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Post by amsterDAN on Jan 25, 2019 21:15:29 GMT
This is some phenomenal stuff. The entire aesthetic from the graphic design to the legend infused lucha of La Guerra de Sangre, this all comes off as a very well lived in and meticulously crafted world of its own, and I'm really enjoying every new promo and development that comes along. The Funeral of Choque is one part that truly stood out as setting one heck of a tone. Also, Toca is one weird dude, just saying... Thanks, Senator! I've been really enjoying myself, and am super glad to hear others are enjoying it. With La Guerra I wanted things to be where the matches aren't the most important thing, the matches are basically just writing prompts for all the drama between events. Last time I ran an e-fed it was about 17 years ago and we didn't use no video game to drive the action along, what we wrote during the week between matches WAS the action. So that's kind of where I wanted to go with La Guerra. Also, my current computer sort of sucks so high quality videos aren't something you'll be seeing from me; I gotta tell me tales with still images and wordamabobs, the old country way. And yeah, Toca is pretty weird indeed, and should be figuring a fair bit more prominently in the proceedings soon. |
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Post by amsterDAN on Jan 25, 2019 21:27:40 GMT
 Whenever he's not sipping on a lukewarm carton of Jumex, Tocapelotas likes to crack into an ice cold can of delicious, refreshing TECATE, the official beer of La Guerra de Sangre. |
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Post by amsterDAN on Jan 27, 2019 0:00:42 GMT
LA GUERRA DE SANGRE
EL TORNEO: NIGHT TWO
WEDNESDAY, JANUARY 30TH
TICKETS ON SALE NOW
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Fury
JIM MINY
Posts: 53
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Post by Fury on Jan 27, 2019 2:43:37 GMT
Great job! This and ZIP Japan are my two must see promotions on this board. I’m really enjoying what you’ve done.
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Post by amsterDAN on Jan 29, 2019 23:21:50 GMT
La Guerra de Sangre: A Lucha Libre Telenovela
"More Pesos, More Problems"
Season 1, Episode 6
Original Air Date: Jan. 29, 2019
Quite conspicuously, Sal de Roca always seemed to have a lot more cash on hand than the other luchadors he worked with. Sure, he’d been in the business for two decades, but nobody believed for a single second that his cash was being drawn from some savings account. And while he had a respectable following for a rudo, he was not so popular of a wrestler that his finances could be attributed to merchandise sales. Nobody was beating down the doors of Arena Naucalpan to see a Sal de Roca match, that much was certain. In actuality, everyone was pretty sure they knew exactly what Sal de Roca did outside of the wrestling ring. But in Mexico, people who talked too openly about that sort of stuff had a troubling tendency to lose their ability to talk about anything at all. So the story everyone stuck to was that they had no idea how Sal de Roca had so much money. They had no explanation for how he could afford that snow white Rolls Royce convertible, or the extensive collection of crisp white custom-tailored suits. How he’d throw directly into the trash one of the aforementioned expensive suits if even the most microscopic speck of salsa was dripped onto them, and go buy a new one. How he’d tip a thousand pesos to every valet and bellhop and bartender and burrito roller he ever encountered like it was nothing, day in and day out. Nobody knew a thing. Sal de Roca pulled his Rolls Royce into a little dirt lot at the end of a dark and urine-soaked alley, tucked away behind some rinky dink little mom-and-pop flower shop. It was early, around 8 A.M. The streets of Juarez were just beginning to come to life. Not a minute after he’d parked, Sal could hear the brap brap brap of a powerful engine approaching, and Motosierra pulled into the lot riding a motorcycle with comically tall ape-hanger handlebars. No helmet on, just his lucha mask. “Órale, güey,” Motosierra said coolly as he pulled up alongside Sal. “Morning, Moto,” Sal grumbled. “You sure you got this?” Motosierra nodded. “Oh, I got this, Sal.” As cool as can be. Motosierra masked his emotions extraordinarily well, because underneath it all he was in a state of sheer panic. Last night, eleven bullets whizzed through his living room window while he was sitting on the couch watching Sabado Gigante with his wife. No one was hurt, but Motosierra knew damn well what those meant. Pay up or next time it won’t be your window.“So you got the shit?” Motosierra asked. Sal shot him an incredulous look and nodded. “Of course.” A slight pause. Some hesitance. “And you got my… um... money?” “Yes, Moto. Of course I brought the fucking money,” Sal said, sounding exasperated. “Sounds to me like you must need it pretty badly. Most men would’ve been afraid to ask me that question. You got some serious balls asking me that.” Motosierra didn’t respond, but sheepishly lowered his head a few inches. "You know I don't normally pay guys up front for this," Sal continued, starting to rant. "It's strictly cash on delivery. I made a special exception just for you, so don't push your god damn luck, Moto." "Sorry, Sal," Motosierra said softly, looking down at the dirt. Like most motorcycle enthusiasts, Motosierra had a tendency to ride a bit faster than he should, and two years prior he’d finally found out how fast too fast was. He’d gone off an embankment in the Durango foothills. His injuries had been life-threatening. It was nothing short of a miracle he’d learned to walk again, much less wrestle. Sadly, somewhere along that miraculous road to recovery Motosierra also became a little too acquainted with the copious amount of painkillers his doctors were feeding him. When he was informed his physical rehabilitation was complete and his prescriptions would no longer be filled, Motosierra really had no intention of lowering his daily dosage. So he didn’t. In a matter of months, he had accrued an astronomical debt to some rather unsavory individuals. Which is precisely why he had called Sal de Roca. If anyone knew how to make some money materialize as if from nowhere, it was that guy. Sal had just the job for him. The pay was preposterous for what basically amounted to a pleasant two-day trip down the coast to Mazatlan and back. It was nearly as much as he’d make from wrestling on the entire year. Motosierra accepted immediately and enthusiastically, asking no specifics. And now here they were, in the dusty parking lot of a rundown flower shop early in the morning, behaving suspiciously. Sal pulled two items out from under his seat and handed them to Motosierra. One was an envelope, bulging with money. The other, a larger brick-shaped item wrapped in brown butcher paper and twine. Motosierra stuffed the envelope in his pants