Silvio Leon Vs. Catalina Cortes

“Stop being a baby and punch your pregnant wife.”



Dani Cortes saw no reason why an eight month baby bump should be a deterrent to a marital sparring session. Javier Cortes disagreed. “Could we not?” He backed away, toward the patio of their newly purchased Pasadena home.



Even at dusk the November air was hot, but Dani was a walking coldspot. “It’s a ritual, dear. I would think someone from a family of devil-worshipping luchadors could appreciate that.”



Javier pinched the bridge of his nose. “We don’t worship the devil. It’s just part of the schtick.” Growing up in a Satan-schticking lucha libre family left Javier eager to ease into some semblance of normalcy following his marriage. Who Wants To Be a Millionaire called out to him from the living room. Perhaps in a few years they could incorporate family dinners and movie nights and little league. Anything was better than meeting his wife in the backyard for weekly Mortal Kombat.


Carrying twins did little to slow Dani. As she advanced, their relationship flashed before Javier’s eyes. The conversations about her job, her evasiveness, something about a centuries old ninja clan embracing multiculturalism while expanding further into corporate sectors. Women, he would often chuckle to himself. This time the chuckle was cut short when his wife pressed her index and middle fingers to his forehead, her eyes piercing his like icicles. A moment later, searing pain brought him to his knees. It felt like the worst ice cream headache he ever had. His scream tour through their idyllic suburban neighborhood. Birds flew from the trees, dogs barked, a neighbor boy crashed his bike.



“There,” said Dani, catching her breath. She made the ice-karate look effortless, but it still took a toll. “You’ve been bested. Our children are winners and they’re still in the womb.” She let her husband writhe for another moment. When he didn’t speak up, she continued. “I settled on Leonardo.”



Javier thought he would bite through his own teeth, but slowly the pain dulled and he could open his eyes again. They spent months arguing over names for their twins, before finally reaching an agreement. Dani would name their son, while Javier named their daughter. His senses returning, he blinked tears out of his eyes. “DiCaprio or da Vinci?”



“Da turtle,” Dani said. It may have been a joke. As a rule, Dani only ever laughed when she wanted to unnerve and to menace. “Katanas, stoicism, blue. He was always my favorite.”



The blinding pain reduced to an ache, Javier stumbled back to his feet. “Leonardo isn’t anybody’s favorite. I was thinking Catalina.”



It was Dani’s turn to wince. “Where she was conceived? When she acts out as a teenager, we can tell her that and watch her vomit.”



“I just thought it sounded nice,” said Javier, fighting back his own desire to vomit. “But now that you mention it, if I thought about my parents… making me. And I knew they named me after the place where they did, I think I’d wake up every night screaming and that would keep happening until the day I died.”



A humorless chuckle escaped Dani’s throat. “I rather like Catalina. Let’s stick with it.”



“My favorite was Raphael,” said Javier, trying delicately to broach the subject of naming their son after his least favorite turtle. A glare from Dani told him that the conversation was over. Still, he wanted to get another shot in before their sparring session ended. “Do you ever think you’re too controlling?"


Dani shrugged. “I’ll reign it in after they’re born. Wouldn’t want them to get a complex.”





“That’s what you get for picking Chimchar, stupid.”



Catalina’s words echoed from the living room. In the kitchen, Dani stopped chopping celery to exchange a look with her husband. Javier stopped mixing his locally famous Greek salad, placing the bowl back on the counter, then went to stop his children from berating each other. Theoretically, at least. In practice, it was always Catalina doing the berating. It was a psychological edge rapidly spreading through all their activities, but it started with video games.



From what Dani understood of Pokemon, there was a thing called type advantages(something to do with a penguin beating a monkey). Catalina had a talent for using them against her brother. But her skill wasn’t limited to Pokemon.



Last week it was, “That’s what you get for picking Toad, stupid.” A trio of red turtle shells cost a mushroom-headed little boy a go-kart race. Apparently Catalina’s green dinosaur didn’t have to hit a single opponent with all three, but she did so solely out of spite.



