Catalina Cortes Vs. Silvio Leon

OOC: Per the word counter, this one clocks in at 3999. Good luck to Silvio, you destroyer of worlds.

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Catalina and Kit had not spoken since Chaos 100. A tournament would determine their next pair of challengers from four teams, which would complicate their defensive preparations. And they still had not addressed the leopard print elephant in the room. Marlowe did not mention Zed’s betrayal after their match with Zane King and Silvio Leon, and Catalina was in no shape to press the matter that night. But as time passed, she found herself dreading the conversation even more. Her certainty that Kit would defend his friend made her angry over a talk they had not even had, though she had no doubt she would still muster up the appropriate anger when the time came. For now, she could not distract herself with whatever mental gymnastics Kit might use to justify Zed’s actions. She was facing Silvio again, this time one-on-one, just two short weeks following their tag match.



For whatever fake bravado Catalina might tweet regarding the match, her confidence was lacking.



Accepting that challenge was stupid, Catalina, a voice echoed in her head, sounding very much like her mother’s. Catalina could not argue. Carnage’s Queen of Cosplay and the Spoopiest of the Spoopy Boys fighting on the Halloween edition of Chaos made too much sense, a tantalizing prospect for two of the company’s rising stars. But it was Silvio who made the challenge, not long after losing a tag title match to Catalina and Marlowe. There was only one reason to do that.



Silvio’s perception was second to none. Whatever miscalculations he might have made before, he needed only one more match with Catalina to correct them.



She thought about the last time she lost a match, in the first round of the Flamingo Cup, the culmination and ruination of her days as a trainee, right before she became a full time wrestler and was banished to Baltimore to redeem herself. It felt like a lifetime ago, but Catalina found failure was easy to move past once you buried it and relocated to the other side of the country. She missed the Golden State terribly, but between her exile and the pandemic, flights home were a tricky prospect. Like most young adults, she had become increasingly skilled at avoiding her family, and this would only be a quick visit so that she might probe the mind of the last person to give her an L. At the time, Catalina told herself it was a fluke. Her focus was shattered only moments before the match by an awkward encounter with her idol. Her opponent took full advantage, dispatching her with a kick in less than ten seconds. Catalina would later adapt(or perhaps steal) that same move, rebranding it as the Blaze Kick in an attempt to take ownership of something once used to destroy her. It was, what some might call, a dick move.



But she hoped the rechristened Lucy Lennon would not hold that against her. At one point Catalina was the brightest star of the Flamingo Academy, but Lucy stole that spot from her, winning the Flamingo Cup and cementing herself as a red hot rookie prospect in the bustling SoCal wrestling scene. Though she was not one to hold grudges, Catalina spent her entire flight from Baltimore to Los Angeles reaffirming her vow to hate Lucy Lennon forever. That feeling only intensified when Lucy picked Catalina up at the curb of LAX in a Tesla. Lucy was initially standoffish about the two of them catching up on their careers and personal lives and what exact mental preparations she went through before she did the unthinkable and defeated Catalina Cortes. After Catalina promised $1000 siphoned from Matt Knox’s Paypal, Lucy was more receptive. The Tesla made Catalina wonder how much might be left before Knox changed his password or contacted the authorities like a crybaby.



Catalina took her first breath of California air in months, recalling that her home state had the kind of air one could actually taste. Lucy emerged from the Tesla’s driver’s side, staring through mirrored sunglasses that took up half of her face. “Devil spawn,” she drawled, already sounding bored.



“Hey, Luce,” Catalina said, hopping in the passenger seat and stowing her checkerboard backpack behind her seat. She tried her best to smile, but could feel that it was more of a grimace betraying her true feelings about Lucy. The feeling was clearly mutual, but Catalina steeled herself, determined to hide behind pleasantries. “How you been?”



Lucy looked at her again, still bored, then pulled away from the curb and into the roundabout of airport traffic. “Care to ask how the weather is? I recall you being better at meaningless smalltalk.”



