They called him El Fuego. 

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That wasn’t his name, but that’s what they called him. They threw their hands in the air all together, and in a deep bullfrog roar they chanted for him. 

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He stood on the top rope, bouncing on his rubber heels, sweat dripping from beneath his mask, a mane of long auburn hair sticking to his shoulders. His signature move was cocked back, ready to unload on the body below. The crowd wheezed and hummed with anticipation, their cries weaving together in a heavy wind. 

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He had come to Reno for one reason or another in ‘87, and he hadn’t found a good way to leave. There were jobs, and then there was this. He’d been working as a bouncer at Dozers, pulling sloppy lawyers off of waitresses and checking IDs on the street. This, though, made him feel alive. 

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He hadn’t always looked like this. When he was a high school kid, he ran track to stay in shape. He’d worked at his uncle’s warehouse, lifting pallets of antique vases and lamps. He had been trim and muscular, but never big. It wasn’t until he discovered this world that he had become who he was now. 

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All it took was going to one match, and he was hooked. A world had opened up to him. A dark cave flooded with golden light. As he watched from the stands, a fresh feeling rushed over him, something he couldn’t put a word to at first. In a place like this, a person could be someone and no one at all, if they wanted. You could slay a hero or play the jester. You could make them love you one night and despise you the next, in a place like this. 

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In the old days, there was Billy the Butler who wore a ripped tuxedo and swirled a golden metal cane. There was Lakshmi, the dark, slender Hindu goddess, whose fans recited prayers to give her strength. During an infamous middleweight championship bout, Leonardo Decapitator defeated Lord Donut by knockout after dodging a thick haymaker and drop kicking the portly gentleman in the chest. He had almost dropped his popcorn, jumping to his feet and cheering with the rest of the wild crowd.

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These were the glorious scenes that swam in his head, fueling his daydreams and inspiring faraway fantasies. At night, he melted into them, letting them carry him off into a wild, hazy slumber. He faded into sleep with a smile on his face and applause ringing in his ears. 

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When he first entered the ring himself, it wasn’t to the sound of frenzied fans, but the echoed grunts and sweaty slaps of the amateur showdown. He tussled with off-duty cops and busboys and college kids, taking hits and leaping madly into the ropes three nights a week. Sometimes the fights had fans, but most audiences consisted of a few friends and a sea of empty chairs in half-lit school gyms. 

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He learned quickly that the key to a successful career in this business wasn’t in the fancy names or the costumes or even in winning or losing. It was about mystery, intrigue, the unknown stories behind the mask. It was about making the audience feel something. The most famous and beloved fighters had their names whispered and wailed by fans for only one reason — they left the ring before they were supposed to. 

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Only the fool takes his applause on stage. 

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He wore reflective black pants and tall black leather boots with chrome tips and thick thick black laces. He never wore a shirt, but covered his hands in black gloves with holes at the knuckles. A flat black mask covered his entire face with the exception of two dark eyes. He was a panther, a marauder, a phantom, waiting under the pale light of the center stage for his enemy.

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He let his hair grow long. It flowed down to his lower back and draped across his bare chest, unnaturally red against human flesh. He moved with patience, only striking when a fatality was certain. He never spoke, never boasted to the masses or provoked his rivals. He never celebrated or reveled in victory. He never hung his head or resigned in defeat. 

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Most importantly, he never revealed his true identity. 

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And they adored him for it.

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Six months of slogging through the underbelly with the part-timers earned him a meeting with an agent, a talent scout for the Federation. Once he hit the main stage, it didn’t take long for the system to find its star. He began opening for the legends, occasionally hearing his name spat sporadically from the rafters. 

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When he wasn’t fighting, he’d sit alone at neighborhood bars, his hair tied up tight underneath a baseball cap, drinking beer and watching strangers grin and roll their eyes at each other in the shadows. He drank a smoothie of chicken and carrots and milk in a blender and lifted weights in his basement. He rode the bus and listened to books on tape about famous performers and magicians. But he always thought of his craft, honing it and polishing the act in his head. He craved the adrenaline thumping through his chest, the crowd’s lawless jeering and praise sprayed onto the stage. 

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For his semi-pro debut, he was enlisted in a 4x4 combo match (four rounds, four fighters) being tossed into the ring with up-and-coming fighters BladeStorm™, Worgen and Mrs. Dishes. Worgen used his crossbow to shoot out the lights in the auditorium and attempted to kick out BladeStorm™’s legs from beneath him. Luckily, BladeStorm™ dodged the low swinging kick, backflipped over the wolf man and launched into a spinning uppercut with his Silver Blade. Worgen stumbled around the ring, blood squirting from his chin. It looked like the gig was up, with Worgen scrambling to tag in Mrs. Dishes before he turned back into a man again. Mrs. Dishes calmly approached the ring, popping on her yellow rubber gloves. As BladeStorm™ held his metal arms up to the crowd in victory, Mrs. Dishes activated her signature Super Soak Slam, swirling like a tornado across the ring and blasting BladeStorm™ into the ropes. Weak and powerless, BladeStorm™ slowly crawled to the corner and tagged in El Fuego to battle the misty mistress. Years later, this showdown would become known as The Cataclysm. 

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He approached the mat carefully, as the chants grew into a chorus, with one side of the auditorium screaming “Misses” and the other side responding “Dishes.” The crowd went back and forth as she turned to him and raised her hands to reveal two glass plates in each, fanned out like cards. She hurled plates at him, but he simply dodged them and walked toward her, ducking and swaying with each passing projectile. As he got closer, she retreated to the ropes, leaned back into them and launched into a flying kick. He fell to his knees and arched backward as she flew over his chest. He jumped onto the ropes, bouncing as she looked up, helpless. In one gigantic motion, he leaped from the ropes, spreading his arms and legs like a starfish from above before twisting onto his side and preparing his signature move — the Arrowhead. He came down swiftly, his left elbow jutting out, his right palm pressing deep into the fist for extra force. He landed on her chest with a dense thud. Her feet flew up off of the mat from the impact, and the final bell rang out. The auditorium erupted into a frenzy of raw, earsplitting chaos. 

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The legend was born.