A month before it was, “That’s what you get for picking Luigi, stupid.” A blonde woman in a bodysuit used a laser to blast an Italian man off the edge of a besieged castle. He disappeared in an explosion and again Catalina was the victor. Over and over. Tears, fights and broken controllers followed.



A realization struck Dani’s brain, like a particularly nasty ice cream headache. She stabbed her knife into the cutting board and cursed while her family argued in the next room.



“She’s got a complex.”





“I know what you’re going to tell me,” Catalina said, leaning over the ring ropes of the Flamingo Academy’s center ring. She insisted on using that one when she practiced. It only made sense that the school’s best student should be the focal point during training. “Great job, Cat. Perfect springboard. Then you would clap. You can still say it and still clap. I’ll act surprised.”



Don Flamingo’s shoulders slumped. He asked Catalina to stay behind following class to address issues outside of her agility, and the notion exhausted him. Whether she was training, talking or merely existing, Catalina seemed utterly inexhaustible. There were a handful of students left, either chatting or changing. Flamingo hoped to have the conversation away from prying ears, but everyone was aware of the issue. Everyone except for Catalina. “It’s about your attitude.”



“Dude,” Catalina groaned. Like everything else, she could switch from pompous prodigy to petulant brat with inhuman quickness. “Not this again. You asked me to be nicer, I’ve been nicer. While you were wasting time with dropkicks, I showed everyone how to do a springboard four-fifty. See? I’m helping.” That evening Cat flawlessly hit the move upwards of twenty times onto a crashpad in the center ring, while her classmates looked on. When class was over, her training partners left with zero ring time.



“You showed everyone that you can do a springboard four-fifty,” Don Flamingo said, his mustache twitching. “There’s a difference.” It was true that she dominated the ring for the sake of her demonstration. But even if her classmates weren’t participating, they were still watching and learning. Nothing made a person want to learn more than sheer, jaw-dropping awe.



Cat shrugged, then dropped cross-legged to the canvas. Their eyes met through the ropes. “Right now you have twelve students. How many of them have a real chance at being future world champions?” She held up a single finger, then pointed to herself. “Quality over quantity, dude. Trying to get them on my level is a waste of time.”



“I’m teaching them to do the best with what they have,” Don Flamingo said. “Not everyone’s born into a famous wrestling family.”



“Was that a dig?” she asked. Cat’s temper and competitive streak were hopelessly intertwined. Any semblance of a challenge, particularly one she couldn’t dominate, was enough to stoke her anger. “I could go train at the Temple if I wanted to. They’d treat me like royalty.” Templo del Diablo was built in tribute to Catalina’s great-grandfather. Santo Diablo was a legend of lucha libre villainy. Any descendant of his would be welcomed into the Temple with open arms. The Flamingo Academy had a single world champion to its credit, and was not shy about advertising that fact. Moxie posters were all over, commemorating the triumphs of Don Flamingo’s greatest student. His students were all fans to some degree, but Cat tried to downplay her obsessiveness for fear of seeming uncool. There was a very particular reason she did not want to train at the premiere school for rudos and chose a glorified gym instead. Hero worship.



Some of the trainees only signed up under the assumption they would meet their idol, but those were the ones that quickly washed out. Moxie’s appearances were sporadic to the point of nonexistence, but her most rabid devotees kept training, eagerly awaiting the moment they could showcase their skills to wrestling’s High Priestess of Punk when she finally graced them with her presence. Catalina was determined to impress, but in the meantime, she was being utterly insufferable. “I’m gonna treat you like one of my students,” said Don Flamingo. “As long as you’re one of my students.”



The alternative didn’t need to be said. Catalina could leave if she wanted to. “That would be a huge loss for you,” she said, trying to wrest back control of the argument.



“You too,” Don Flamingo said. “We’ve having a tournament in December. The first annual Flamingo Cup. If you’re still around, you’ll be in it. And you’ll get to meet her.”