Her defeat by Lucy Lennon was Catalina’s last match at the Flamingo Academy. Before that, she was going by Lucy Lightspeed and Catalina defeated her every time they wrestled. Lucy’s lone victory was the exclamation point at the end of their otherwise one sided rivalry. Months of spite now overwhelmed Catalina. “Bitch, I’m being polite. I thought we could get over our bullshit and start fresh. Or I could give you money and we’ll pretend we like each other.”



“Remember when you put chili powder in my astronaut helmet?” Lucy asked.



Catalina remembered. In the days of Lucy Lightspeed, the helmet was part of her entrance attire. She could barely see in it, but so long as she walked straight to the ring, it wasn’t a problem. She managed to make it to ringside before the powder kicked in, but when she finally removed the helmet her face was a mess of snot and tears, her body wracked with coughs and sneezes that left her in no shape to compete. Naturally, her opponent for that match was Catalina. Cat couldn’t help but chortle. “Oh yeah. Classic me.”



Lucy seemed prepared for Catalina’s reaction, deftly countering it. “You always thought everyone hated you because you were better than them, but we really hated you because you’re an awful person.”



Catalina had no counterattack of her own, instead staring sullenly out the window at miles upon miles of California highway. “Let’s get In-N-Out,” she mumbled.







In Baltimore people would ask Catalina if In-N-Out was as delicious as the legends foretold. To her undying shame as a born and bred Californian, she couldn’t quite remember. Biting into her first Animal Style burger in nearly a year, she was disappointed to recall that it was just fine. Lucy didn’t bother eating, opting instead to drive to their next destination while giving Catalina disgusted glances that made the silence even worse. It was the first time Catalina realized just how loudly she chewed.



Catalina had her suspicions about the evolution of Lucy Lightspeed to Lucy Lennon, assuming it was related to psychedelic drugs, transcendental meditation, or just on-point rebranding. When Lucy finally led her to a building decorated with a sign reading FLOAT-NATION - FLOATATION TANKS. “Float-Nation. I get it.” Catalina said miserably. “You’re messing with me right?”



“Not a bit,” Lucy said, giving Catalina another bored side glance. “The secret to my… recreation lies inside.”



“Right,” said Catalina, taking in the location. “It’s in a suite in Pasadena between a Pollo Bucket and a… Hey, Jamba Juice. So this is really it? How you leveled up from total loser to mildly successful?”



Lucy finally seemed amused. “This is where I stopped being Lucy Lightspeed, the butt of so many of your sad little jokes, and I became something… more.”



“Something more sounds great,” Catalina said. “Sign me up.”



The logistics of the floatation were handled by Lucy, though Catalina repeatedly questioned the employees about how often the water was changed out. Whatever happened against Silvio Leon, lying in covid soup for an hour and flying back to Baltimore to infect Johnny Vegas would not be good for her career in the long run. Once her curiosity was satisfied, the two were led to their respective tanks. “Try not to freak out,” Lucy said, her calm voice hiding a hint of amusement, implying that she totally expected Cat to freak out.



Cat was determined not to, but as she floated in the salt water, in silence and darkness, one thought occurred to her over and over. FUCK THIS SHIT, FUCK THIS SHIT, FUCKTHISSHIT!



Then she heard Lucy sigh with disappointment. “You’re freaking out,” she said. “How often did you call me, what was it, a goober? Now it would appear to be YOU who is the goober.” Her amused chuckle echoed around Catalina, coming from everywhere and nowhere.



Cat tried to retort, but the words caught ineffectually in her throat. “What’s happening?”



Translucent and ghostly, Lucy Lennon floated in front of Catalina in the endless dark, her arms crossed in bored frustration. “Astral projection, Cat,” she said. “Ever heard of it?”



“Full disclosure,” Cat admitted. “I thought we were just gonna do shrooms or something and they were gonna make me a better wrestler.”



“I suspect you lack the capacity to expand your consciousness as omnidirectionally as I have,” Lucy continued. Catalina knew it was an insult, but she would save her retaliation for when they weren’t floating in the ether. “But I’m willing to give you a crash course in exposing your mind to at least one other plane of existence. Anymore would probably kill you.”



Catalina tried to nod, but the act sent her tumbling through the void, with Lucy’s form spinning in front of her. “Yeah, if one plane is enough to beat Silvio then one sounds good.”



