Rumours of My Demise Have Been Greatly Exaggerated

Corey Casey shook his head to clear out the cobwebs as the hired limousine sped along the roads from the airport in to the city. It had been a long flight down to Mexico and even after a comfortable trip in first class he was more than a little tired. Still, there was no time now for sleeping, he was here for one thing and he wanted to be in and out as quickly as possible.

Corey removed the scrap of paper from his pocket and unfolded it. He had paid handsomely for this information. Not that it mattered. He was hardly poor, after all, and the fee was a mere drop in the ocean for him. But it would provide quite the nest egg for his informant, as long he didn't just send it all straight up his nose or in to his veins.

"Bar Guapo," he said, turning the words over in his mind. "How very like him."
"Like who, Mr Casey?" the driver asked.
"Never you mind," Corey snapped. "I'm paying you to drive, not to eavesdrop."
"Very good, Mr Casey."

They spent the rest of the journey in silence. Corey stared out of the window and watched the city lights speed by in the dark. He wondered if this was a good idea; if the information was really genuine. If he had come all this way for nothing he would go back to LA, find that no good informant and wring his neck.


The bar was filled to the rafters with smoke. The ban on smoking in public places that had shaken the U.S. to its core hadn't made it this far down the continent yet, and several of the patrons puffed away contentedly on cigarettes, cigarillos and pipes. It was a dark and dingy place, with the lights turned down low to foster the gloom. All the patrons kept to themselves, with no one particularly interested in conversation, and only the tinny sound of a Mariachi band coming from an old radio in the corner broke the silence.

A man, likely in his mid thirties, stood behind the bar, idly polishing a glass. He was handsome, though his features were sharp and weary. His frame was that of someone who had previously been very physically fit, but had perhaps let themselves go in recent times, though he still seemed as though he could hold his own in a fight.

The whole thing seemed like a snapshot. The sort of bar that would be exactly this way whether you turned up at 5pm or 5am, as if the same regulars and same barman were trapped here in some kind of purgatory. This could be anywhere in the world.

A loud crash disturbed the equilibrium, and the barman winced as one of the saloon doors finally parted company with its hinges after being slammed unceremoniously in to the wall.

The culprit, a small scruffy boy, stood panting in the doorway. He was a local orphan kid who did odd jobs for the neighbourhood businesses in exchange for food and shelter, but he rarely seemed to use the opportunity of having somewhere to stay to also take a bath.

"What is it, Rico?" the barman asked. "You scared Senor Baco half to death."
"I'm sorry Senor Cadiz, but there's someone looking for you."
The barman' eyes widened. He placed the glass down on the bar, slung the cloth over his shoulder and leaned forward.
"Who is looking for me?" he asked.
"Some pinche huero," the kid replied. "He's been asking around for the bar, says he needs to speak with the owner. I came as soon as I heard."
"You did good, Rico, but you shouldn't swear like that," Cadiz said, walking over and ruffling the kid's hair. "Do me a favour and find him. Delay him as long as you can, feed him some false information."
He produced a couple of coins from his pocket and pressed them in to the boy's dirty palm by way of payment for the job. Rico nodded and ran out the way he came.

"OK, you filthy bastards," Cadiz said, turning to face the few who were gathered around the bar. "It's time for you to go home to your families. Drink up and fuck off." Murmurs of dissent rose from the bar's patrons, until slowly but surely they all finished their drinks and left, one by one.
"Not you, Jesé," Cadiz said to the last man who went to leave, grabbing his shoulder as he went past. "You haven't paid your bar tab in 3 months. I'm willing to 'lose' that bit of paper if you do me a little favour."

Outside two of the patrons lurked around the entrance as they finished their cigarettes.

"Why do you think Cadiz is so nervous?" one of the men asked the other.
"I heard he's in some trouble with the CIA or something."
"You think?" the first man asked sceptically.
"Don't you think it's a bit suspicious? He turned up out of nowhere a year ago and bought old man Rodriguez's bar. He never talks about his past and actively shuts people down if they ask about it. Suddenly a huero shows up out of nowhere asking questions and he gets all nervous. The whole thing stinks to me."
"Nah, the whole reason we come to this bar is to escape our pasts, maybe he's no different. The CIA wouldn't send one gringo down here by himself to pick up a mark. I bet Cadiz owes some Yankee loan shark a bunch of money and he came down here to get the heat off."
"Well," the other man said, flicking the butt of the cigarette against the wall of the bar. "Whatever it is, I hope he manages to avoid this guy. This is the only place in town I'm not barred from."

As the two men trudged off towards their respective homes they heard the sound of the bar door locking behind them, and the neon light that denoted its status flickered briefly and then went off.


"This is the place," Corey said to the driver, who brought the limousine to a halt. He felt as though he had been around the whole city twice, and he was sure there wasn't another bar left for him to visit.

It was well in to the early hours now, and Corey noted that the bar looked thoroughly closed. Still, this was the address he had managed to get out of a local store owner after being sent round the houses by that little kid. This was about the only place the scruffy boy hadn't mentioned so he figured it must be the place he was looking for.