and wedged the brick into a cavity beneath his seat. “I’ll call you once the package is delivered,” Motosierra assured him. “You fucking better,” Sal said grimly. “Or don’t bother coming back.” Without any further ado, the motorcycle’s engine roared and Motosierra zipped down the alley and away. Sal watched him as he went. He waited for a few minutes in the lot to put some space between him and Motosierra, just in case someone out on the street was paying too much attention. Finally he fired up the Rolls Royce and as he slowly crept the car out of the lot and down the alleyway, a familiar mask went walking by on the sidewalk up ahead, making a beeline for the front door of the flower shop. It was Cicatrices. He noticed Sal, too. It was hard not to notice the most expensive car in Juarez, even if it was lurking in the shadows of an obscure, piss-soaked alley. Cicatrices looked surprised to see him and waved. Sal waved back. Suddenly there was a commotion coming from somewhere down the street, out of view from Sal, and Cicatrices spun around to face it, then took off running in that direction. Curious, Sal pulled his car up to where the alleyway joined the road. About a hundred feet to the right, a four-way intersection. Lines of cars in each direction, everyone honking but nobody moving. In the middle of the intersection, laying on its side on the asphalt with the engine still running, a motorcycle with ape-hanger handlebars. Sal gasped and stared at that riderless motorcycle just laying there on its side. Cicatrices came running back over, shouting his fool head off and startling Sal out of his trance. “You wouldn’t believe what just happened, ese!” Cicatrices was shouting excitedly. “Motosierra was driving by on his chopper. I don’t know why the hell he was out and about so early but he was, man. And while he was waiting for that light to change, some dudes with stockings over their heads grabbed him and tossed him into a black van and took off, holmes!” Sal felt like he could throw up. He said nothing in response, just stared despondently to his right at the abandoned motorcycle in the middle of the intersection. “You gotta chase after them, yo!” Cicatrices cried. Sal snapped his head to the left and glared at Cicatrices with a look of great irritation, and emphatically switched on his left turn signal. “I’ll be doing no such thing.” |
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Post by amsterDAN on Jan 30, 2019 15:55:24 GMT
La Guerra de Sangre: A Lucha Libre Telenovela
"Flower Power"
Season 1, Episode 7
Original Air Date: Jan. 30, 2019Cicatrices came flying through the front door of the flower shop, slightly out of breath. The muscular man behind the counter, busy arranging a bouquet of bougainvilleas, barely looked up. He certainly didn’t look like your average florist. “You won’t believe what just happened!” Cicatrices was saying excitedly before he’d even made it all the way through the door. “Some guys kidnapped Motosierra! Right outside at the stoplight, they grabbed him off his motorcycle and tossed him into a black van! We’ve gotta do something!” “Moto- who?” the man behind the counter mumbled, still not looking up. “Motosierra! He’s one of the rudos I wrestle with,” Cicatrices explained. “We’ve got to call the police.” That got his attention. The man finally looked up from his flowers. “ Sobrino, calling the police right now would be the best way to end up in the back of a black van ourselves,” he said calmly. “Not a chance.” “But… but…” Cicatrices sputtered. “Uncle Gemelo, there’s got to be something we can do!” Gemelo Malvado shook his head soberly. “Look, niño. If they plan on killing him, he’s already dead. If they want a ransom, that letter is already in the post to whomever it may concern. It’s best we mind our own business.” Cicatrices sighed. Although Gemelo was only a year his senior, he was still technically his uncle and for whatever weird reason that made Cicatrices trust his wisdom. So that seemed to settle the matter. Cicatrices shuffled over to a chair in a corner, completely surrounded by bromelias, and crashed into it. He sighed again, and stared at the floor. “Why the long mask?” Uncle Gemelo asked while cutting a sheet of cellophane from an enormous roll mounted to the counter. “You upset your friend got kidnapped?” “Oh, it isn’t that, actually,” Cicatrices mumbled. “It’s Exposito and El Descosido.” A dark cloud seemed to come over Gemelo at the mention of those names, but he stoically continued to work on the bouquet, wrapping it with the cellophane sheet. He was not particularly fond of those two troublemaking nephews of his. “What did those little shits do this time?” “They kicked me out of ZDM.” “ Again!” Gemelo cried, with a tiny touch of sarcasm. “Well they seem to do that about twice a month, so I wouldn’t worry myself too much about it if I was you. You’ll be back in by the end of the week, I’m sure.” Cicatrices shook his head. “I don’t think so, tío. This time was different.” “Oh yeah? How so?” Gemelo implored as he tied off his finished bouquet with a curly strip of gold ribbon. “They actually attacked me this time.” Gemelo’s head snapped up from the bouquet and he stared deeply into Cicatrices’ sad eyes. “They did what?” “I had to fight my brother in the first round of El Torneo por la Mascara de Choque, and Exposito came out and he attacked me. Then they double-teamed me, kicked my ass, cost me my spot in the tournament, and kicked me out of ZDM.” Uncle Gemelo, who’d seemed unflappably calm up to that point, suddenly looked like he was about to blow a gasket. In lucha libre culture, fighting your family members in legitimate competition was not necessarily seen as disrespectful, but to attack your own flesh and blood without warning was among the highest crimes. Cicatrices could hear the cellophane wrap of the bouquet crinkling under Gemelo’s tightening grip. “They did?” Cicatrices nodded sadly. Suddenly, Gemelo roared with rage and raised the bouquet of bougainvilleas high over his head. He clutched the bouquet at both ends and brought it crashing down over his knee, ripping it in half and sending flower petals flying every which way. “So what are we gonna do about it?” Gemelo bellowed. “Because I’ll be damned if we’re gonna let those snot-nosed little shits get away with disrespecting la familia like this!” “I have an idea, Uncle Gemelo,” Cicatrices said, suddenly perking up. “I think you and I have precisely the same idea, sobrino,” Gemelo said, and he walked over to the front door of the flower shop, locked it, and switched off the neon open sign. He went back behind the counter, grabbed his car keys and snatched up a duffel bag that apparently had been waiting right there specifically for a moment such as this one. “Let’s go.”
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Fury
JIM MINY
Posts: 53
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Post by Fury on Jan 30, 2019 16:37:47 GMT
Great stuff!!! I’m loving this!!
