Unfinished Business Prologue Part I: The Man That Killed Brandon Macdonald (Sort Of)

Cataclysm I, University of Phoenix Stadium, Glendale, AZ; Monday 6th June 2011

Ruben Ricardo León sat in his locker room, staring at his newly won IWF Championship title belt, that he was holding in his hands across his lap. The night's events hadn't quite processed through Ruben's mind yet. He had finally done it, finally taken that step and smashed through the glass ceiling. He had grabbed the opportunity that had been presented to him with both hands and he had won a World Championship. The first Mexican to ever do so.

But at what cost? At the cost of a human life? Was Brandon Macdonald dead, or alive? He didn't even know. As they prepared to get him stable on the trolley and safely up in to the ambulance, Ruben heard one of the EMTs shout 'He's gone, prepare the defib!' which suggested that for a time at least, he was dead. Tommy Cornell had said that Brandon didn't look as though he was breathing, and that was certainly how it had seemed to Ruben too as he looked down at his fallen opponent.

Ruben and Brandon didn't exactly get on, but he sure as hell didn't want Brandon to die! Ruben couldn't think of anyone that he would wish death on, and he hoped against all hope that the EMTs were able to bring Brandon back. He held on to the sliver of hope that, because there had been no official word from the hospital, that they were still working on him. He figured that if they had called it already, that the whole locker room would have heard by now.

Everyone was still at the arena, waiting to hear news, besides the few that had gone with Brandon in the ambulance. Some of the guys had even come and tried to reassure Ruben that it wasn't his fault, that Brandon was a heroin addict and was on a downward spiral. But Ruben felt differently. If Brandon did die, he would never be able to forgive himself for it. He would forever be a murderer in his own eyes, even if he wasn't in anyone else's. He would give up the IWF Championship, hell he'd give up his whole career if it meant that Brandon was OK.

There was a knock on the door, which snapped Ruben out of his almost trance like state. He looked up at the door.

Ruben Ricardo León: Yeah?

The door slid open slowly and one of the backstage crew came from round the door and in to the room.

Crew Member: There has been an update from the hospital, Mr León. We've been going round telling everyone.

Ruben sat bolt upright when he heard this. His attention was fully on the man stood in front of him now. He had almost forgotten that the belt in his lap existed.

Ruben Ricardo León: How is he? Is he alive?

Crew Member: For the moment, yes, they have him stabilised, but whether or not he'll make it through the night or anything beyond that remains to be seen. But for the moment, he's doing OK.

It felt to Ruben as though a sixteen ton weight had been lifted off his shoulders. For the moment, at least, Brandon was alive. Ruben hadn't really noticed it up until now, but he was exhausted. The match on top of the emotional impact of what had happened made it feel like he had aged 30 years, and right now he just needed to go home and get some rest.

He thanked the crew member and made his way slowly out of the arena. On his way through the corridors he passed a few people from the locker room and the backstage crew, and for almost all of them the look of sheer relief on their faces was palpable. Ruben nodded politely to as many as nodded to him, and graciously but quietly received congratulations from others, who all felt free to do so now that the news that Brandon wasn't dead had filtered through.

Finally, after some delay, Ruben made it to the front entrance of the University of Phoenix Stadium and walked out into the car park. It was a hot, fresh Arizona summer night, and he breathed the air in deeply, after what felt like an age cooped up in that building. His eyes darted around for the taxi rank. Ruben had never learned to drive, but even if he had, he felt that after the night's emotional and physical strains, driving to his hotel probably wouldn't have been the most sensible thing he had ever done.

As he searched, a man that Ruben had previously not noticed moved from his position, leaning up against the wall of the building and flicked his cigarette butt away. He approached Ruben from behind, and tapped him on the shoulder, which nearly made Ruben leap from his skin. He turned around clutching his chest.

Ruben Ricardo León: Madre de dios! Don't do that to me! Especially not after the night I've had.

The man, who was wearing an overcoat and a hat, which baffled Ruben in the heat of the evening, looked up. His middle aged features were a similar colour to Ruben's and he was extremely well groomed. Ruben figured him for another Mexican, or at least an American with a Latino heritage.

