Olethros vs. Pedro Gonzales

He could still hear them gasp.

It's a sound that stays in Pedro's mind as the caravan of grapplers carried on. The shock from the crowd, the bustle backstage. Nobody came up to him and outright said it. But they believed that a guy who has been plying his trade in the indies for four whole years can certainly demolish a lowly ex-cashier. He can't blame them for thinking that way. The odds were favorable towards Tollhouse. Yet once again, there was proof that any man regardless of ability can lose on any given night. Anybody else would've been smug about it and tried to rub it in people's faces. He doesn't. He simply raises his arms, walking out exactly the same way he walked in: in silence.

From the television in his dressing space, the bafflement of the announcers refuses to be contained. He shakes his head as a small part of him can't help but say Yeah, we do that in its own way of response. Why did I raise my arms? It wasn't so much a victory as a decoration that screamed don't turn you back for even a minute. It was an alarm to the rest of the roster and even though they still, by all rights, cannot take him seriously, they could know not to be so arrogant in vital moments. Either way, he doesn't expect to repeat that performance again.

Nor did he want to. The whole point of getting back in the ring after a short furlough was and remains to "become a wrestler". To become molded and bent in the flames of his competition in order to become a useful sword as opposed to a slab of steel. Pedro expected asskickings to figure out this conundrum rotating like a roasted chicken on the spit. He wants them to know and he wants more...

Days pass. Another ticket bought, this time leading to Munich, one of many firsts. On arrival, he can't help but enjoy the hospitality even as many seem to give him the eye. Many tourists scatter about to see the sights. Gonzales goes to two places: his hotel room and a dingy little gym where sweat and pain are king. The ring is for boxing, decrepit and patterned with the blood of many a foe. He notices one particular spot and estimates that this must be the latest bit of spilled life force with no more than a week of drying under its belt. The dusty cashier in his mind's eye nods in agreement of this assessment, meekly pointing out that this comes from experience. That part of his psyche is banished by a shake of his head. Time to go to work.

As he goes through the path of the whole month of so of training he gained, Pedro pictures the teacher in his. The man was built like a brick shithouse and kept his face in a permeate frown. He doesn’t watch the ring, preferring episodes of Doctor Who on his tablet. And yet he still knows the fuck ups. Things that can always be tweaked. It isn’t the ideal situation. But it’s what the Mexican has and the decision was made long ago to make everything as solid as possible.

Fuck knows you need it.

Baby steps, he tells himself. There’s no point in aiming for the title when you have one of the early conquerers of Pangaea knocking at your front door.

Olethros is a wrecking ball. Considers himself to be a machine destined only to bring war, very fitting given the name of the card. A concept such as war requires weaponry and strategy, both which the masked man has. Contrary to popular belief, Pedro isn’t dumb. He knows he’s going to take a beating. Perhaps even land in the hospital. There’s no point in running away from the fight. He paid the price for that already. But in truth, Olethros doesn’t have the power to bring the End to Pangaea. No amount of crushing, killing, and destroying will finish the company. The company will eventually selfdestruct on its own, whether from atrophy or atomic bomb, Pedro couldn’t even begin to tell. And when it does happen, it will be the core at fault, not the wrestler. He can potentially be a pawn of the game; a scapegoat, an excuse. But all these promises of Ragnarok are futile. One can’t gift us something that isn’t theirs to give.

War never has winners in the truest sense, only survivors and cadavers. Men, women, and children who see the casualties and powerfully live amongst the turmoil bury their dead. No side of the conflict will last forever. All pass into history, usually having the impact fade within a generation or two. In the world we live in now, the fading goes a bit faster. It’s not like people completely forget that once upon a time, this happened. It’s just that life goes on. Hearts keep beating and even with atrocities buried deep inside the psyche, the band plays on. Jake Mandell is standing on his own two feet at this very moment. A bit ragged and hurt from the fight, yet standing all the same. Evidence that even if Olethros was a Murder Machine, he can’t always carry out that warcry of his.

That doesn’t mean anybody should take him lightly. He is still a dangerous, skilled man. But he is just that. A man who, like the majority of wrestlers, has to believe he’s much more in order to achieve results.

Pedro ponders this for a moment then decides to go for a springboard. The move itself is fairly good. Yet upon landing on his feet, he stumbles a bit. This discression is duly noted by the mental image of his trainer shaking his head.