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Post by amsterDAN on Jan 31, 2019 7:32:38 GMT
La Guerra de Sangre: A Lucha Libre Telenovela
"Bracket Busters"
Season 1, Episode 8
Original Air Date: Jan. 31, 2019EL TORNEO: NIGHT TWO BEFORE THE SHOWThe cousins Exposito and El Descosido arrived to the arena early, not really having anything better to do. Neither had a match scheduled that evening, but David Harley had been adamant that anyone still actively participating in El Torneo should attend every event, so there El Descosido was. And wherever El Descosido went, so did Exposito.
They walked into the dressing room, exchanging handshakes and greetings with a few of the other rudos milling about while making a point to ignore any tecnico that tried to talk to them. The went to their assigned locker, one with a strip of duct tape on it that someone had written their names on in Sharpie. ZDM: El Descosido y Exposito. There was once another name on it, but it had been scratched out. Strangely, there was also a Post-It note affixed to the locker door, directly under the duct tape.
It read ‘...y Toca’.
Before they’d even finished reading those five letters, they heard the dreaded sound approaching them from behind.
Toca toca toca toca.
They whirled around and surprise surprise, it was Tocapelotas. He was wearing a homemade ZDM t-shirt; just a white Fruit of the Loom with ZDM written on it in some sort of sparkly pink puff paint.
“Hola, amigos,” Toca said in his simple-sounding way of speaking.
He was holding something behind his back. The ZDM boys looked a little alarmed.
“Um… hey Toca,” El Descosido finally said. “What are you doing here?”
“Toca joined the ZDM,” Toca said matter-of-factly.
El Descosido shot Exposito a look of consternation and began to ask “Did you tell him he could…” but Exposito cut him off by shaking his head emphatically.
“Toca bringing the pretty presents for new besties,” Toca declared, and presented the cousins with what he’d been hiding behind his back.
Two more white t-shirts, ZDM scrawled on them with poor penmanship and pink puff paint. He handed them out. Exposito and El Descosido stood as still as statues, staring down in abject horror at their new apparel.
“Try on, try on,” Toca insisted.
For some strange reason, being put on the spot like that made the cousins panic and they actually did as instructed. Toca beamed. A wrestler standing at a nearby locker, Casimiro Olmeida, snorted derisively and told them they looked adorable. Exposito grimaced. El Descosido mouthed the words I’ll fucking kill you. Casimiro threw back his head and cackled with uproarious laughter.
“You see! He like too!” Toca shouted, and hugged the boys tightly. “The ZDM muy fabuloso now!” MATCH #1
SUPER MOHAN vs ORO DE ACAPULCOWHILE THE PREVIOUS MATCH WAS IN PROGRESSThe delivery truck pulled up to the arena and was waved through by security. It parked at a loading bay and the driver began to unload several carts full of linens, mainly white towels for the luchadors to use after hitting the showers. He parked the carts in a storage room near to the locker room area and left.
Five minutes after he was gone, movement from deep beneath the pile of towels. A hand suddenly emerged from beneath that white sea of fabric, and then another. They clutched the sides of the cart and pulled, and a man emerged from beneath the linens.
It was David Harley. Since double-crossing El Hijo de Choque on opening night of El Torneo and drawing the ire of all of Mexico, he’d received quite a few death threats. He figured he couldn’t be too careful while traveling around Juarez, which is why he’d chosen such an unorthodox mode of transport into the arena that evening, and waited until everyone had taken their seats instead of trying to sneak past all the fans.
He climbed out of the cart, smoothed his statically-charged clothing a bit, and headed to the men’s locker room. The whole place went completely silent when he entered, and every luchador there stared daggers at him, though no one dared say a word since David Harley was, after all, still the man who signed their paychecks.
“How the hell is it going, guys?” David asked the room. “Everyone locked and loaded for their matches tonight?”
No one responded. Feet shuffled. There were soft whispers. A cough. Finally, a masked luchador in orange and blue raised a hand in the air. David pointed to him. “What’s up, Alhambra?”
“My opponent doesn’t appear to have made it in to work tonight,” Alhambra said.
David’s eyes swept the room. Everyone that should have been there was… except for one. “Anyone seen Motosierra this evening?”
Nobody said a word. David Harley, ever the astute observer, could not help but notice that big tough Sal de Roca seemed to shrink in his seat ever so slightly at that question. He made a mental note of it.
“Well, what the hell are we gonna do about this?” David Harley demanded of the room, which remained silent. “I can’t put on a show with only three god damn matches!”
From somewhere behind David, someone cleared his throat in an unnecessarily noisy and dramatic manner, and David spun around to see who it was. Standing in the doorway were Cicatrices and his uncle, luchador-turned-florist Gemelo Malvado. Both were already in their ring attire. Although he’d retired from wrestling five years prior to pursue his passion for flowers, Gemelo appeared to still be in peak physical condition.
“If you need another match on the card tonight,” Cicatrices said, “we got a good idea for one.”
Judging by the way that statement made El Descosido and Exposito leap out of their seats on the other side of the room, this idea probably was a pretty fun one, David thought. He resisted the urge to ask the ZDM boys what the hell was up with their matching white-and-pink shirts. Grinning, he turned back to Cicatrices and Gemelo. “I’m all ears.” MATCH #2
RESPLENDENT QUETZAL (Current i.W.e. Tag Team Champion) vs SAL DE ROCARESPLENDENT QUETZAL vs SAL DE ROCA: POST-MATCHSal de Roca wasn't about to stick around and celebrate his victory. He couldn’t get out of the arena quickly enough. He felt like he was being followed. He rounded up his belongings and ran out into the VIP parking lot where his Rolls Royce was waiting. There was a sheet of paper tucked under one of the windshield wipers. “Shit,” he said as he snatched it, turned it over in his hands and read it. “Shit,” he muttered again. “Shit shit shit!” He stuffed the paper into his pants, jumped into the car and roared out of the parking lot, tires screeching. He didn’t bother to stop at the security checkpoint on the way out even though the barricade arm was still down, and it splintered into a million little pieces as it collided with the chrome grill of the Rolls Royce, cracking his windscreen in the process, but Sal just kept going. MATCH #3
ALHAMBRA vs MOTOSIERRAA long silence, broken only by the hushed murmuring of the audience, fell over the arena. No one came out from the back. No music played. Nothing was on the video screen. Nada. Five minutes passed. Then ten. The crowd grew restless. A nerdy looking fellow finally burst through the curtain, eliciting a small pop from the fans even though he clearly wasn’t a wrestler, and he ran to ringside and whispered something into the ring announcer’s ear. He shot the nerd a quizzical look, then cleared his throat into his microphone.