Man: My apologies. Allow me to introduce myself. My name is Alejandro Moreles. I am the chief talent scout for the Liga de Luchadores promotion down in Mexico. I assume you've heard of us?

Ruben Ricardo León: Well, yeah. You were the big rivals to the promotion I was in when I last wrestled south of the border.

The man smiled wryly and pulled a pack of thin cigarettes from his coat pocket. Lighting one up, he offered the pack to Ruben who declined.

Alejandro Moreles: I would like to offer congratulations on behalf of everyone at Liga de Luchadores on your victory tonight at Cataclysm. Truly you are an ambassador for lucha libre to the whole world.

Ruben could tell that the man wasn't a natural English speaker like he was, and that some of the turns of phrases he was using were a bit odd.

Ruben Ricardo León: Thanks, but it's something of a pyrrhic victory.

Ruben smiled at the confusion on the man's face, as he tried to process a phrase he'd clearly never heard before.

Ruben Ricardo León: It means the victory was tarnished. For two hours I thought I'd killed someone, tonight. Hell, I might still have. Believe me, that's a feeling you don't want to have. All the championships in the world aren't worth that, amigo.

Alejandro Moreles: I see. Well, it was still an impressive victory nonetheless. I have been watching you for some time now. Since a few months after you left Mexico, in fact. You have impressed a lot of people very high up in the business back home. This world championship is merely the cake icing.
Ruben Ricardo León: You mean the icing on the cake? Well, good, I'm glad that people back home are watching. Hopefully I will act as a role model for younger kids who believe that they can make something out of their lives too.

Alejandro Moreles: We hope that as well. All the major Mexican promotions have opened up academies for youth prospects since you became popular up here. Now that you have instilled the belief in to the people that a Mexican can win a world title, the possibilities are endless.

Ruben Ricardo León: Good. Look, I'm not being funny dude, but are you going anywhere with this? I'm exhausted and I need to get to sleep ASAP.

Alejandro Moreles: My apologies, I will get to the point. My company has authorised me to, on my discretion, come to you with an offer than could make you a very wealthy man.

Ruben looked skeptical.

Ruben Ricardo León: What, and leave IWF?

Alejandro Morele: Yes.

Ruben Ricardo León: No thanks, buddy. I'm happy here in the USA.

Alejandro Moreles: Perhaps you will reconsider when I show you this.

Moreles flicked the second cigarette butt away and reached in to the inside pocket of his coat, pulling out a slip of paper. He handed the paper to Ruben and gestured at him to open it. Ruben obliged. He looked at the paper and his eyes widened to the size of the moon.

Ruben Ricardo León: You're offering me HOW MUCH?!

Moreles smirked.

Alejandro Moreles: And that is just the basic salary. There will be bonuses and perks on top of that. Our company has made it out main goal to sign you to a contract. We figured that would be how much it would take. Especially in light of your recent...success.

Ruben stared at the paper for a few seconds, his mouth agape. Finally he screwed up the piece of paper and threw it in to a nearby trash can.

Ruben Ricardo León: No, I'm happy here in IWF. I just won the world title.

Alejandro sighed.

Alejandro Moreles: I was afraid you might say that. Think of it this way. I know you, Ruben. I know that your main drive in this business isn't to make money. It isn't even to win championships. It is to make a change. Not in your life, but in the life of others. I have seen the documentaries. I know the life you lived as an underprivileged young boy. And I know you think that wrestling got you out of that. You think you are are acting as a role model for lots of children that are in the same position as you were, that could benefit from following your example. Think how much better a job you could do of helping these kids with your example if you came back to Mexico now after winning the world title.

Ruben Ricardo León: I...I don't know.

Alejandro Moreles:Don't worry. I don't need a decision right away. Here is my card. Take some time to mull it over. I have set up a meeting with the company chairman in Mexico City 2 days from now. If you decide to come, then excellent, if not, no hard feelings and we wish you luck with the rest of your career. Also, if you have the meeting and you decide it isn't for you, then you are free to leave and come back to the IWF, no obligations. What have you got to lose?

