Post by Amy Jo Smyth on Sept 18, 2017 2:07:18 GMT
___________________________
Sharing is caring, right?
Looks like Guerreros of Lucha takes that to heart.
This is now the second time I get to ‘share’ an achievement with another competitor. Instead of winning the match outright, one-two-three, the ineptitude of the GoL referees gives me, gives the fans a tie. I had the win, I had Honey Boo-Boo beat but oops, time’s up! The timer takes precedent over a clear pin.
Three times, GoL, three fucking times with this shit.
Hire some new fucking referees who can shit and get off the pot.
Sorry for being so upset about it but there are only so many times you can go through the same thing before it starts to get on your nerves and makes you as pissed as an ornery bull. Plus, this is something I really wanted.
You see, I wanted to win the Super Falcon Cup more than anything else. The title shot was just an added bonus, a gravy on a perfectly done Sunday Roast. The Super Falcon Cup was mine for the taking, it was to be the crowning achievement of my career, a beautiful, wonderful reminder that I didn’t completely suck at tournaments and that I could get all the way to the top. I made it clear how important it was to me and I’m not going to have my mouth go dry repeating myself. I had it. It was mine and mine alone. But nope, just like the Soaring Eagle Championship, the referees decided that I should share it.
I’m fucking tired of sharing shit.
Honey wants to call herself the Super Falcon Cup winner, let her. Everyone knows the truth though. I had the pin, I had the win, and it’s mine. But if it makes the little California stereotype feel better, so be it. It got her a Reyes de Reyes Title shot, didn’t it? God, I wish I had been half as lucky as her, to walk in and get a title shot, that high of a title, that early in my career. I actually climbed the ladder and put in the time.
Luck of the draw, I guess.
Now she gets to face my best friend and me again. For the title.
Listen, I never like facing my friends. It’s not an easy thing to do nor fun, especially when it’s for a title of this caliber. Roxy Johnson is my best friend. She was just staying in my house during Hurricane Irma. I supported her in everything, including winning the Reyes de Reyes title. I’m stuck in a catch-22 here. I think most people, most wrestlers in this sport feel that way when they have to face off with their friends.
All wrestlers have friends that are wrestlers. Sooner or later, friends are going to face each other. Sometimes, when that happens, it ruins friendships - kills them dead. Best friends of decades are now embittered enemies that hate each other so much that they’d end the other’s career with glee. That’s the nature of this beast, this business. Friends can be made and lost in seconds, in one random burst of passion or a single punch. Friendships are fragile in this sport. It gets even worse when you put something on the line, something that both competitors want more than anything.
Throw in a random third party and things get real tricky.
You put two friends in the ring together, one of them a champion and the other wanting to become a champion, you’ve got a volatile situation. You could also have the match of year on your hands. At the price of friendship, of course.
It begs the question: Which is more important -a friendship or a title?
Or, better yet, is a title really worth losing a friendship over?
Honestly, maybe yes and maybe no.
This is where I am right now. I have no intention of putting my friendship with Roxi on the line over this match and the Reyes de Reyes title. That doesn’t mean I am unwilling to take the title from her. That also doesn’t mean I’m unwilling to be the bigger person here and celebrate her success should she retain the title. I’m not a big enough person to celebrate if Honey wins. Fuck, I won’t let Honey win.
My friendship with Roxi is not on the line here, but the Reyes de Reyes Title is and in a way, so is the Super Falcon Cup, and I’ll be damned if I lose, or share for that matter.
Knowing these refs, they’ll decide that all three of us should be Reyes de Reyes Champion.
___________________________
In the Continuing Adventures of Our Hero...
◀◀ Be Kind, Rewind
Mexico gets such a bad rap. Outside of the border towns and slums, which every country has, Mexico isn’t half as bad as people make it out to be, especially Mexico City. Most people, including myself, have this image in their mind of this rundown, dirty, crime ridden city with armed gangs roaming the streets, raw sewage flowing through the gutters, trash flying everywhere, packs of wild dogs running wild, decayed buildings, and stores with nothing on the shelves like something out of the Cold War era Soviet Union. It’s not even close to that. From my experience, the city center is filled with buildings of great history and stature, some dating back to the precolonial era that look more like castles to neoclassical arches with golden domes inspired by the Roman Empire to modern metal skyscrapers that stand high and strong, marvels that nearly blind with the reflecting sun, all this mixed in precolonial, pre-Spanish Conquest temples, statues, and those almost perfectly square adobe houses. Just like any other major city, most people live in tall apartment buildings, most which are made of stone and concrete. Same goes for the residential neighborhoods just outside the city, same square, stone houses made of concrete, some of them with tin roofs.