“Ladies and gentlemen, I have a message from David Harley.”
Everyone booed.
“Due to circumstances beyond our control, the scheduled match between Alhambra and Motosierra will not go ahead as planned. Alhambra advances to the second round of El Torneo due to a forfeit.”
The crowd groaned, then turned to one another to speculate about why that would be. How come David Harley just cryptically called it a forfeit? Couldn’t he give them more information than that? Did Motosierra really just no-show the most important match of his career? Was he out due to injury? Why no replacement wrestler? What in the hell was going on around here? MATCH #4
TIBURANHA vs CASIMIRO OLMEIDADAVID HARLEY ADDRESSES LAST WEEK'S INCIDENTConsidering the current state of his reputation around Mexico, David decided to address the crowd via the video monitors as opposed to in-person, in the middle of the ring. He didn’t trust his stadium security enough to feel satisfied that the audience was entirely unarmed.
It was probably a wise decision, because the second his face flashed across the screen hundreds of Tecate cans flew through the air, piling up on the entrance ramp, and the boos were so loud they registered on the Richter scale.
“Good evening, ladies and gentlemen,” David said smugly. He appeared to be filming from a broom closet of some sort. “I trust you’ve been enjoying El Torneo so far. And speaking of El Torneo, I have a very important announcement to make. Firstly, I’d like to invite Lady Caliz to the ring.”
Engineers in the back had a bit of trouble starting her theme song on such short notice, but finally got it going. The crowd roared as she passed through the curtain, giving her a true hero’s welcome. Instead of Tecate cans, roses flew through the air. The suckerpunch she’d laid David out with last week had made Lady Caliz a national hero and instantly propelled her to superstardom, and she absolutely revelled in it, waving to and high-fiving all her newly won fans as she strolled out to the ring.
It took quite a while for the fans to settle down. They were so thrilled to see Lady Caliz make an appearance that they momentarily forgot all about David Harley’s despicable face up on that video screen. They groaned in unison as he started to speak again.
“Firstly, I’d just like to take a moment to congratulate Lady Caliz on her impressive first-round victory in El Torneo,” David said, sounding rather insincere. The crowd clapped anyways, and Lady Caliz took a bow in the middle of the ring, but everyone knew David hadn’t brought her out to heap praises upon her.
Lady Caliz was handed a microphone. “Thank you, thank you everybody. I’d like to dedicate that last victory to all my ladies out here who know that lucha libre is no longer merely a man’s sport!”
The women in the crowd screamed and clapped their hands raw.
David Harley snorted and chuckled. “Oh oh oh, Lady Caliz. I’m afraid that’s where you are terribly, horribly mistaken.”
All the ladies who’d just been cheering shifted gears to hissing and booing, and all the men in the crowd followed suit. Lady Caliz glared at the video monitor.
“You see, this is a man’s sport,” David said condescendingly. “And within this sport, I am not simply A man… I am THE Man.”
The booing crescendoed to a deafening level.
“And with that said, little lady,” David continued, “I regret to inform you that, due to the little love tap you decided to give me last week... YOU ARE FIRED!”
The video screen shut off abruptly, though the audio feed remained on long enough to catch a couple seconds of evil cackling from David Harley. Lady Caliz and just about everyone else in the arena looked positively irate. She tried to say something into her microphone but it had been cut. The crowd’s cacophonous booing was so loud it triggered several seismometers just over the border in Texas. About a half dozen yellow-shirted stadium security guards climbed into the ring and grabbed Lady Caliz by the arms to usher her out.
Those poor bastards had no idea what they were getting into, and after a quick flurry of fists and feet Lady Caliz was again the only person standing in the ring, now surrounded by crumpled bodies. She spat on them, spat on the La Guerra de Sangre logo in the center of the mat, and stomped out of the ring, opting to leave the arena through the audience instead of through the backstage area.
When she was finally gone, David Harley's ugly mug popped back onto the video screen. As always, the audience was loud and unanimous in their disapproval.
"Yeah yeah yeah, whatever," he grumbled, waving those boos away. "I don't even know why I'm so good to you simple-minded savages, but I have a little surprise for you. Since even my dastardly ass can't stand to see our fans go home unsatisfied, we have a NEW main event match this evening, and it is a tag team match!" MAIN EVENT
UNSCHEDULED MATCH
ZDM (El Descosido & Exposito w/ Tocapelotas) vs NUEVO ZDM (Cicatrices & Gemelo Malvado)ZDM vs NUEVO ZDM: MATCH STOPPAGEThe referee’s countout trailed off. He leaned over the ropes and looked down at El Descosido, said Dios mío under his breath and crossed himself. El Descosido was sprawled out, facedown, unconscious, and bleeding far too profusely to possibly continue. He had a gash running from his face over his chest and all the way down to his belly. It looked like he’d been swiped at by a grizzly.
The ref held his arms up in an ‘X’, the sign that he needed the real medics and not the pretend ones to run out to the ring. They hurried down and started to load El Descosido onto a stretcher. The referee turned to signal for the ring bell to officially end this sorry excuse for a match, but a hand caught him by the wrist.
It was Tocapelotas.
“No no no no no,” Toca said. “Toca is member of the ZDM now too. We start this baby over.”
The referee, reading the room, thought about this for a moment. The fans seemed confused, restless. Seeing El Descosido ripped in two by that barbed wire baseball bat had surely been exciting, and a pretty poetic piece of revenge for Cicatrices in particular, but it was hardly a satisfactory conclusion to all the night’s wild events.
The referee shrugged. Toca tore off his super cool homemade ZDM shirt.