Lucy’s translucent hand grabbed Catalina and the spinning stopped. She looked down to see her own ghostly form and let out a squeak of astonishment. “Ugh, newbies,” Lucy said, her voice echoing again, as they flew through the unending black space and found themselves on solid ground, or at least what felt like solid ground. Catalina looked around to see that they were on a rocky, sandy chunk of land, floating freely from the earth, surrounded on all sides by dusky sky. A city of burned, ruined buildings lay before them, a charred sign reading SANTA POCO swung from creaking chains, the only sound. “Do keep in mind,” Lucy said, as she led Catalina through the town. “This is just a manifestation of someone else’s memory of Santa Poco. I could elaborate on how humanity’s collective consciousness is capable of making all manner of heavens and hells and everything in between a reality, but if I did, your own brain would burst through your skull and fly screaming from your body.”



“Yeah, definitely don’t want a flying, screamy brain,” Cat said. “Now what?”



“You’re wondering how I, as you so crudely put it, leveled up,” Lucy began, holding up her index and pointer fingers together. “It’s best if I show you.” She jabbed the fingers down her throat, gagging and retching, to Cat’s horror. The awful sound continued until the mouth of Lucy’s astral form contorted to monstrous proportions, belching forth another translucent human form that landed at Catalina’s feet. It stood slowly, dripping with ethereal saliva and stomach bile, the face wearing mirrored glasses similar to Lucy’s, though it sported a mustache and unkempt hair. “Catalina Cortes, meet John Lennon.”



John Lennon’s astral form dusted itself off, looking from Catalina to Lucy with stunned disbelief. “I’m out!” he proclaimed in a Liverpudlian accent. “Oh, pleasure to meet you,” he added, before shoving past Catalina and making a break for it. Lucy was unphased, as if she had dealt with this problem before. Her tongue shot frog-like from her mouth, wrapping around the legendary musician, dragging him screaming back to her waiting maw.



Catalina watched the scene in stunned horror, desperate to flee back to her body and burst from the floatation tank, back to the safety of Baltimore, after maybe stopping to pick up a Jamba Juice. “Lucy,” Cat squeaked. “Did you just eat John Lennon?”



“Basically,” Lucy said, wiping her mouth with an astral napkin that appeared from nowhere. “More accurately, I consumed his astral form. Among others. Oh, dammit. Again, Niccolò?”



Niccolò Machiavelli swam through the air, hoping his escape was more successful than the deceased Beatle. “Oh, hey,” Catalina said, at the sight of the Italian diplomat and political theorist. “You’re from the sixteenth century, right? My friend’s from then. Do you know Christopher Marlowe?”



Before Macchiavelli could answer, Lucy’s monstrous tongue struck once more, dragging him back. “Listen,” he pleaded, hands wrapped desperately around his neck. “Could you please just explain to the world that The Prince was supposed to be interpreted ironically?”



“Nobody cares, Nick,” Lucy said coldly, as Machiavelli was consumed once again. She looked at Catalina with a shrug, eerily reminiscent of Silvio Leon. As if her extranormal abilities were no different than having a devastating smile. “So that’s it. I projected my astral form and consumed history’s most brilliant minds. Artists, generals, , warriors, politicians, et cetera. I went with Lucy Lennon for the alliteration and the Beatles-theming. You’re Only Sleeping is such a good name for a finishing move.”



Catalina nodded. “Yeah, it’s not bad,” she admitted. “You’re not going to eat me, are you?”



Again, Lucy Lennon was amused. This time, she let out an unnerving laugh. “Silly Catalina. Of course not. You’re a crumb among feasts. I brought you here so you can try my method for, ‘leveling up’ and see if it suits you. Catalina Cortes, allow me to present to you the most reviled, cruel, duplicitous luchador to ever come out of Mexico. The holy devil himself: Santo Diablo!” With a theatrical flourish, she motioned to a burned out bar where a lone form sat on a charred stool, clutching a glass next to a bottle of tequila, the liquid swirling about inside, free from the restraints of earthly gravity.