Cat’s biggest gripe about wrestling school was that it wasn’t officially a competition. Even if she was the best student by a mile, there were no official honors, no title belts, no trophies. The satisfaction of showing off could only sustain her ego for long. She needed something tangible. Something she could win. In a tournament, her classmates had no hope. They might make marginable improvements between now and the Flamingo Cup, but that would give Cat just as much time to scout their weaknesses. She would have no trouble defeating all of them, and she would do it in front of her idol. When she finally met Moxie, it would be as equals. Appropriately, she was a Saggitarius, because the Flamingo Cup would be Christmas and her birthday all rolled into one. “You realize nobody here can beat me, right?” Catalina asked, popping back to her feet like a lightning bolt. “I’m going to wreck this shit.”



“Great,” said Don Flamingo. “In the meantime, learn to share the ring and try to be more considerate. Winning isn’t everything.”



Catalina laughed, receiving a dirty look in return from her trainer. The laughter cut off with a cough. “Wait, were you being serious?”





“Well,” said Dani Cortes. “That was a spectacular failure.”



The night of the Flamingo Cup came back to Cataline in flashes. She remembered putting her gear on; it was ice-themed on one side, fire on the other. She remembered running into Moxie in the hallway, a few minutes before her opening match to kick off the tournament. The specifics of the exchange eluded her. In her memory, Cat floated disembodied through the ether, watching in abject horror as she fan-girled and squealed and fawned over her hero, while Moxie dismissed her like some lost child. She recalled seizing Moxie in a vice-like, unreciprocated hug. Embarrassment was an understatement. And then finally, Cat released Moxie so that she could make her entrance. That was when it happened. The words still echoed in her ears.



“I’m totally rooting for you, Catrina.”



It wasn’t just the name. It was the tone. Catalina Cortes, pride of the Flamingo Academy, lucha libre royalty, was utterly brushed off. But at least it was a private humiliation. Her subsequent loss to Lucy Lennon, specifically a tornado roundhouse in the first ten seconds, was a public one. Cat was already numb at that point. She didn’t feel the sting of the loss as it happened. But now she was left to deal with the consequences. Specifically, her family’s response to her first great failure. As her father put it, her family advantages had been revoked. When she begged them to let her train at the Academy instead of the Temple, their permission came with certain expectations. Regardless of her success as a student, Cat’s loss demanded penance. She was given a week to decide how she would restore her place. Don Flamingo suggested Baltimore. Now she was left on the couch in the Cortes living room, where she spent so many years being a winner. Dani and Javier stood before her, like towers of disappointment.



“It’s cool,” Catalina said, knowing it wasn’t. “Flamingo got me a spot in Carnage Wrestling. In Baltimore.”



“Garbage wrestling,” said Javier, mouth twisting in disgust.



Dani’s eyes never left Catalina. “The city’s suitably dreary, but we’re not sending you there to jump on thumbtacks and get thrown into barbed wire.”



Cat shifted into saleswoman mode. Carnage was her only option, but the prospect of escaping her parents’ oppressive gaze actually gave it some allure. “That’s one division. The roster’s got plenty of actual wrestlers and the world champ’s like eighty. Gimme six months and I’ll run the place.”



Her parents exchanged a glance, but she could tell they didn’t want to argue. They wanted her to present a solution. “We expect you to focus,” Javier said. “You’re there to win matches.”



“No screwing around, Catalina,” Dani said, in her best knock-that-shit-off tone. “Don’t think for one second we’re exiling you to Baltimore so you can goof off and play video games.”



Cat nodded along. “One-hundred percent. No video games, no goofing, no human connection of any kind. Totally.”



“I’m booking your flight right now, you little shit,” said Dani, yanking her phone from her purse.



Bounding from the couch, Cat sped off to her room. “Hold up, I gotta pack my Switch,” she mumbled to herself. Before her parents could object, she screamed back, “I SAID TOOTHBRUSH!”