ZDM vs NUEVO ZDM: MATCH RESTART
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Post by amsterDAN on Feb 1, 2019 14:47:15 GMT
La Guerra de Sangre: A Lucha Libre Telenovela
"The Cigar Box"
Season 1, Episode 9
Original Air Date: Feb. 1, 2019Sal de Roca did not return to his opulent manor after the show. Instead he drove his Rolls Royce deep into the night, cracked windshield and all, until he arrived at a remote ranch at the end of a long, heavily potholed road. He had to get out of the car to open a rusty iron gate, locked with a thick chain. Sal parked inside a dilapidated barn just to be extra certain the car wouldn’t be seen by anyone, not that there was a lot of passing traffic way out here or anything. Indeed, it was currently so dark out, Sal could hardly see three feet in front of him. Using his cellphone to light the way, Sal stumbled his way through knee-high grass sorely in need of mowing toward the main house on the property, a couple hundred feet from the barn. He tripped on a coiled garden hose, then nearly smashed himself in the face by stepping on a rake, cartoon-style, but finally made it over to the building. It probably hadn’t been painted in the last half century and was in a state of severe disrepair, sagging and slumping and looking like it could collapse at any moment. It seemed the sort of place a flashy man-about-town such as Sal de Roca wouldn’t be caught dead staying in, which is exactly why it had always been such an effective hideout whenever he had to lay low. Very few people knew he owned the property. Sal was surprised to find a cigar box sitting on the doorstep. He didn’t really think much of it. Sometimes the few locals who knew him would swing by to pay tribute with cigars and bottles of tequila and other more illicit substances. Sal figured it was probably some congratulatory gift for winning his match last night. He tucked the cigar box under his arm, unlocked the front door and went inside. He switched on a light in the front hall. The inside of the house was everything that the outside was not. Hardwood floors. Persian rugs. An enormous and intricate bas-relief on one wall, Aztec warriors massacring some poor bastards. A large wine rack filled with sought-after vintages. Plasma screen TVs everywhere you looked. A Steinway grand piano. Far more aligned with Sal’s expensive tastes. Sal walked into the kitchen and put the cigar box down on a marble countertop. He went to the fridge and got himself a Fiji, kicked off his boots and got settled in a bit. He sat down at the dining room table and pulled a piece of paper out from his pocket, the one that had been tucked under his windshield wiper back at the Arena Naucalpan. He unfolded it, smoothed it out on the table, and read it once again. It was one of those ridiculous movie-style ransom notes where every word was constructed from letters of different fonts and sizes, clipped from newspapers and magazines. SEVEN MILLION PESOS OR MOTOSIERRA DIES
WE’LL BE IN TOUCH“Shit,” Sal muttered for about the millionth time that night. He sat back in the chair and sighed. He squeezed his eyes shut and rubbed his temples. Opened his eyes again. They fell onto the cigar box sitting on the counter. Well, that was one way to calm the nerves. What the hell. He went over and lifted the lid. There didn’t seem to be cigars in there at all. Disappointing. The box was stuffed with white tissue paper. He pulled a few sheets out. A couple more. Finally, he pulled a few more away, and gasped. Sal jumped up from his seat, slammed the lid of the cigar box shut and stood back, watching it carefully as though it might jump off the table and attack him. After a few moments he warily approached the box again and ever so carefully raised the lid, peaked inside, then slammed it back shut once again. “ SHIT!” The most emphatic one of the night. Sal wasn’t a doctor, nor was he the world’s foremost expert on anatomy or anything, but he was pretty damn sure that was a human finger inside the cigar box. He wretched. And for the second time in the span of a few hours, he rounded up all his belongings as quickly as he could and ran out to his car, urgently needing to get the hell out of there.
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Post by amsterDAN on Feb 1, 2019 15:01:24 GMT
EL TORNEO POR LA MASCARA DE CHOQUE - BRACKET UPDATEWith El Torneo's bracket officially in tatters, David Harley has updated the chalkboard parked in the hallway outside the La Guerra office to more accurately reflect where we stand going into the quarterfinals.
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Post by amsterDAN on Feb 1, 2019 17:01:05 GMT
La Guerra de Sangre: A Lucha Libre Telenovela
"The Ghost of Lucha Libre Past"
Season 1, Episode 10
Original Air Date: Feb. 1, 2019
David Harley was back in San Francisco once again, luxuriating in his penthouse. Over the top of a rocks glass filled nearly to the brim with an extremely expensive single malt, he watched a rerun of the most recent La Guerra de Sangre, particularly enjoying the part where he fired Lady Caliz. He watched that scene three times in a row and, deciding it warranted a celebratory drink, slugged back the entirety of his glass. It was nowhere near the first one of those he’d had that night, and he smiled drunkenly as that satisfying burn travelled slowly from his mouth down to his belly. Sometime during the main event David dozed off, still clutching the empty rocks glass, a strand of drool slowly extending down from the corner of his slightly open mouth, swinging to and fro as he snored.
He woke with a start. For some strange reason the room was filled with fog. He couldn’t even see the walls anymore. And something seemed off to him about the lighting. David rubbed at his eyes.
From somewhere within the fog, an enormous figure emerged. Each step it took toward David seemed to rumble the earth. It approached the sofa that David was sprawled out on and towered over him. David stared up in disbelief.
Although he hadn’t seen the man in over a decade - and for some reason he seemed to have a strange spectral glow to him this evening - the figure standing over David was utterly unmistakable.
It was Choque.
“I… I….” David stammered. “I thought you were dead. You’re supposed to be dead!”
Choque glared silently down at him for an extremely tense few moments, until a mischievous smile spread across his ghostly face. “And that I am, mijo.” His voice boomed like thunder.
“Then how the hell are you here right now?”
Choque shrugged.
“What do you want from me?” David cried.
“You know exactly what I want from you, David,” Choque said. “I want you to treat our sacred sport with the respect and dignity it deserves.”
David wished he could just hide between the couch cushions until the ghost of Choque went away, but that clearly wasn’t happening anytime soon.
“You’ve made a mockery of lucha libre with your despicable deeds,” the specter continued. “In life I was often referred to as the most dastardly rudo in the business, but your wicked and selfish behavior during the tournament for my mask is unacceptable, even by my standards!”
David tried to say something in his defense, but his mouth had suddenly become so dry it felt as though his tongue were glued to the roof.
“There was once a time you were the student I was proudest of,” Choque said. “You took what I taught you all those years ago in that rickety little ring on my ranch back when you were nothing but a boy, and you went and made something truly admirable out of yourself. You pushed professional wrestling to new heights. Following your exploits back in the states always filled my heart with fatherly pride, because I loved you as though you were my own son.”