Santo Diablo looked back to the two of them and raised a glass. Even hunched over the bar, he was clearly barrel-chested and broad shouldered, physical traits that seemed to have disappeared from the Cortes genepool. He wore an immaculate black suit, with a black shirt and red tie underneath. His mask was that same red, with a thorny black halo circling around the top. After his greeting, he turned his back to them, pouring another drink. “A pleasure, Catalina,” he said, voice echoing in the honed timbre of a practiced public speaker. “Welcome to Santa Poco. Or whatever hell this is. I only come here for the tequila.”



“Santa Poco,” Catalina repeated. “That’s where you lost a Loser Leaves Town Match, so you burned the town down. Bro, that was legendary.”



Santo Diablo sighed. “I was washing my robe after the match, and the dryer caught fire.” He took another drink. “A terrible accident, but one I used to further my name. It was theater, and I lost myself to the act. The people needed to know that good could triumph over evil, and so I became that evil. All so that I could be vanquished, to the joy of the cheering crowd. That is what I sacrificed my life for. To be their villain. The object of their hatred. And now, here I sit, forgotten in these sad ruins.”



Catalina approached him, offering a consoling pat after hearing the story. Perhaps the tales she heard of the villainous Santo Diablo were exaggerated. Or not even true at all. Before her sat the astral form of a man who was broken and miserable, alone in the abyss, regardless of whatever legacy he might have back on earth. “Um,” Catalina started, not sure how to ask the question that she was dying to know the answer to. “Is it true that one time you tore a guy’s mask off, pooped in it, and then put it back on the guy?”



One of Santo Diablo’s hands closed around her wrist, then he turned with horrifying quickness and wrapped the other around her neck. Santo Diablo’s form changed, the suit expanding to fit his now demonic form, claws springing from his fingertips, the halo of his mask turning to a ring of hellfire. “I expected better,” he growled. “Did you honestly believe my sad little story, you stupid child? You thought you could consume me like I am nothing more than one of your DoorDash pizzas. Yes, I can see into your pitiful mind, Catalina. Perhaps I’ll take your body for my own and return to the living world. I obviously can’t trust my own progeny to carry on the legacy of Santo Diablo.” His hand tightened around Catalina’s neck, claws digging in, burning with unholy fire. “But before I do that, by all means, plead for mercy. It’s been so long since I have heard the desperate cries of the dying and I do so miss them.”



Catalina fought to pry the hand loose, as she gazed into the snarling face of her great-grandfather, his eyes turning to black pits, his teeth sharpening into razor sharp fangs. “Honestly,” she forced out, desperate to breathe, though she could not be sure if she even needed to on this plane of existence. She dug her fingers into her left wrist, trying to reach through the ether. “Right now I’m thinking FUCK the legacy of Santo Diablo.” To Cat’s surprise, she wrapped her right hand around the tattoo on her left wrist, pulling the quill free. She drove it into the eye of Santo Diablo, forcing him to release her, as he shrieked in pain.



“You may want to move,” Lucy said. Following Santo Diablo’s transformation she had seemingly belched forth Nikola Tesla, who piloted a towering mechanical suit, with miniguns for arms and shoulder-mounted missile launchers. It let loose with its noncorporeal payload, ripping through Santo Diablo with bullets and explosions, tearing the villainous luchador’s spirit to shreds.



Thomas Edison cowered behind one of the suit’s legs, cheering the destruction. “Great job, Tesla. Glad I could help.” The remnants of Santo Diablo flew from the burned bar, a tornado of fire and malice, shrieking promises of revenge that echoed all around them. The quill reappeared in Catalina’s hand, and she stuck it back into her wrist, where it became a tattoo once more. She felt like she owed Silvio one, though that could wait. Devouring the famed inventors once more, Lucy approached Catalina, as the sound of an alarm pierced through the void, on their tiny floating island and its burned village. Lucy took her hand and they launched back into a sea of nothing, until Catalina found herself splashing in the floatation tank once again. The alarm continued to sound. Her hour was up.



Following a shower to remove the salty brine from her body, Catalina met Lucy in the hallway outside. “That was supposed to go differently,” Lucy said, her tone surprisingly apologetic.