Ruben took Alejandro's card as he walked off, lighting another cigarette in the process.

---

Twenty minutes later Ruben was back in his hotel room, still staring at the card that Moreles had handed him. Should he go for the meeting or not? He was pretty sure he didn't want to go back to Mexico, but the man had a good point. This wasn't a chance to earn money, this was a chance to change lives.

He contemplated calling Maria and asking her what she thought, but decided against it. It was late and she would be asleep. He knew what her response would be anyway, that she was happy where she was and didn't want to move to Mexico. No. It was best to keep this to himself for the moment.

But the man was right, what did he have to lose? He opened up his laptop and immediately booked a flight to Mexico City from Houston. He would be stupid not to at least check it out.

---

Ruben Ricardo León: 'The Man That Killed Dan Alexander'. Let's pause for a round of applause... Wait, that's right, there isn't going to be one. Big whoop, you killed Dan. I killed Brandon Macdonald once. You don't see me bragging about it all over the place, and that's at least twice as awesome as you killing Dan, because I killed him so hard he CAME BACK TO LIFE just so he could congratulate me on doing such a good job of killing him.

Do you really think I'm actually scared about stepping in to the ring with you? You seem to want to talk about how much better you are than me. Is that right? Well, let's have a little comparison of our careers shall we? You've crippled three men and killed another? Wow. Since I first came to NLWF over a year ago I've fought the best this business has to offer, and beaten them. I've beaten Brandon Macdonald (twice), Corey Casey, Chuck Matthews (twice), Jason Hawk (twice), oh and did I mention that I killed Brandon Macdonald and retired Chuck Matthews by PUTTING HIM THROUGH THE FUCKING ENTRANCE RAMP. As for you? You beat James Shark and Dan Alexander. Yawn.

You say that my having won the IWF Championship doesn't impress you? Are you maybe trying to hide the fact that you're so ashamed that you never won it? You won the High Impact Title? I'm so impressed. I am in the company of such legends as my Upper Limit partners Corey Casey and Brandon Macdonald, both legends of the business. You share your title history with the likes of the mighty Tyson Rowle and Sean LIBBEH. I can only dream of being named alongside such luminaries.

You think you're going to take me down, Stygian? Well, let me tell you something that might surprise you. I've beaten men better than you before, as the list above testifies, and I've beaten men bigger than you to. Actually we do have big guys in Mexico. One of the biggest wrestlers I ever fought wore a mask and called himself La Bestia. He was 7'2 and 350lbs, but he's a dwarf in comparison to Death-Angel. The 9'0, 800lb behemoth found out just what it's like to step in to the ring with someone who is moving too fast for you to see.

If you come in to this match thinking you're the biggest, scariest, bad-ass motherfucker that I've ever fought, then you're going to be in for a nasty surprise. Hell, you're not even that intimidating. Hell I beat Corey Casey and he would cut someone's face off in a heartbeat and here you are agonising about how you accidentally killed Dan Alexander.

Good job on the Mexican stereotyping, by the way. You've only basically repeated what every single other guy I've ever fought in this place has ever said about me. You'd think I'd start to get tired of it but actually it's pretty funny to hear it spouted every single week like no-one's ever said it before and it's the most original put down in the world. Fuck, you're not even the first guy to call me Ricky Ricardo. You know what? I'm actually impressed you didn't ask me where my sombrero was and ask me to sell you a pound of oranges. That must've taken some restraint. And for the record, yeah, I've banged Salma Hayek...wouldn't you?

Oh, and before I finish, it's Ruben, with one e. Not Rueben. Or would you prefer that I start calling you Steygian? Or maybe even Stegosaurus? Because let's face it, a guy your size moves about as fast as one, and all I need is for you to take a little bit too much time to drag your big lumbering carcass around then I can pounce and take advantage. Shit, you won't even see me coming.

If I could offer you one piece of advice for out match at Battle Grounds, Stygian, it's this. Looks may deceive, because big ass-kickings can come in small packages.