Tears suddenly welled up in David’s eyes. “You were the closest thing I ever had to a father figure in my life. If you hadn’t taken me under your wing when I ran away from home and hitchhiked all the way down to Juarez, I would never have become what I am today.”
“And this is how you repay me!” Choque shouted, kicking off what felt like a minor earthquake. He seemed to grow by several feet as he yelled. David cowered in fear on the couch, holding a pillow in front of him like a shield. “You should be looking after my beloved son El Hijo de Choque for me, helping him to find his way in life now that his father’s gone. Instead you have betrayed and humiliated him!”
David hung his head in shame.
“And on top of that, you selfish son of a bitch, you are now using your position of power to advance yourself to the next round of my torneo without even fighting a match,” Choque went on. “And you’re spinelessly trying to skip out on a match against a woman, no less! A talented woman who very much deserves her opportunity to become the owner of my magical mask, I might add. What a pitiful display of cowardice, David!”
David buried his face in his hands and sobbed.
“Crying won’t get you anywhere, you shameful excuse for a man. I will not stand idly by while you tarnish my legacy, running my tournament in such a disgraceful manner. Stand up. Stand up, you smarmy little weasel!” Choque demanded. “Stand up and accept your punishment like a man!”
Choque grabbed David by the scruff of his neck and effortlessly raised him off the couch. David squeezed his eyes shut and shielded his face with his arms, expecting to be clobbered at any moment. But he wasn’t. He slowly, hesitantly opened his eyes.
They weren’t in the penthouse anymore. It had been nearly three decades since he’d last set foot in this place, but he immediately recognized it. Rancho Imperio, the luchador training academy Choque had once operated way out in the countryside, where David Harley first cut his teeth in the business. They were standing in the center of a wrestling ring, the very first ring David had ever set foot in, as a matter of fact, way back when he was still only a teenager. He looked around in awe. Everything was exactly as he remembered. He was beginning to feel nostalgic, but that feeling was short-lived.
An ethereal ring bell seemed to sound across the entire universe, and judging by the way Choque advanced toward him with a sadistic grin, David Harley knew exactly what time it was.
DREAM SEQUENCE
DAVID HARLEY vs EL ESPECTRO DE CHOQUE
Again David woke up with a start, this time to the sound of shattering glass. His eyes darted around the room. He was back in his penthouse again. No one else was there. He could see the walls. The fog was gone. A shattered rocks glass was spread across the floor at his feet. He slapped himself across the face to be certain he was really awake. He was.
David went out on the balcony and smoked half a pack of cigarettes in one sitting, thinking about what had just happened, and weighing his options. He walked back inside and found his phone. He looked up a number and called it.
“Listen. It’s David Harley. Please don’t hang up.”
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Fury
JIM MINY
Posts: 53
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Post by Fury on Feb 1, 2019 19:19:15 GMT
Amazing stuff man! Can’t wait to see what happens next!
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Post by amsterDAN on Feb 6, 2019 16:01:02 GMT
 *** BREAKING NEWS ***
Word has trickled in that El Descosido will indeed be unable to continue his run in El Torneo as a result of his brother Cicatrices' bit of barbed-wire baseball bat revenge, and with that deflating news it seems our tournament bracket has officially been blown to smithereens. With Lady Caliz being fired by David Harley on last week's show, that means at least two of the four upcoming quarterfinals bouts can no longer go ahead as planned. And on the other side of the bracket, controversy has marred Alhambra's advance to the quarterfinals via forfeit after Motosierra no-showed the event, with many in the locker room expressing the opinion that Alhambra should still be made to fight for his spot in the tournament.
With only a day to go, no card has officially been posted for the next La Guerra event. It is widely believed that the only match currently set for the card is a quarterfinals meeting between Sal de Roca and Tiburanha. We reached out to David Harley for comment, and received this statement.
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Post by amsterDAN on Feb 7, 2019 0:44:49 GMT
La Guerra de Sangre: A Lucha Libre Telenovela
"The Card" (Introduction to El Torneo: Night Three)
Season 1, Episode 11
Original Air Date: Feb. 6, 2019David Harley’s entrance theme thundered out of the PA system and in the blink of an eye hundreds of Tecate cans took flight, splattering every which way across the stage. Nobody actually expected David Harley to step out through the curtain, so when he eventually did everyone immediately regretted having already heaved their beer. With nothing left to throw, they simply booed him with all their might. He carried a large, black umbrella, angled casually across a shoulder, but at the ready just in case he needed to shield himself from more airborne beverages. He raised a microphone to his lips. “Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to night three of El Torneo por La Mascara de Choque,” he said, sounding slightly dejected. “As I promised earlier in the week, I have several important announcements to make.” The crowd gave him one more rousing round of boos, then settled down. “Firstly, I’d like to speak about Alhambra. Initially, it was my decision to allow him to advance to the quarterfinals after his opponent, Motosierra, no-showed last week. This decision has been met with widespread condemnation and outrage, and after thinking things through, I agree, it really was outrageous for me to allow someone to advance a round without a fight. This is la guerra, after all. So Alhambra, I regret to inform you that you still have a first-round match yet to fight before I allow you to take on Super Mohan, who reached the quarterfinals fair and square. As for who your opponent in this match will be…” “Earlier this week, a certain very popular luchador - who had actually been eliminated in his first-round match - presented his case to me for why I should allow him back into the tournament. After much deliberation, and in light of recent events and the current state of the bracket, I have come to agree with him. Cicatrices, the outcome of your first-round match against your brother El Descosido was unquestionably decided by the actions of your cousin Exposito, who attacked you on El Descosido’s behalf. I hate to publicly second-guess my officials, but the referee could have just as easily called the match in your favor as the result of a