A Violent Introduction

[Christian Garcia]

A video feed cuts on, slightly staticy, like an old VHS tape, showing a commentary team for an indy promotion in Albuquerque, New Mexico.

 

Commentator 1: Ladies and gentlemen, what you’re about to see may be… disturbing, and we encourage you to keep anyone under the age of 18 from watching this match. This is going to get ugly.

 

Commentator 2: This man, I hesitate to even call him a man, is sick, I don’t even know how he qualifies as human! He’s a freaking psychopath!

 

The tape distorts and cuts to the ring as a man in black, yellow, and white tights runs towards another man, who has just hit the ropes to go for some kind of lariat. Undeterred, the first man throws a winding soccerball kick to the other man’s shin that sends him cartwheeling through the air.

 

Commentator 1: Jesus Christ!

 

The feed distorts again, this time showing the man who was kicked in the corner, having the same shin that was kicked viciously stomped by the first man.

 

Commentator 2: This should be illegal, this should be illegal.

 

The first man steps away after a final, more vicious stomp, leaving the other man grimacing in pain as he collapses to a seat against the bottom turnbuckle.

 

Commentator 1: No, he’s done at the count of five, he knows the rules.

 

Commentator 2: Knows the rules, my ass.

 

The feed distorts again, now transitioning to the man locking his opponent into an Indian Deathlock, the claw-pattern on his tights and boots clearly visible as he accents the Deathlock with repeated kicks to the exposed legs, the man caught in the hold in absolute agony as he begins to tap.

 

Commentator 1: And Cyrus Camaretto taps out!

 

Commentator 2: Yeah, he’s tapping, Garcia, let him out of the hold! Let him out of the hold!

 

‘Garcia’ refuses to relinquish the hold, sticking his tongue out with a savage smile at the commentators as he continues to kick ‘Cyrus’s leg. Cyrus is screaming at the top of his lungs now, tapping with both hands as the vicious assault continues. The feed cuts once more, this time focusing on Garcia, bleeding heavily from his forehead as another competitor, equally bloody, exchanges punches with him.

 

Commentator 1: Oh my God, someone is going to die. Someone is going to die, somebody stop the match! Stop the match, for the love of God!

 

Commentator 2: You wanna get in there and try to break ‘em up, Johnny?

 

Garcia suddenly catches a punch from his opponent and effortlessly transitions into a pumphandle, popping his opponent onto his shoulders and spinning almost 360 degrees before landing a pumphandle slam.

 

Commentator 2: WHALE HUNT! WHALE HUNT!

 

Commentator 1: That’s it, that’s it, cover that man and let him- NO! WHAT ARE YOU DOING!

 

Commentator 2: Oh, Garcia’s not done yet!

 

Garcia lifts the other man up and drags him to the apron, throwing him out of the ring. Before following the man out of the ring, he puts the backs of his hands, still taped up and soaked in blood, to his mouth and begins to lick them clean, taking great relish in the digust of the fans. The shot gives a clear view of his features- he’s a young Hispanic man, likely not out of his late 20s, with black hair, thick eyebrows, and a scraggly beard. He’s tall, 6’3” at the least, and thin for a man his height, but well-muscled and toned. He carries himself like a wild animal, lanky and coiled all at once.

 

Commentator 1: How much of a son of a bitch do you have to be!?

 

Commentator 2: Someone needs to do something soon, or Kyle Knox’s career is about to go the same place Garcia sent Cyrus Camaretto’s last month!

 

A final cut shows the result of the match, officials tending to ‘Kyle Knox’, who is covered in a crimson mask of blood as he’s stretchered out by paramedics, the camera following them before being forcibly yanked by a pair of hands framing the shot. The camera focuses in on the rugged, scraggly features of Christian Garcia.

Christian: Oye, this ain’t about him no more, this is about ME, boy!

 

Garcia sticks his tongue out to reveal the traces of blood left on it, as the feed goes black and white in a vain attempt to censor him. The feed cuts to static, then to Christian in another match in the same ring, pounding his chest with equally bloody hands before roaring like a madman at the sky. Another cut shows him relentlessly stomping a chair wrapped around another man’s ankle, before leaping half-over the ropes to scream at the fans.

 

Christian: This is for you, you filthy animals! You wanted this! YOU WANTED THIS! YOU PAID FOR THIS!

 

Another cut, now to Garcia locking another man into the Indian Deathlock, performing the same knee kicks to soften the leg up. Once again, he holds far beyond the tap, this time being assaulted by a woman wearing a t-shirt for his opponent who kicks him in the head. After momentarily recoiling, he looks at the woman like she’s stupid, before wrenching on the hold even tighter and sticking his tongue out at her in the same fashion as before as she kicks him again, to little effect. The officials pull him off of his opponent, but Garcia’s attention is fully on the woman, shouting at her with a evil grin as officials pin him against the corner and check on his opponent.

 

Now, the camera cuts to a black background as three golden claw tears appear, ringed in a halo of white light, along with a name etched in similar tears. A name and two words fill in the screen.

“CHRISTIAN GARCIA”

 

“THIS FRIDAY”

 

The screen fizzles out one last time, this time to reveal a close-up of Christian Garcia’s face as he smiles at the camera, and says a few words in a low, raspy voice.

 

Christian Garcia: "See you soon, mierditas."

 

The camera static returns, this time enveloping the man himself, and fading to a black screen.