Just because their houses don’t look like North American style houses doesn’t mean they’re terrible.
Outside of the city, there are ample mountains, dormant volcanos, and greenery, little rural towns, and seaside neighborhoods. This country seems to pride itself on its open space outside of the city, more so than The United States that prides itself on selling that same open land to developers, corporations, and mining. If they found oil or natural gas in the Grand Canyon, the government would sell the land rights to do it, our natural history be damned.
As I stare at a crack in the side of a building, I remember the hurricane and the devastating earthquake that hit just last week. I don’t know how far Chiapas is, but to know that there, buildings crumbled to the ground and small children died leaves you a little shaken - no pun intended. Then to know that the city, this city is still functioning as normal when just days ago Mother Nature had her way with things here, to know that I’m just a few days out from wrestling in front of a huge crowd, it’s all just weird but life must go on. As does my mission.
Information gathering.
It’s only information gathering until something goes wrong.
Mexico and I don’t get along very well. I have pretty bad luck here, actually. Well, bad luck turned into good luck in the end and I got a fancy, shiny medal… That I can’t even keep let alone wear. I can’t even remember what it’s called, some kind of medal of merit for exemplary acts in the field. Blah-blah-blah. No one sees it, no one cares. Only Birdie, Chitwood, and a few people in the CIA know. It’s a thank you and a handshake kind of thing. At least when I did something stupid that turned out in my favor while on patrol, I got to wear my medal on my uniform, got a super cool certificate, and my name was shouted out in an announcement throughout the entire force. Hell, I even got my picture in the local newspaper one time.
A check of my watch reveals that my asset is now going on twenty minutes late.
Because I have all the time in the world, right? No, I don’t want to go sightseeing with my wife. Nah, I don’t have promo work to do for my real work. See my friends? Nope. I’m just going to stand here, just outside a sketchy, smelly alleyway, enjoying the sunshine, looking like a fool.
The people keep moving, going here and there. Normal citizens doing normal things, not even the least bit aware of what is happening right in front of them, in the daylight. They have no idea that right on the street, mingling among them, is a highly trained, American covert operative on a task, or mission, to gather information about local government corruption and gangs.
According to the folder I was given, the informant works as a secretary for the mayor of small town or neighborhood just outside of Mexico City proper. I’m not sure how Mexican government works or why this impacts my government, but it does, probably through or by gang activity. A lot of local governmental officials out here in the small towns, especially near the border with America. Drugs, guns, even humans all flow back and forth over the border. America loves to pretend that illegal goods only come over into America from Mexico, but plenty goes over into Mexico from America. We are one of their favorite suppliers of guns. Thousands, if not hundreds of thousands of guns are illegally transported over the Mexican border and used in all kinds of crimes. Given the lax laws in states like Texas and Arizona when it comes to buying, selling, and carrying guns, and the United States’ inability to regulate guns, it’s easy for a Mexican gun runner to buy assault rifles, handguns, shotguns, even bomb making materials and bring them over the border.
The United States isn't innocent in this and those tunnels run both ways.
Someone taps me on the shoulder from behind. Of course I'm on high alert so I turn around quickly and with defenses ready. I find a small, homely woman with short greying hair looking back at me, slightly spooked by my response. As I realize who it is, I relax.
Her name is Bonita Hernandez. She is 43 years old and has lived in Mexico her entire life, most of it in a small town I can't begin to pronounce. Most of her adult life, she has worked for her local government, staring out of a file clerk and moving up to a secretary. She's happy doing it, too, and enjoys the time it gives her to spend with her family. But lately, watching her local police and the man she works for, turn a blind eye to rampant crime, take bribes from gangs and criminals, and siphon funds from the town’s kitty has pushed to a breaking point.
