Beowulfo

So tell the tales about a region somewhere in Mexico, of a town where lucha libre was seen as not only a regional sport, but also the one and only way to prove one’s worth. The law dared not interfere, as even they respected he who won a match over at H.E.O.R.O.T. While in other parts of Mexico a judge would be the final settler when it came to disputes, at Chipotle there was only Ramon Salazar; judge, jury and executioner. A seasoned luchador himself, the veteran fighter knew full and well how important lucha libre was. So, during his years as the fearsome undisputed king of the ring, in which he adopted the legendary moniker of “Hrothgar”, he came up with the idea of gathering enough funds to create an arena that would be the end-all place for lucha libre matches. His passion for the project had led other luchadores to hail him as their representative and, eventually, formed the A.C.D.G, the now renowned “Asociación Chipotleana de Golpes”.

The main purpose of this association was to bind luchadores together, to make every fighter in Chipotle feel like they had a home. This concept finally came to fruition once the construction of H.E.O.R.O.T had concluded. Yes, Hrotghar was the president of Mexico’s most respected lucha libre guild, but they needed a physical place to consolidate all their masculinity.

The existence of H.E.O.R.O.T crowned Hrothgar once and for all as the most benign lucha libre leader to exist, for he had finally created an establishment where luchadores could duke it out, train, share a common ground, as well as put an end to any conflict. It was ground zero for fisticuffs, grapples, piledrivers and muscle busters. Hence, Hrothgar decided to name this place “Hombres Extraordinarios y Orgullosamente Rudos Ostentan Testosterona”. Sadly, not a single soul wished to refer to this place by that mouthful of a sentence, and thus they decided to simply nickname it “H.E.O.R.O.T”.

Hrothgar, who became known as a king in Chipotle, ruled with an iron but just fist. He wished for others to respect the basis and foundations of what made lucha libre so spectacular in the first place, and this attitude of his not only imbued the people in Chipotle with love for their king, but also to grow closer as a town.

Lucha libre, and H.E.O.R.O.T by extension, were bonding men, women and children alike; truly and act for the ages. Those who had never taken an interest in lucha libre would suddenly find themselves sitting on the bleachers, cheering on those mask-wielding, leather-clad, cape-wearing, knuckle-delivering heroes of the ring. Some would later even join them, picking their own

outfits, sewing their mug-hiders at home, and taking on new and creative nicknames which would later be howled, yelled and cheered on by spectators from Chipotle.

Important and renowned luchadores such as Ecglaf, whose real name was Luis Antunez, rose to fame around this time. H.E.O.R.O.T also gave birth to some notorious figures too, with the mere mention of the name Unferth being enough to make the entire audience gag in disgust. Unferth, also known as Ricardo Peludo, had tarnished his reputation by breaking the rules and locking his opponent’s neck into an illegal move. After the third time, Hrothgar himself expelled him from the association and revoked his luchador license, causing him to live the rest of his days as a shoe-polisher.

The stories of Chipotle, its just ruler and H.E.O.R.O.T’s back-breaker traveled all over Mexico. People would read about it on the newspapers, tune in on H.E.O.R.O.T’s latest brawl over at “El Canal de la Lucha” every night, and just about every single individual residing in Mexican territory had something to say about that magnificent arena.

Unfortunately, this also meant that Hrothgar’s doings also reached the wrong set of ears. Not everyone saw lucha libre as a tradition or even a cultural emblem. Some sadly saw it as a way to make profit, especially given how insanely popular it had become. Even though most of the drug cartels were fairly respectful of Mexican traditions, others were rotten to the very core. Such evil-doers were known around the region as “El Cartel de las Piñas”, a violent and infamous syndicate who would use its fiery fighters to get exactly what it wanted. More often than not, its victims were rushed to emergency following a brutal beating of a hundred blows. Vile, venomous, vicious, violent and villainous. Feared by many, respected by none. El Cartel de las Piñas was fully aware of their reputation, and that was what made them even more dangerous.

It was only a matter of time before they arrived at Chipotle, leaving a trail of dread and pain. The corrupt beaters were in town for one reason and one reason alone: money. They knew not to threaten the local fast food stores, for taking it out on a brick-and-mortar building would prove to be a waste of time. The vulgar fiends had their sights on H.E.O.R.O.T long before setting foot on Chipotle; they knew how much money Hrothgar was racking up, and they cared not what the use of said profits were. If the just ruler wanted to enjoy his business, he would have to hand over some verdes.

The negotiations with Hrothgar were less than stellar. The vile men refused to bend the knee and listen to his pleas. No matter the terms they laid on the table, Hrothgar was having none of it. His brawns were useless here, but there was no way he was going to hand over H.E.O.R.O.T to such ruffians.

After many hours, countless threats, counter-offers and no deal, the vile men left Hrothgar’s office, the arena and Chipotle, but their intentions never left their heads. The benign ex-fighter knew about this, and he feared that would not be the last he would see of those bald, bearded criminals. A reprisal was at hand.

Many nights Hrothgar went to bed, knowing full and well that one day he would have to face the consequences of that failed deal. Lo and behold, that fateful day finally came, but what transcurred during that excruciating Saturday was only the beginning. The two messengers sent by the cartel never returned, and instead they decided to task their deadliest enforcer with making Hrothgar pay for this refusal to comply with the Cartel’s wants.

Chipotle’s townsfolk, store owners, shoe-polishers, mechanics; just about everyone looked at the mysterious, dread-inducing cloaked figure that walked down the town’s main street. Some were even scared to look him in the eye, and so they hid behind whatever they could in order to avoid its gaze. Witnesses said he possessed a couple of glimmering red orbs; piercing crimson eyes that would penetrate the very soul of whoever made direct contact with them. Others claimed sharp claws peeked out of his large, body-covering cloak, giving him the appearance of a mutant. One thing was for sure: nobody really knew what was under that appearance-hider of his.