Her Eeveelution hoodie collection left in the closet, Cat arrived at Fort McHenry as incognito as possible for a world title challenger. She hid her hair under a purple Batgirl hat, combined with a limited edition Zed Hotley’s Kit-Kat Connection hoodie, a piece of merchandise no person would possibly wear. Speedwalking and keeping her head down allowed her to navigate through most of the Legion members on her way into the arena, only having to pause for a few quick selfies and autographs, then dashing off. She was afraid to get a read on the crowd. Nausea hit whenever she considered whether they would side with her or Silvio, so she did everything she could to push those thoughts from her mind. Earbuds and Spotify were her best natural defense, but they had a type disadvantage against anyone willing to yank an earbud from someone’s ear. Catalina made a mental note to finally splurge on some wireless ones after Act of Defiance.



The earbud puller was familiar, though it took Cat a few seconds to file search her brain. Last time they met was before Redemption, when Marlowe recruited a tween fan(or urchin) to wear a CATALINA CORTES IS MY FAVORITE WRESTLER shirt, as a way of motivating her. To prevent any investigation on Cat’s part, little Amy said she was dying from Covid-20. With the lightest of research, Cat was able to expose the scam, though she appreciated the effort. Unfortunately, Amy was less of a Catalina Cortes fan than she pretended, as her shirt was emblazoned with the Avenger. At least it wasn’t Silvio Leon.



“Sup, Cat?” said Amy.



Being disrespectful herself, Cat wasn’t sure if Amy should’ve been more respectful when speaking to an adult. Cat was so rarely the grownup in situations, that she was unclear on the rules. “Hey, Amy. Here to cheer me on?” Cat forced a smile meant to show she was kidding and didn’t actually want an answer to the question, despite the fact that she very much did.



“Not really,” said Amy, shrugging. “Got the tickets for Christmas when Adrienne Levi was still working here. But good luck, I guess.”



“Thanks,” said Cat, desperately peering through the crowd, hoping to get some count on how many Catalina Cortes shirts were in attendance. It was an attempt to reassure herself, but as her brain did the work, her mouth betrayed her. “I’m sure there are plenty of people cheering for me. But really, the important thing is that I’m cheering for myself.”



Amy blinked at her. “What?”



Cat blinked back, abandoning her count, hoping she still might have a chance of coming across as a respectable authority figure. “Amy, as you mature you’re gonna learn that external validation isn’t as important as internal validation. You have to love yourself first.”



“My mom’s a psychiatrist,” Amy said.



Cat nodded. “So you know all this stuff already.”



“Even if she wasn’t,” Amy continued. “That’s pretty basic.”



“Right,” Cat said, fumbling to get her earbud back in. “Your generation is more attuned to the importance of mental health.”



There was a pity in Amy’s eyes, but also a competitive indignation that Cat both identified with and despised. “No, I think you’re just overly impressed with yourself for coming to a realization about something that’s pretty obvious.”



The earbud was back in, and Cat was eager to drown the fan out and everything else out. “Gotta go, big match, also just remembered I hate children.”




The promotional backdrop was minimalistic, limited entirely to a white backdrop with CATALINA CORTES embellished in black. There were no artist renderings, no fancy fonts, not even a cat face in place of the O. Catalina’s wardrobe was similarly minimal. Her jeans were naturally torn at the knees, her hair was up in a bleach blonde ponytail, and her black t-shirt read simply HI I’M CAT.



“Check it out, I’m Catalina Cortes: Real person.”



She laughed nervously, her voice shifting into promo mode with a performative casualness, a turn from Cat’s usual false bravado.



“The first time I beat Silvio Leon, I made the mistake of saying I got lucky. Not accurate, he called me out, he was right. Circumstances being what they were, I pinned him in a tag match that was straight chaos, made more chaotic by the presence of Zane King and a betrayal by Zed Hotley. Christopher Marlowe put Silvio down with my move. I got the pin. We got the W. And I’m still the only person to get one on Silvio. Pretty cool.”



Cat gave a double thumbs-up.



“Then, here’s the too-long didn’t-read version, one show later Silvio pinned me and now we’re one-and-one against each other. Different circumstances, sure, but we really got a two-sides-of-the-same-count, both-destined-to-kill-each-other thing going on here. Before we get to our inevitable murder fight, we have to have a normal wrestling match at Act of Defiance. At least, as normal a match as a spoopy-boi future-seer and a Twitch-trash cosplay queen can have, for the Carnage World Championship. If the Legion wants to change it up for 2021, then here we fucking go.”