disqualification, and inexplicably didn’t. So Cicatrices, I’m pleased to announce that you, sir, are officially reinstated in El Torneo!” To this news, the crowd responded rapturously. Cicatrices was a fan favorite, and his count-out loss to his brother, also aided by a barbed-wire baseball bat, had been an unsatisfying end to his fleeting run in the tournament. “But there’s a catch, Cicatrices. Even though I agree you were screwed over by Exposito, it seems a little unfair to just let you waltz right back into the tournament as though you’d won that match outright. For that reason, I am not slotting you back into your original spot on the bracket, nor am I allowing you into the quarterfinals, not just yet. Instead, I’m throwing you over to the other side of the bracket, where you will be facing Alhambra! I know this means you’ll have fought two first-round matches, but I think it’s only fair, considering the circumstances.” The crowd definitely disagreed, and the booing began again. “To make matters worse, Cicatrices, I’m setting a special stipulation for your match against Alhambra. Like I just said, it’s only fair. Can’t just let you casually stroll into the quarterfinals. Here’s the special stipulation for tonight’s match: In order to win, Cicatrices, you will have to pin Alhambra twice.” He raised two fingers in the air. “Two times. But in order for Alhambra to win, he only needs to beat Cicatrices once. Just one time. And whoever the hell wins has to face Super Mohan later on in the evening. Like I said, I feel this is a fair and just solution to the problem.” Everyone in attendance disagreed and did so loudly, but they were pleased that Cicatrices still had the slightest sliver of a chance at winning the mask of Choque. It was better than nothing. They booed, but halfheartedly. “Now, I’d like to address the situation with El Descosido. I visited him in the hospital myself, and let me tell you, the man looks like a human football. An American football, that is. The wounds to his chest and stomach required more than a hundred stitches to sew up, and there was simply no way he’d be ready to go tonight without running the risk of being peeled back open like a god damn banana. And I want to make it real clear, it was my decision and not his to take him out of this tournament. I did it for glaringly obvious health and safety reasons. If it’d been up to him, El Descosido would’ve fought tonight, believe you me. Damn near tried to fight me in the hospital when I broke the bad news. But I digress…” “With El Descosido officially out, that leaves my man Sicomoro without an opponent for his quarterfinals fight. I’m certainly not about to allow anyone into the semifinals without a match, so I got to thinking. Last week on La Guerra, one man’s impromptu performance took us all pleasantly by surprise. The way he grabbed Gemelo Malvado by the short-and-curlies, my god, you could see him take away a whole fistful of pubes right through the spandex! It was riveting! That’s right, I’m talking about Tocapelotas.” The audience giggled, all stopping to remember Toca’s gutsy and entertaining performance in the second leg of the tag match between ZDM and Nuevo ZDM. Indeed, ZDM more than likely would not have won without Toca’s input in the match. The video screen showed some highlights to refresh their memories. “So tonight, Sicomoro… you will be taking on everyone’s new favorite wrestler, Tocapelotas, who I believe we can all agree deserves a crack at the mask of Choque!” For the first time in a long time, the people agreed with David and his words were met with polite applause and satisfied cheering. “Yeah, you see, that wasn’t so bad, was it? Alright, now lastly I want to speak about my quarterfinal match…” The booing was back in an instant. “Since I had no choice but to terminate the contract of Lady Caliz after her completely unwarranted assault on me after my impressive first-round victory over El Hijo de Choque, I too am a man with no opponent.” Deafening were the boos. Someone finally got back from the concession stand with a new beer and splashed David good and proper. He acted as though he didn’t notice as suds dripped from the tip of his nose, causing his microphone to crackle and spit. “Well, guys, guess what. I’ve done quite a bit of soul-searching this week, and spent a whole hell of a lot of time thinking this over. In my thirty years in this business, not once have I ever fought a female. Not once. Never even considered it. Well, I guess that all changes tonight…” The crowd jumped out of their seats. Was he saying what they thought he was saying? “... because as our main event, right here in the middle of this ring tonight, I, David Harley, will be taking on the newly reinstated… LADY CALIZ!” The video screen flashed to a shot of Lady Caliz in the locker room, lacing up her boots and looking particularly determined. The crowd’s sudden eruption of ecstatic cheering blew the roof right off of Arena Naucalpan, way up into the stratosphere. This suddenly sounded like one hell of a show. EL TORNEO NIGHT THREE First Round Match CICATRICES vs ALHAMBRA *Special Stipulation: Cicatrices must win twice to advance*
Quarterfinal Match SAL DE ROCA vs TIBURANHA
Quarterfinal Match TOCAPELOTAS vs SICOMORO
Quarterfinal Match (Winner of CICATRICES vs ALHAMBRA) vs SUPER MOHAN
Quarterfinal Match LADY CALIZ vs DAVID HARLEY
*results will be posted tomorrow evening*
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Post by amsterDAN on Feb 8, 2019 7:35:32 GMT
La Guerra de Sangre: A Lucha Libre Telenovela
"The Quarterfinals"
Season 1, Episode 12
Original Air Date: Feb. 7, 2019EL TORNEO: NIGHT THREE
THE QUARTERFINALS BEFORE THE SHOWNever, not once in his twenty year career of running wrestling promotions had David Harley ever had a wrestler come up and ask him if they could go on first. Bitter, sometimes bloody disputes broke out over who would go on last. But nobody wanted to go first. So it struck him as really odd when Sal de Roca approached him backstage and asked to go on first, and ironically David couldn’t even grant the request because he needed Cicatrices against Alhambra first, since the winner had to fight again later in the evening. Being told he’d have to wait all of a half an hour to fight made Sal look extremely tense. David could not ignore the antsiness.
“Is there something wrong, Sal?”
“No, David. Nope. Not at all” Sal said, sounding distracted. He glanced nervously over his shoulder. “I’m great.”
“I’m gonna level with you, Sal,” David said. “You don’t seem so great to me. You look like you’re about to shit your pants, if I’m being honest. I’m trying to figure out if that’s literally or figuratively.”
Sal didn’t seem to hear him.
“There’s something going on with you, Sal,” David said. “I can’t quite put my finger on it, but something’s up.”
Sal winced when he said finger, looking a little frightened just by hearing that word said aloud. David cocked an eyebrow.
