Tequila or cheap beer. There is nothing familiar in this arid land, the stale air, the heat, the crowd, and the macho are all different here than home. The only thing that is the same is the stench of dung from the equestrian animals. The Mongolian pointed towards the Tequila bottle, preferring the stronger of the two. Sure, he would prefer arkhi or airag, but in Rome, do what the Roman's do, or in this case, when in Mexico, do what the Luchadors do.
He squinted a moment as a dirty glass filled with the liquid put in front of him, his eye bloody from a chair shot earlier that evening. The luchadors of this exotic land land stiff blows against foreigners. A land full of xenophobia. The large man spits, blood mixed in with the saliva, a nasty metallic taste. A drop of blood drips from him face as he downs the shot. He takes a finger and wipes the blood from his brow. He glances at the other patrons staring at him in the bar. A couple were staring at him. Of course he was the only patron without a shirt on, but after his night, anything stiff was needed after the stiff blows he received.
How long has he been in this strange land? He has lost count, same with the amount of opponents he has faced in the ring. There has been some of all types, all trying to make their own name, build themselves up, become the next great Luchador to bring down the monster foreigner. Different promotions, different bookers, different managers, each unable to bring the Mongolian down with whatever booking they wanted. To be fair, none of his opponent's had the skill or experience to topple the raiding Mongolian. He fought them all. High Flyers, Submission Machines, Brawlers, Power Houses, Tag Teams, Wild Birds, he faced them all. He was forced to change promotions when as a big Heel, he refused to lose to the popular hometown heroes, and always gave his all, crushing his competition. He signaled for another shot.
To be fair, that is what he gets for joining smaller promotions. He could be on top of the world, but there was no real competition, there was no real challenge. It was like flexing his muscles, it looked good, but it proved nothing. It has been years since he was last in a federation that had a challenge, a real reason to prepare and fight his foes with all his strength, not just squash opponent after opponent. It was pathetic, maybe he was getting weak, a wolf among the sheep.
He downs the vile tasting swill, clinking the glass back down on the bar top. He glances around, noticing the bulletin board, although the style makes it look more like a bounty board. It is a place to build up interest in different events and how Chuluun continued getting himself stuck in small promotions. He blinked for a moment. That was a familiar face on that poster, and not just another visage of a masked Lucha. Before he could finish his thought, the door to the bar slammed open, whether it was just a timely response, or comedic justice, the Mongolian could already tell who it was due to the events earlier that evening. He was given another shot of tequila. He toyed with his glass as he heard the foot steps approach.
“Extranjero, caballo hombre. Bold, why do you test my patience? You were supposed to lose tonight, give the title to El Pollo Fuego. We need un luchador to reign at the top of the mountain, not un extranjero. If you wish to continue working for us, in the Great Luchador Arena, you must listen, and learn to lay down and take a pin, or we will make you stay down ese.”
The Mongolian downed the tequila shot, getting off of his stool and turning to face the short Mexican promoter. He towered over him, shaking his head slightly. “He has to conquer me if he wants that title.” He turned towards the bulletin board again, seeing Sato's face. “My contract with your pitiful promotion is over. Keep babying your roster, they are all pathetic anyways, not worth my time.” The Mongolian eyed down the shorter fat man. A couple tense seconds pass before two of the more muscular luchadors from the promotion walk into the bar, one wielding a wooden baseball bat, still covered in Chuluun's blood from earlier in the evening, and the other carrying a slightly dented steel chair. The Mongolian didn't bat an eye as he stared down the two masked men and their manager. “You want the title back? It is in the dumpster out back. Not even worth the trash covering it.” The Mongolian signals for his bill from the bartender.
The luchador with the baseball bat charged at the Mongolian. Chuluun Bold ducked neatly dodging the high swing, pummeling the man in the belly with a closed fist. The man stumbled backwards, favoring his injured stomach. The secondary luchador charged with the chair, readying a downward swing with the metal instrument. The Mongolian side stepped quickly, before laying out the smaller man with a stiff lariat, causing the chair to bounce to the other side of the room. Khan turned his attention to the other luchador before landing a strong fist to the man's face before wrapping his large hand around the luchador's throat, lifting him up and smashing him through a smaller wooden table. The other luchador got up and started to lay out into Khan's back, blow after blow, trying to rock the Mongolian.
Khan straightened up, headbutting the man in the face, shaking off the heavy blows to his back. He lifted his large foot and landed a strong kick to the man's mid-section, doubling him over. He loaded him onto his shoulders and bounced off of his feet, performing a small pop-up Mongolian Slam on the poor luchador. The Mongolian stood back up, standing tall over his two fallen opponents. He knew they weren't going to stay down long, but they weren't worth his time. He reached into his pocket, grabbed what little pesos he was paid by that federation and tossed it onto the bill, a little bit over the total. He turned his attention towards the promotion manager. His voice was clam and collected, menacing in its tone.
“As I said before. You and you promotion is nothing. Your roster is thin, untalented, weak… It was easy to conquer, there was no challenge.” The manager pulled out a small switch blade knife, springing it out as if to stab the Mongolian. Khan reacted quickly, grabbing his hand and squeezing it in the way to make him drop it. The blade fell to the ground quickly but the Mongolian kept squeezing, to send a message. He could have been more cruel, to both the luchadors and the manager, but they weren't worth the effort. If they wanted payback, it would be a different story. He kept squeezing until the manager was begging for mercy. At that point, the Mongolian let go, stepping over one of the downed Luchadors to the bulletin board, ripping the poster for U.O.W. from the wall. He heard the Manager cry out after this.
“Ese, you will never work in Mexico again! You will never be hired again, and all Luchadors will know of you, they will hunt you down and you… you will be the one conquered!” Khan looked towards the stubby man, listening to his weak threat, before he walked out of the bar. The dry air of the desert met his face once again. He glanced at the poster in his hand. The next show was quite a distance away, but it is another land meant to be conquered. The large man mounted his motorcycle, revved it up, and started to ride off into the night. He knew that the hoofs of a thousand horses would be a much better sound for the Khan's return, but a single Harley engine would have to be the harbinger of the Mongolian's return. He will return to conquer, and he will return to reign as the true Khan of UOW.