunately, she slept in her ring gear. She also generally wore her ring gear most of the time, which could make laundry a bit of a quandary, but worked wonders for her ability to roll out of bed(or out of a van) and head straight to events. Today was a big deal. Today she would fulfill her dream of becoming the King of Kings. Or Queen of Kings. Or Queen of Queens. Kevin James was already the King of Queens, and as far as La Cucaracha knew, he had yet to sign a GoL contract. Sooner or later, he’d let his guard down, and when he did, Hiss of Death time. But for now, Sam Washington had to die. Die in the wrestling since, which mean, he had to be pinned for a three-count.
Bounding down two flights of stairs, La Cucaracha was at the ground level in no time, sprinting across a sea of asphalt and Tijuana heat. Roaches can survive anything, she told herself, be that inhospitable weather or good ol’ fashioned American jingoism. A backdoor to the arena flung open ahead of her, courtesy of a GoL stage hand. He mumbled something about good luck, she mumbled something about the location of the bathroom. She added, “Por favor,” so as not to seem ungrateful. Post match rituals were important, even if those rituals just involved a bathroom break and a few sad Tinder swipes. La Cucaracha considered promoing from toilet-side, but thought better of it. That would just be unprofessional.
***
La Cucaracha: Sup?
Said La Cucaracha into a camera phone, YouTube ready and Facebook accessible.
La Cucaracha: Here we are. Eternal Lucha. The end all, be all of GoL. Me in my domino mask, Sam Washington in his American flag underoos, American flag pants, American flag button-up, American flag cap and American flag cowboy boots. I feel like the American flag is a bit busy. Do you really need fifty stars? How many of those states even deserve it?
Not like our Maple Leaf. One leaf, one Canada. A nation united in the face of waffle-haters, syrup-spurners, and moose attacks. RIP Uncle Ivan. I gotta rep two countries against a racist dickwad, who’s gonna come at me guns blazing, all loaded up on crappy beer and Trump quotes. Am I worried?
Sure. He’s bigger than me. And heavyset guys with dyed hair gimme the goddamn creeps. Sam Washington’s a problem, a danger, a threat. Me? I’m an annoyance, an irritation, a pest. That’s what I got going for me. That and the lyrics to “O Canada” I wrote on my arm before falling asleep last night. I know them by heart, but this is symbolic.
America’s always been the big guy, who instead of making a point, just says dumb shit really loudly. Canada, on the other hand, is a smaller guy in a parka, who says weird but amiable shit and only ever disagrees politely. For the sake of the Rey de Reyes title, I’m putting my inherent politeness on the shelf in Tijuana.
Sam Washington can be an ignorant asshole in America. That’s America’s thing. But he can’t be allowed to carry on abroad. And he can’t be allowed to beat a broad, either. Broad meaning female, and female meaning me. Eh, you get my point.
I’m the ultimate hybrid here. Woman and insect, wrestler and luchador, Canada and Mexico. Both borders are closing and we’re about to make a sandwich out of the land of the free. Bring your assault weapons, bring your amendments, bring your weapons of mass destruction.
A nuclear blast can’t kill a cockroach. What’s makes Sam Washington think he can?
Fade out to a commercial for Pollo Bucket, this one featuring a historically inaccurate battle for the Alamo that takes place on the border between Canada and the USA.