"The Main Event" (Slime Fiction)Slime Fiction is a series of short (from half a page to several pages long) stories about wrestlers, crabs, monsters, aliens and all kinds of things that make this world a beautiful place. Created by Łukasz Kowalczuk. Proudly hosted by Trash Mutant.
- Laaadies and Gentlemen… Here’s El Viajero, wrestling’s rising star from Guadalajara! The newcomer passed the curtain and stood in the spotlight. Taking his time, he took a look around before making his way towards the ring. In the main fight of the evening, he was supposed to face the local hero, so he wasn’t exactly expecting a warm welcome from the audience. It wasn’t the first time he set his sights on dethroning a small town legend. Usually, the fans went out of their way to discourage the challenger, but this night they just seemed to ignore El Viajero. Neither food nor insults were thrown his way – nobody even spat at him! He looked like an American. He was a tall, muscular, blonde man and he didn’t wear a mask. That alone should get a reaction. The people of Santa Lagartija acted normal during the previous fights that evening. Was this their idea of intimidation? El Viajero entered the ring, kissed his biceps and greeted the audience, as the announcer mentioned his name again. Before each fight, El Viajero would focus all his attention on one object or person. This time he chose the announcer. Enrique was a short, slightly overweight man with a clear bald spot. He was likable enough and commanded some respect among the fans. He announced each wrestler with the same gravitas, never showing any emotion or bias. He looked El Viajero right in the eyes, and a chilling smile appeared underneath his well-kept mustache. His every other tooth was missing, and the ones remaining were jagged like a broken bottle you’d use in a bar fight. For the first time, the young wrestler started regretting his trip to Santa Lagartija. An escape plan would have to wait, though, as an inhuman yell filled the room. It was Enrique, now striking a televangelist-like pose, as he began to announce the American’s opponent. * - Laaaadies aaaaand Gentlemen! Behold! The undefeated, unconquerable, cunning Ruler of Santa Lagartija, the hellish Ellll Pooooossseidoooo! – the lack of bias immediately went out the window, as the announcer dropped to his knees. This was no average fighter he was announcing. This was his idol. Traveling and fighting for four years made El Viajero settle into a routine. He didn’t research his enemy, didn’t do the homework. He asked around among older colleagues, but they didn’t know much, so he stopped inquiring. This could cost him a lot now. The locals apparently got their sports mixed up, as they began to light up flares. Nobody was hiding their hostility towards El Viajero anymore, and the wrestler barely avoided one being thrown his way. The second flare hit him in the back. Just a new burn for the collection. Keeping his cool, he thought to himself “You wanted a reaction from the crowd, now you got it…” He began running in the ring and bouncing off the ropes. A moving target meant less hits from the audience. El Poseido entered the arena and all hell broke loose. A chaotic roar turned into something resembling an anthem, but El Viajero wasn’t able to recognize any lyrics in this horrifying song. The Ruler of Santa Lagartija jumped onto the ring, right over the ropes, without even a running start. Strange… El Viajero was sure he didn’t see a trampoline on the other side of the ring. What he was certain of, however, is that he never faced an adversary as ugly as this. Before him stood a man just below 5 foot tall. His entire body looked like a grotesque map. His sickly pale skin was covered in islands of graying hair, the varicose veins formed mountain ranges, and the scars were obvious reminders of his greatest battles. El Poseido’s wrestling outfit was as minimal as they come. His boots, trunks and mask were all simple, and despite looking ancient, their blood red color remained radiant. The black mesh covering the ghoulish wrestler’s eyes and lips was the only element in a different color. El Viajero preferred to fight opponents that dressed in a more striking way – it was often their way of trying to appear more threatening, which meant they were not nearly as tough as they claimed. El Poseido was small, but he seemed powerful, fast and unpredictable. It wouldn’t be surprising if he had a concealed weapon. Ugly or not, though, it shouldn’t take long to take him down. * * On his knees, Enrique got between the two fighters, bowed down and, without looking up, passed the microphone to the true host. - You! Wretched dog pretending to be a gringo! You’ve been saying you’re gonna take my mask off and end my reign! You will be punished! – The “gringo” didn’t know whether he heard the coarse voice in his head or through the speakers. Indeed, he did say he’ll take the champion’s mask off. That was part of the game. The crowd went wild as the bell rang. Suddenly El Viajero realized that there was no referee on the ring. He looked around and saw the ref in the front row, sipping a beer and grinning in the same way the announcer did. El Poseido took advantage of this moment of carelessness. There was no subtlety in it, no attempt at gauging the opponent’s strength first. None of the wrestling foreplay. A barrage of heavy punches fell on El Viajero, one after the other. After a minute, his chest and arms were bleeding from all the scratches and