After extracting himself from the car, Corey walked up to the door of the bar and banged on it hard. He waited a few seconds, but there was no response, so he banged again, even harder this time.

"I know you're in there," he shouted. "Open up and this will be a lot easier for you." The only response this elicited was a dog barking and a local woman who opened her shutters, shouted something at him in Spanish that sounded obscene before going back inside.

Corey prepared to knock again and raised his fist, but before he could bring it down against the iron door a bolt slid back and it opened up a crack.

"Can't you see we are closed, ese?" a voice said through the crack. Corey noted that the owner sounded nervous.
"I'm looking for the owner," Corey replied. "I'm an ...old friend of his."
"Well I'm the owner," the man replied, opening the door more so he could get a proper look at Corey. "And I haven't ever seen you before in my life." He went to slam the door, but quicker than lightning Corey got his foot in the gap.
"What's your name?" Corey demanded.
"Cadiz!" the now terrified man replied. "My name is Cadiz!"
"What's your FIRST name?"

The man cursed. He had never found out the bar man's first name. He didn't exactly invite questions, and everyone always referred to him by his surname.

"I..." he stuttered.
"That's what I thought," Corey said and shoved the door open, forcing his way inside.
"Please senor, we are closed!" Jesé protested feebly.
"Where is he?" Corey demanded.
"I don't know what you..." Jesé started, but before he could finish Corey had grabbed his lapels and slammed in to the wall.
"Listen up, you piece of shit," he growled. "I've travelled hundreds of miles and spent hours on a wild goose chase and I'm at the end of my fucking tether. Tell me where he is right now or I'll rip off your head and mail it to your family."

Wordlessly Jesé pointed towards a door at the back of the bar. Corey dropped the scrawny man and walked straight over. It was lucky that the door was unlocked, otherwise he would have torn it from its hinges.

On the other side of the door was a small office. It was just as smoky as the main bar area, but better lit. An oak desk sat in the middle of the room, and the man Corey had come all this way to find was perched on a stool behind it.

"Can I help you, senor?" the man asked.
"You're a tough man to find," Corey remarked.
"I enjoy my privacy." The man lit a cigarette and offered the pack to Corey, who shook his head.
"Cut the crap, Ruben, I know it's you."
"I'm afraid I don't know any Ruben. You must have me mistaken for someone else."
"Even without the mask on I can tell it's you. Ruben Ricardo Léon, former IWF World Heavyweight Champion, reduced to this. It's sad."
"You know as well as I do, friend, that he was killed by the drug cartels last year. The guy you're looking for...he doesn't exist anymore." Cadiz took a deep drag on his cigarette and stubbed it out in the ash tray. "Now if I were you, I'd turn around and make your way back out the way you came, unless you want to meet a similar fate." To emphasise his point, Cadiz removed a six shooter from his pocket and laid it on the desk.
"Whatever you say," Corey said, his face impassive. "Let me just leave this with you." He reached in to his jacket and pulled out a flyer, pushing it across the desk to where his former adversary sat. The man calling himself Cadiz picked it up.
"You're putting a dead guy in a match?" he snorted. "Gonna be pretty tough for him to pin anyone if he is six feet under."
"I'm flying out in 8 hours. Your name is on the bill and I'm not taking it off. It's up to you whether or not you show up. Goodbye Ruben, I hope to see you there."
"Don't let the door hit your ass on the way out..." Cadiz replied as Casey pushed through the office door. "Corey," he added, after it had closed.


Reports came in last night from Mexico City that former IWF champion Ruben Ricardo Léon has been found dead in a warehouse thought to be owned by a local drug cartel in the Ecatepec area of the city. Police are treating the death as suspicious, as Léon was found with a gunshot wound to the head

Due to the nature of the injuries suffered formal identification has proven difficult. Additionally his estranged wife, the only living person to have seen Léon without his mask on refused to fly down to Mexico City to take part in the process, citing the irreconcilable breakdown in their relationship when he had been alive.

Despite these difficulties, the body was identified by the mask and also by distinctive tattoos on the stomach and arms.

Léon, who became a Mexican national hero after winning the world title had recently fallen on hard times after the breakup of his marriage. A rumoured addiction to cocaine had led to his becoming involved with some of the larger cartels in the country, and police suspect that one of these groups may have had some involvement in the death, particularly as the wound appears to have been inflicted in an execution style.

The wrestler was most well known for cashing in a guaranteed title shot to win the IWF World Heavyweight Championship by pinning an incapacitated Corey Casey, who had just suffered an overdose of heroin. He did not make any successful defences of his belt and returned to wrestle in Mexico soon after.

Léon's legacy as Mexico's greatest professional wrestler will live on as his estate is to be split between his ex-wife and a charitable concern dedicated to helping young people gain access to the sport of lucha libre. In recognition of his status he has been afforded a state funeral by the Mexican government which will take place on Saturday at 3pm in Villahermosa, his home town.