According to the file, it wasn't hard to crack Mrs. Hernandez. In fact, she was looking for someone to tell all of this to and pass along incriminating evidence that would bring down all the corrupt people in power, the people who have made her once pleasant community an unsafe, deadly area. The CIA gave her that chance and I'm now her liason, at least for the day. If things work out, I'll become her permanent handler and contact in the field.
“Hola,” I say.
“Hello,” she answers with a rich, deeply settled Spanish accent.
“Sabes donde puedo conseguir tacos hinchados?” I ask, starting the code exchange to make contact, to ensure that I've made contact with the right person, even though the woman in front of me looks exactly like the picture they included in the folder.
“Nadie come tacos hinchados aquí. Quieres burritos,” she answers. The contact is complete. Hernandez takes a few steps back, slipping into the alleyway, and I follow. It takes us out of view.
In this business, this strange business of spying, it's easier to get away with certain things in broad daylight, on a busy street. Most people will see it, but not see it. They are consumed with their own lives and thoughts, with getting to where they need to go and on time, with being afraid to look too long, fearful they may draw undue, unwanted attention to themselves or start a fight. Someone might glance, keep walking, and never give it another thought. A million other thoughts rush in and even when they're laying in bed at night, moments away from falling asleep, thinking about their day, they don't remember seeing two women talking in an alleyway. That is why eyewitness testimony is usually inconclusive and often easily overturned in court.
Human memories cannot be trusted.
“I do not know how much longer I can keep giving you this,” she says in surprisingly good English.
“Are you in danger?” I ask. “Estas en peligro?”
“I do not know,” she mumbles. “English is okay. I am okay with English.”
“You’re actually pretty good at it, if I do say so myself,” I say. “Better than most native speakers.”
“Your Spanish is good, too.” She smiles.
Pleasantries are over now. We need to keep this interaction as short as possible so that, while, yes, nobody is watching, it still doesn’t need to be drawn out to have people asking questions as to why Mrs. Hernandez spent so much time Mexico City, away from her desk, and talking to an American.
Mrs. Hernandez moves around, fiddles around with her purse, and pulls out an envelope, thick and seemingly heavy with papers. I had not expected this, paper, but just a USB drive filled with information that would make no sense to me. I now have to get this back to my hotel, hide it, get it on the plane, and get it back to D.C. for the analysts to look at and do whatever they do with this sort of thing.
“Oh,” I softly say as I take it from her. This isn’t obvious, at all. At least I don’t have to give her anything in exchange so it looks a little less like a drug deal. I slide it into my messenger bag, something I’ve started carrying more and more now since I began this strange journey, since realizing more things go wrong than they go right and I need all kinds of things to get out of the situation I’m in. This little package weighs a ton and puts a lot of pressure on my shoulder.
“I hope that is enough,” she says. A truck rumbles by, distracting her for a moment. It doesn’t just distract her, it scares her and she quickly seems uneasy, suspicious, and paranoid. “It was nice to meet you.”
“Same,” I say. “Are you sure you’re okay?”
“I will be fine,” she defends. “It is okay. Do not worry. Please, please get that back to your people. It is getting bad. Not good.”
I nod. “Of course. I’ll guard it with my life.”
She fixes her clothing, inhales deeply, and looks at me for a long time. She suddenly takes up my hand and shoves something into my palm, and forces my hand closed around it. “May God protect you.” Then she’s off, moving out of the alleyway, back onto the sidewalk, and disappears. I look at my hand, at the thing she’s given me.
It’s a beautiful golden cross attached to a long set of highly polished, dark colored wood rosary beads.
What am I supposed to do with this?
↼ ⟡ ⇁
My phone rings. Birdie. The usual check-in.
“Hello,” I say, pushing the phone up against my ear.
“Hey, did you meet up with Manitidor?” he asks. Manitidor is Mrs. Hernandez's code name.
“Yes, I got the package,” I answer. “All good. She’s a really lovely woman, gave me a rosary.”
“Okay,” he drones out. “Do you think you’d be able to make contact with her again?”
I don’t say anything for a long time. “What?” I ask, confused.
“I need you to go to her house and check-in with her,” he says.
“Okay, but why?” I ask.
“Please, for me.”
“Um, okay, yeah, but wouldn’t that be suspicious?” I ask.
“I’ll send you the address,” he says. “Come up with a cover.”
“What kind of cover? What is going on?” I ask quickly.