cuts. Finally, the younger wrestler managed to block one of the hits from Santa Lagartija’s Ruler, regained his composure, grabbed him by the arms, turned him around and pushed him to the ropes. He wanted to land a dropkick on El Poseido once he bounced back from the ropes, get the little devil on the ground and finish the fight quickly. The challenger calculated the distance, jumped up, and saw something incredible happen. El Poseido slouched unnaturally, ducked the kick, and just as El Viajero was above him, got up and threw the larger fighter out of the ring! The railings crumbled under impact. The people standing closest to the scene immediately started hitting the fallen wrestler. El Viajero got up and pushed one of the frenzied fans so hard he crashed through the floor and finally stopped when he hit the snack booth. That stopped the locals from attacking for a moment, but they were still surrounding the “Gringo”. The cacophony of boos, howls, cursing and exploding fireworks was impossible to bare. * * * - Get back here! I’m not done with you yet, Gringo! – roared El Poseido. “This is the fastest, strongest bastard I’ve ever met. Why have I never heard of him before?” – El Viajero’s thoughts were running through his head as he tried to analyze the situation, while crawling back onto the ring. “Maybe nobody lived to tell the tale.” – he answered his own question as the red boot landed on his head. The second kick got him in the stomach. What happened next was a one-sided fight. El Poseido attacked without pause, as El Viajero did his best just to survive. The local champion avoided all attempts at grappling, and he wasn’t trying to grab the American, either. He kicked and he punched, and he did it in every way possible – jumping, standing, rolling and springing – as if he was trying to demonstrate all the imaginable methods of hitting. - Punch! Back! You! Pathetic! Yankee! Pretender! – El Poseido shouted each word as his punches landed. That went on for the longest 15 minutes in El Viajero’s life, but he started noticing something. The pauses between the champion’s hits kept getting longer. The punches, while still devastating, were getting more bearable. El Viajero thought to himself “You’re getting tired, old man”, and he nearly smiled. The King of Santa Lagartija kept pummeling the outsider, readying his cheering people for the grand finale. With a roundhouse kick he sent El Viajero to the ground, then grabbed him and lifted him above his head. He was holding the beaten wrestler like a piece of meat that’s about to land on the frying pan. - Concede, fool. And maybe I’ll shorten your suffering! – El Poseido hissed to the opponent he held above. - Please… Give me a moment… to consider it… - whined El Viajero. - You will not argue with me, bastard! – El Poseido was getting more and more irritated. - What difference… will one minute… make? – speaking with a broken nose and his teeth missing was even more of a challenge for El Viajero than surviving another punch. - GOD FUCKIN DAMN YOU! Yield and I will kill you quickly! – El Poseido’s voice sounded much different than the fierce, gravelly voice he used before. The demonic warrior’s foot faltered under the weight of his enemy. That was the moment El Viajero waited for, as he hit the El Poseido right in the center of his mask with his heel. The American landed on the champion and started punching him with a force so powerful it seemed like he was giving back all the blows he absorbed earlier. The situation in the ring changed dramatically. The crowd was shocked. The audience grew quiet, and nothing was thrown into the ring. El Viajero wasn’t about to prolong it. He decided to get back to his initial plan, modifying it a little. He stood the stunned opponent in the middle of the ring, ran back, bounced off the ropes, jumped and hit his opponent in the head with both feet. It was a pitch-perfect dropkick. * * * * The crowd was confused. El Viajero briefly considered escaping, while the people of Santa Lagartija still stood with their mouths agape. “No. El Viajero…” - …always keeps his word! – he thought he’d said it loudly, though it sounded more like an agonized grunt. He felt both disgust and relief, as he kneeled down next to the unconscious El Poseido. “We will see if it’s just another trick” – he thought, while reaching for the mask. He untied it with ease and took it off the rival’s head. The hand, raised in a triumphant gesture, hurt like hell, but he didn’t pay any attention to it. The locals stood in silence. They were staring at the ring, but once again they were ignoring the newcomer. El Viajero lowered his arms and looked back at the enemy. He never screamed as loud as he did now. There was no face under El Poseido’s mask, just a white skull. It seemed to gaze at the winner with its empty eye sockets. The bare teeth made it look almost as if they were giving one last, vicious grin. El Viajero stood there looking at the skull for a moment before he looked back at the audience. All eyes were on him again. Enrique was pointing his finger at the new champion. El Viajero took a deep breath… and put the mask on his face. The silence ended. Once again, all hell broke loose. This time in his honor. ________________________________ "Main Event" illustration by Zavka. Translated to English by Señor Editor. ________________________________ What did you think of the first story in Slime Fiction? Leave your comments below! 
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