Catalina nodded. “I kinda figured. I’m sure absorbing my great-grandpa’s demon luchador powers would be great and all, but I think I’m done with the occult. I’m just gonna take this as a lesson on believing in myself or some bullshit.”



“That’s fair,” Lucy agreed.



When they stepped back onto the Pasadena sidewalk, Catalina only had one thing in mind. “Jamba Juice? Matt Knox is buying.”







Spooky but economical red lights transformed Catalina’s apartment into a studio hellscape, the greenscreen background adding unholy fire for infernal ambience, as stock screams and moans echoed in the background, the stuff of any decent destination for trick ‘r’ treaters, pandemic bedamned. The lucha princess sat on a pentagram rug in the center of the room, a hooded red cloak over her wrestling attire, as she delicately carved a pumpkin that sat in her lap. She looked up from her work, a carefully placed flashlight in front of her illuminating her face in the fashion of any decent teller of scary stories. A wicked smile crept across her face.



“Halloween is my favorite holiday,” she said, a tinge of glee in her voice betraying the sinister set dressing. “It’s a bit disappointing that the Halloween edition of Chaos won’t be a supershow, but I have every intention of elevating it to hellish heights for the sake of all the little boys and ghouls of the Legion. And it couldn’t be more appropriate that I will be facing the most low key terrifying opponent in Carnage Wrestling. Wrestling monsters can be so over the top, but our dear Silvio Leon doesn’t waste time with B-movie theatrics and promos in front of corpse piles. I mean, where would you even get a corpse pile?”



She poked at the pumpkin with her carving night, working delicately to carve out the design. “Silvio is spookier with a deck of cards and a cutting smile than most wrestlers would be if they cut a promo next to your Nana’s severed head. But he’s just so darn polite about it, that people are too dumb to notice. We’re so used to the scary wrestlers screaming look at me I am the spoopiest spoopy boy how are you not spooped, and in 2020 that shit is yawn inducing. I had a feeling about you, Silvio. It was the first time we ever met in your tattoo shop, and my gut said, I have got this motherfucker. He doesn’t see through me. He doesn’t know I’m scouting him. And one day, I’m going to beat this guy, because I’m the sneakiest sneak.”



Thumping away a piece of pumpkin, she continued. “But you saw through me, Silvio. In all my arrogance, I was too dumb to notice. Then I got in the ring with you and saw what you could really do. As fast as me, maybe faster. Mentally one step ahead in a way that seemed, dare I say it, supernatural. A smiling shadow, but perhaps I’m trying to flatter myself. If you’re the darkness, then I must be the light. Am I just pretending I’m some warrior of hope courageously staring down the face of true chaos that everyone else is too blind to see? Your cards told you all about me. Even things I haven’t come to terms with, yet. You get me in a way that nobody else gets me. But no matter how hilarious and charismatic I am and no matter how handsome and very handsome, and all right, so fucking handsome you are, this isn’t a rom-com. No awkward meet-cute, no muddled breakup where you go back to your cards and my Twitch channel just isn't t he same, and no reconciliation followed by a dream wedding on top of Mount Rushmore, where we unveil that the creepy Anglo faces have been replaced with our own, but there’s three of me and one of you, because Oh, that Catalina.”



She winced, snatching her left hand away from the pumpkin, before her carving continued. “But no, that’s not in the cards. I’m sure they already told you that you’re going to destroy me if I don’t destroy you first. Of course, they also told you how to destroy me. Of that I have no doubt. When I called you the best wrestler in Carnage, it wasn’t just because you were that good. It was because you made me feel things. Even next to Zane King, who might actually eat people, you are terrifying. You’re scary and I love it, because if I can fight through that fear against Silvio Leon and win? Then maybe I’m the best wrestler in Carnage. Maybe I deserve to be undefeated. And maybe 2021 is gonna be the year of the Cat.”



Her carving completed, Catalina removed the top of the pumpkin, placing a candle within. “Not gonna lie, I would kill for a deck of magic cards right now. But I suppose that’s the fun of it. Trick or treat, Silvio.”



The candlelight danced across Catalina’s face as she gave the camera one last smile. As she presented her jack o’lantern, the candle inside illuminated the carving of CATALINA CORTES, along with a dash of blood beneath the S.