“Less talk, more action, please,” he says. “Thank you.” The phone clicks.
The fucker just hung up on me. Seconds later a text message arrives with her address. I guess I can pretend to be a delivery woman or something, buy some nice flowers on the CIA’s dime, and bring them to Mrs. Hernandez and return the cross at the same time. I’d like to know why I have to go and why Birdie is so concerned about her. Everything went fine during our contact. She seemed unsettled, but who wouldn’t be unsettled about that kind of thing?
↼ ⟡ ⇁
She lives in one of those modest two-story square concrete houses, painted a pale but pretty pink color. It’s nice. A typical suburban Mexican house. Right off a major highway, the highway that is a straight shot to the Texas border, no less. It didn’t take me long to get here, either. This little town is smack-dab in the middle, between Mexico City and the Texas border. Whatever comes and goes, it all passes through this town and probably gets funneled outward too. Far enough away from both places to enable that much needed secrecy. A couple dollars thrown at the local police and the mayor and you’re golden.
Mrs. Hernandez’s car is sitting in the driveway. Out of curiousity, I touch the hood and find it still warm. Not hot, but warm enough to tell me she got home not too long ago. Probably long enough to settle down, make dinner, have a glass of wine, maybe, reflect on her day…
With the flowers in hand, I knock on the door. There’s no answer. “Mrs. Bonita Hernandez? Tengo una entrega para usted.”
Nothing.
“Hola!” I shout, knocking again and jiggle the door handle. The door is unlocked. “Hola! Entrega!”
Nothing.
There is a strong odor in the house, burning flour. From all the times I’ve burnt quesadillas while drunk, I can say with great certainty that the smell is from a burnt tortilla. But there’s another smell in the air, too. I move deeper into the house, still calling out of her name. I put the flowers down on a table in the living room and make way into the kitchen.
Mrs. Hernandez sits in a dining chair, upright, a mail stack of mail and a mug of something in front of her, her hands sitting perfectly still on the table, clutched in what seems like a prayer. Her eyes are wide open, but unmoving and have no lively glisten to them, staring at the Virgin Mary sitting atop the fridge. If it weren’t for the perfectly round bullet hole cutting through her cheek, I swear she’d might say hello to me, ask me why I’d dropped by.
She’ll never speak again.
Dribbles of blood run down from it. The rest of the blood and brain matter has escaped through the back of her skull, splattered on the wall and window. That’s the other smell. Now I know why Mrs. Hernandez was so worried and unsettled.
They knew.
They knew and they brought it to a real quick stop.
Now I know why she gave me the rosary.
...To Be Continued…
While I’m sure that Honey Boo Bear wouldn’t mind sharing the title, I mind and I think Roxi would mind. Don’t forget, Roxi and I once shared the Soaring Eagle Championship - we were the first Soaring Eagle Champions in GoL. Then we faced off, one-on-one, to decide a single champion. Roxi took the win on that one and I just went on my way and she went on to be undefeated during her time as champion.
I was never bitter or angry about it. I celebrated her. I cheered her on. I took the L and went on to do other things, our friendship unchanged. I imagine that this will be the case this time.
There is absolutely no denying that Roxi Johnson is not one of the best wrestlers out there. She been nothing short of amazing during her time in GoL and everywhere she’s been. The woman could match me any day of the week and yeah, she actually beat me. Will she beat me again? The odds aren’t in her favor. Last year was a completely different time and maybe I wasn’t prepared, maybe I wasn’t completely with it, maybe I just didn’t have the desire.
Right now, I do have that desire. It’s more than desire, actually. It’s - it’s pure, It’s unfettered. It’s insatiable.
It’s hunger.
It’s the same hunger I had for the Super Falcon Cup and since I didn’t get the full serving of that, I’m still fucking starving and I’m ready to eat. Fill up my plate, I still got room for more. Shit, there’s plenty of room. I’m already the L.A.W. Champion, why not throw on a second title and call me a double world champion. Top Champ in L.A.W. and top Champ in Guerreros of Lucha. I’m all too capable of handling it. First, though, first I gotta win it.