“I gotta go,” Sal blurted out and ran off to a nearby restroom, determined to lock himself safely inside it until his match was set to begin. MATCH #1
FIRST ROUND MAKE-UP MATCH
CICATRICES vs ALHAMBRA
DAVID HARLEY'S SPECIAL STIPULATION: Cicatrices must win two falls two advance, while Alhambra need only win once.SAL DE ROCA GETS IMPATIENTSal de Roca decided he wasn’t going to wait around for his match to start. Backstage, he felt like there was someone or something after him, following him, watching. He had to get out of there. As the previous match ended, Sal walked out to the ring and just stood in the middle of it, waiting, even before the worn-out and sweaty competitors in the previous match had cleared out. The sound guy was so confused by what was going on that when Tiburanha finally made it out on to the stage, he accidentally played Sal’s entrance theme instead, then cut it off abruptly. Tiburanha entered in silence, looking supremely annoyed and prepared to kick Sal’s ass for this. Sal said “Come on, come ooooon! Hurry up you bodysuit-wearing bum, let’s get this show on the road! I ain’t got all night!” and Tiburanha said “Oh shut your trap, you tacky-ass Tony Montana wannabe!” and the referee just shrugged and signalled for the bell. MATCH #2
QUARTERFINAL MATCH
SAL DE ROCA vs TIBURANHASAL DE ROCA vs TIBURANHA POST-MATCHAs per usual, after his match Sal de Roca spent no time celebrating and instead turned tail and booked it to the backstage, determined to grab his belongings and flee the scene. He got all the way to his locker unimpeded, but froze in his tracks when he noticed the envelope taped to the door.
“Shit,” he said, just like he always did. Reluctantly, he yanked the envelope off the door and stuffed it into his tights. Another ransom letter, he was sure.
He just needed to grab a duffel bag from his locker, so he threw open the door. Some small creature - well, maybe not that small of a creature, but certainly not a very large one - came scurrying out, screeching. It collided with Sal’s muscular legs and bowled him right over. Sal cried and fell to the floor while the creature careened aimlessly around the room before making a mad dash for the door. Sal rolled over and tried to catch a glimpse of the thing before it escaped.
At first it reminded Sal of one of those jawas from Star Wars. A short, squat little thing, wearing a hoodie pulled tight over its head so Sal couldn’t see its face, just a set of beady eyes ensconced in darkness. But Sal was a sharp, very observant man. He could tell simply by its silhouette that the wild little beast scampering out of the room was a mini-estrella. In other words, a midget wrestler. They were renowned in lucha libre for their trickery, chicanery, and shenanigans, and were extremely difficult for full-sized luchadors to catch up to, much less capture. Sal allowed the little guy to escape without a chase.
Sal wondered… did this mini-estrella perhaps have something to do with the letter he now had stuffed down his tights? Just a messenger, maybe? Or was the midget part of the larger plot to hold Motosierra for ransom? Sal needed to find answers. But first, he needed to get his ass out of town to somewhere safe; only then would he feel calm and comfortable enough to sit down and open the envelope. IN THE LOCKER ROOM WITH TOCAPELOTAS & ZDMTocapelotas was standing in the locker room, bouncing around like a demented boxer and punching wildly at the air, presumably to get himself psyched for the match. Exposito and a weary-looking looking El Descosido sat on a nearby bench.
“You guys come to the ringside to support Toca in the Toca match, right?”
Exposito and El Descosido looked at each other.
“Actually, Toca,” Exposito said hesitantly, “we weren’t exactly planning on it.”
Toca looked hurt. “But ZDM friends must come to the Toca match! Toca needs you support!”
The cousins sighed in unison.
“Alright, Toca,” El Descosido said. “We’ll accompany you to the ring.”
Toca beamed. “And you wear the shirts.”
El Descosido looked puzzled, but Exposito already knew what he was talking about and looked alarmed.
“The shirts!” Toca cried. “The pretty pretty ZDM shirts the Toca make for his friends.”
El Descosido finally got it. He looked over at Exposito. They hung their heads. Toca darted off to fetch the shirts.
MATCH #3
QUARTERFINAL MATCH
SICOMORO vs TOCAPELOTAS (with ZDM)LADY CALIZ CUTS A PROMO AGAINST DAVID HARLEYThe video screen flashed to a shot of Lady Caliz in the locker room, skipping rope and looking fierce. She stopped, dropped the jumprope and draped a towel over her head before approaching the camera.
“David Harley, you disgusting, slimy pig of a man. You’ve made a career out of lying, cheating, and exploiting people - particularly women - and generally just behaving like an absolute ass. These scantily-clad ring girls you have running around the arena tonight are an insult to women everywhere. Girls belong in the ring, not prancing nudely around it for your perverse pleasure! The fact that you’ve been running wrestling promotions for two decades and not once made even a half-assed attempt at putting together a respectable women’s division tells me everything I need to know about you, you misogynist scumbag. I dedicate my victory over you later tonight to all women, everywhere.”
MATCH #4
QUARTERFINAL MATCH
(Winner of CICATRICES vs ALHAMBRA) vs SUPER MOHANBEFORE THE MAIN EVENTNearly everyone on the roster congregated right behind the current before the main event, or at least everyone who could stand to be near each other for ten continuous seconds. They were there to wish Lady Caliz luck, as well as to send ill will David’s way. You got this, they told her, rubbing her shoulders, patting her on the back. Win it for the women out there. Hell, win for all of us, Lady Caliz. Do it for Mexico. Her music started up. Her luchador colleagues lined up on either side of the curtain flap, and Lady Caliz ran right down the middle, slapping hands with them all before bursting out onto the stage to the thunderous cheering of the thousands in attendance at Arena Naucalpan. MAIN EVENT
QUARTERFINAL MATCH
LADY CALIZ vs DAVID HARLEYAFTER THE MAIN EVENTJust about everyone in the audience wanted to throw up, such a distasteful display it had been. Back in the locker room, all the luchadors who had crowded around the tiny TV monitor to view the live feed felt precisely the same way. Well, everyone except Tocapelotas who was cheering mindlessly, completely oblivious to the fact that he’d have to get in the ring with that monster next, in precisely one week.
David Harley hadn’t just defeated Lady Caliz, he’d shellacked her, both thoroughly and mercilessly. Maybe they’d expected her to make more of a match of it. Perhaps they’d hoped he’d be off his game tonight. None of that had happened, and the fans were irate. But no matter how many Tecate cans they tossed into the ring (and they tossed a ton of them, believe you me), nothing could change the fact that David Harley was now through to the semifinals, and only two steps away from getting his grubby meathooks on the mystical Mascara de Choque! Time was running out. Were any of La Guerra’s last remaining luchadors going to be able to stop this dastardly bastard, before it was too late?
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