She pulled the camera in closer in an effort to create a phone-blog vibe.



“Much as I want to accuse Silvio of being eaten alive by my big win, I’m not a silly-billy. It took him two weeks to bounce back and even us up. This time he’s had months to feel his feelings and he even came into the possession of the big belt in the meantime. He wouldn’t have it if he didn’t know how to keep his head in the game, which presents a problem for someone like me, who likes to throw her opponents off by being an annoying little shit. Silvio is the last person in Carnage who would make the mistake of taking me lightly. All the cosplays and Twitch streams and silly tweets in the world won’t do it. He doesn’t need Future Sight to foresee that I’m a killer and I will put a knee to his face the first chance I get. The trial period on anyone thinking I’m a goober is officially over.”



Her eyes dart off-camera, following a halfhearted raspberry blown with ungooberlike poise.



“This is gonna sound dry coming from me, but if I win, I win because I’m better. Maybe not all the time, but at least at Act of Defiance, against Silvio Leon, when the title’s on the line. Over Christmas he had plenty of time to get over the new-belt euphoria and realize a title reign looks a lot better when you start racking up successful defenses. Hey, remember when me and Marlowe kept doing that with the tag belts? Pretty cool. Wow, even completely serious, I’m still extremely funny. How am I this good at everything?”



Her tone turning to a conspiratorial whisper, Cat leaned closer to the camera, confiding in it.



“I’ll let you in on my plan, because it’s a very good one. Silvio Leon is the Carnage World Champion and he is ready for me. There’s nothing I can throw at him that his mental magic-eight-ball won’t see coming. The tricksy Hobbit knows I’m here for his precious and I will plancha straight into Mount fucking Doom if I gotta. So I got no surprises. I’m just gonna hit everything I can think of until one of us is down. Nothing but pure, uncut Catalina Cortes. Best wrestler in the world?”



Catalina shook her head.



“Probably not. Best in Baltimore?”



Her usual informality returned, her face fighting off a smile.



“Yep.”





A handful of fans in Fort McHenry gave Dani Cortes double-takes when they saw her. There was a resemblance, but the hair and height and dimensions were all wrong for her to be Catalina. The fact that she wore her daughter’s Glaceon hoodie made the confusion more understandable. It was Cat’s least favorite Eeveelution and the one she had no qualms about abandoning in California.



Her son and husband back in Pasadena, Dani made excuses about a last minute work trip(ninja corporations kept unusual hours) and disappeared for the weekend. Javier and Leo would no doubt be watching Catalina’s World Title match at home, rooting her on with all the joy and envy accompanying a loved one’s success. Dani didn’t want their reactions to pollute the experience for her. She wanted the purest glimpse of her daughter’s greatest success. As a mother, she preferred to keep her praise faint and her disappointment scathing. But for one night, provided things worked out, she could revel in her daughter’s elation, even if it was from the second deck of Fort McHenry.



She so infrequently took part in public amusements, particularly in the Covid Era, but she picked up a Coke and popcorn so that she could enjoy the full experience. Judging from the shirts, the Legion members in attendance were divided on their support for the main eventers. Catalina was always so desperate for praise. No doubt she would make a spectacle of her entrance, a last minute dose of theatricality to sway any fence-sitters to her side. Dani usually scoffed at such displays, but for one night, she hoped it would work. Unlikely as it might be, the thought of an arena packed with fans cheering for her daughter wasn’t an entirely unpleasant one. She wouldn’t participate herself, but she looked forward to the experience. On the way to her seat, she noticed a strange, nagging feeling within her. A sip of soda didn’t wash it away, nor did a handful of popcorn. It wasn’t until Dani Cortes found her seat overlooking the ring, where her daughter would soon fight for a world title, that the realization hit her. It felt like an ice cream headache, but that might’ve been the frosty Coke. She laughed at herself for being so sentimental, and gobbled a handful of popcorn to muffle the word as it escaped her brain.



“Pride.”