The chance for me to do that has arrived and I’m not going to spoil that. Like I said about Super Falcon, I’m in the golden years of career so I might as well live up to that statement and make it golden. I’ll make it extra golden, by carrying all the gold, taking all the gold that’s offered up to me. But you know what, I might get accused of being a title whore, obsessed with gold, selfish, greedy… What have you. All those things might be true to some respect but it’s actually about so much more than that.
I’m out to prove that I can do anything, that my career isn’t over yet. Rather, my career is at its peak and nothing, I mean nothing, will get in my way, that my talent is just as good as it was years ago. It’s to make up for all those years where nobody paid me any mind, where I was ignored and pushed to the side. I’m doing a great job of it so far. This is also to prove that I am the real Super Falcon Cup winner.
Now, considering that the Super Falcon didn’t go the way it should have gone, I’m going to make up for that and make it g-dang crystal clear that I am the best wrestler in GoL right now, high water or hell. Roxi Johnson or Honey be damned. The Reyes de Reyes title will be mine this time. Yes, the first time I went for it, I didn’t fare well. Avery Miles defeated me, kept the title.
Oh, and look, Avery Miles is Honey’s trainer.
We get do this shit all over again. Aren’t you excited? I bet Mr. Miles is exceptionally proud of you. More for the reasons that he gets to say, ‘hey, I trained the Super Falcon Cup winner.’ The first Super Falcon Cup winner trained the next Super Falcon Cup winner then trained the future Reyes de Reye Champion…
Lemme just stop y’all right there.
I ain’t got nothing but respect for Mr. Miles. The man is something to be admired. The respect is mutual, too. He’s got it for me. Heed his warnings again, Honey. Listen to him. But even he can’t prepare you this. Our last match didn’t even prepare for this match. This whole shit with not being the undisputed cup winner, that has set a fire up under my ass that is about to spread to you, Honey. I ran you ragged last time and this time, I’m going to run you into the ground. So far into the ground that you can’t get up again. You’re going to be buried so deep there will be no way for the referees to try and say that you could share the win or the title with me.
You will sit down and realize that you’re in over your head in this match with Roxi and I.
This match should be between Roxi and me, nobody else. Mano e Mano, or whatever. A way for us to show off our talent, a way to settle an old score, and see if Roxi really is better than me or if she just got lucky that night. Hell, Roxi might be a better wrestler than me, that’s very possible, but anyone can beat anyone any day of the week by sheer fucking luck.
Or shitty refs.
I’m trying not to be bitter about that, but shit, I cannot stand stupidity, especially from people who are in charge of someone’s future. I’m wholly reliant on these people to be on their game so that I can be on my game. I’m going to be on my game, trust and believe in that much. I know that Roxi will be, too.
Roxi just won this title, after spending a year holding the Soaring Eagle Championship, without any kind of competition, without anyone being able to hold a candle to her, watching a bunch of other people jump the line and get Reyes de Reyes Title shots over and above her. I’d be pissed, but if I know anything about Roxi, she ain’t me and she doesn’t let those kinds of things bother her that much. Nonetheless, she fought hard and long for this and is not going to give this up so easily and like I said, she’s a terrifying competitor - I speak from firsthand experience. I speak from watching her go through opponent after opponent, unfazed and undefeated.
You think that she wants to go this long, do this much, and lose in her first title defense?
You’re fucking out of your mind.
I’m also fucking out of my mind when it comes to matches and titles. I love Roxi, I do, but I have to beat her. You hear me Rox, I have to and I’m going to. Just the way it’s gotta be, my friend. Nothing will change be between us, Rox. Not unless you make it change. That’s on you,
Same for you, Honey-Boo-Boo. Not your time. This title is not for you. You barely won the Super Falcon Cup, what makes you think you can win this? When you’re up against two of the best female - fuck that - when you’re up against two of the best wrestlers in the world today? Like I said, you’re out of your depth here and you’re not going to win this.
That’s just the way it goes.
You’re just a supporting act in this and if you somehow win, then God help GoL because it won’t survive under a Valley Girl’s reign. It’s better held by veterans, by women who have the talent, experience, and capability to be top champions, to be the one and only top champion. This might go over your head, Honey, given that you’re about twelve and have no idea of pop culture and how the world works, but Roxi will get it, so here goes…
There can only be one!
That one is me.
I’m the future Reyes de Reyes Champion. I am a future double world champion.
That’s the end of that and this is the end of this.
See ya then, ladies.