Hrothgar saw the creature walking from afar; the impending stride of doom coming his way. His heart sunk, his hands gripped the arm of his office chair so tight his knuckles became white. It was over.

Much of what happened after has been lost to time. Many a luchador tried their best to defend the honor of lucha libre, H.E.O.R.O.T and the rightful status of Hrothgar as king of “Asociacion Chipotleana de Golpes”. As many newspapers explained later, they failed, and Hrothgar was forced in exile to the outskirts of Chipotle while also handing over the complete control of H.E.O.R.O.T over to the Cartel.

All that era of prosperity, the memorable matches at H.E.O.R.O.T, all of that was lost to that walking shadow’s reign of terror. Many told false stories to the origins of that cloaked creature, but only Hrothgar knew of its beginnings. El Grendelio, whose real name remains a mystery, was an extremely infamous underground luchador, coming straight from the lowest and most dangerous slums. They attributed his malformed body to the malnourishment he suffered while growing up, but that also gave him superhuman capabilities.

His downright distaste and desperate disgust towards happiness and humans themselves made him a menace on the ring, for most of his matches usually ended with his opponent badly injured or worse, dead. Such atrocities forbade him from participating in official matches, and so he was relegated to clandestine encounters.

The Cartel used him as a weapon to not only generate fat wads of cash, but also to lay the smackdown on whoever dared cross them. They had him well-trained, and El Grendelio knew they were the key to sate his hunger for vengeance. A symbiotic yet pernicious relationship. H.E.O.R.O.T had become El Grendelio’s lair and while he had access to Hrothgar’s office, he did not have the key to his power. They saw Hrothgar as the king of Chipotle, not El Grendelio, even if he was the one controlling Ramon’s pride, the masterpiece that had made him nationally regarded as one of the pillars of contemporary lucha libre. El Grendelio could sit on Hrothgar’s office chair, but that cushiony seat did not grow warm to the shadow’s touch.

These were dark, grim times for Chipotle. Their once source of joy had been snatched from them, usurped, taken away. He who dared venture into the desolate and abandoned remains of H.E.O.R.O.T would usually not come back. Where the crowd once cheered, howled and roared, now only mice and other lowly creatures sang their lonesome cries.

Two months had transcurred since the fall of H.E.O.R.O.T when the news arrived to the small town of Musculonia, the once aspiring capital of lucha libre that had since abandoned such hopes once Chipotle became the grand center of said event. Musculonia was special for lacking paperboys, and so the most important news were delivered by a guanaco: a youngster who would recite haikus detailing the latest local events.

A guanaco seemed to have lost his way and found himself walking down a lonely path, still reciting the haiku he had been assigned.

Over and over again, those words echoed in the vast countryside of Musculonia until they were finally heard by someone. A tall, bulky, fair-skinned man was lowering stacks of hay from a truck; he got on the vehicle, placed the burly block of hay on the back of his neck, then landed back on the ground before laying them down on different piles. His skill was remarkable, his grip on the stacks was out of this world. He was doing the work of ten men all by himself, and without breaking a sweat.The worker outfit he was donning seemed to have been dirtied to the point of losing its original color scheme, but not a single droplet of sweat smeared his attire.

Then, this unknown worker turned his head to the singing boy heading his way and watched him continue his walk, all while those words he sung shook him to his core. This was his true calling, this was the one reason Esteban Vives needed to jump back into action. In a hurry, he abandoned his current duties, for a much more urgent mission needed his attention. Esteban disappeared into his shack, opened a secret container in his wardrobe, and pulled out the costume that had earned him so much respect for the better part of a decade. Brown hair, chestnut eyes, a manly and chiseled face; all those features were obscured when decided to don a silver wolf-themed mask, the signature element of his alter-ego.

Esteban came out of that shack as the same human being, but as a completely different person. Imprinted across the back of his blue robe was the word “BEOWULFO” in red. His toned torso was in full display, muscular glutes and well-trained legs were covered by a pair of dark blue tight pants, yellow shin guards and black wrestling boots by his feet.

No sooner had he stepped on the road to make his way to Chipotle than some bystanders instantly recognized him, greeting the heavy-weighting, humongous, hulking hombre and showing nothing but respect for his legacy.

“Beowulfo! We thought we would never see you again! I still talk to my son about your impressive matches,” one man spoke. The other just stared in disbelief, but Beowulfo was kind enough to fistbump both of them, appreciating their kind words before continuing his walk to liberate H.E.O.R.O.T and restore Hrothgar to his rightful position.

Many more citizens of Musculonia encountered Beowulfo on the way, all of which warned him about what El Grendelio had done over at Chipotle, but none of them doubted Beowulfo for his determination to put an end to that creature’s reign of terror.

That same guanaco from before encountered Beowulfo on his way back, and he was so touched by his presence that he forgot his scripted poem and instead started reciting a whole new one.

Long before Hrothgar had come up with H.E.O.R.O.T, the lucha libre scene was thriving over at Musculonia, and some would even go as far as to call it the greatest place for lucha libre in the whole world. Esteban Vives had slowly risen through the ranks as Beowulfo, earning himself quite the reputation and ultimately becoming the absolute champion, with a flawless streak of forty-two wins and zero losses. As soon as H.E.O.R.O.T took over and people started migrating to Chipotle, Beowulfo became overwhelmed with the possibility of leaving behind his people, his identity and his town. H.E.O.R.O.T had pushed Musculonia away from the spotlight, so unless he decided to make the move to ditch his hometown and take his prowess to Hrothgar’s palace, he would be deemed a has-been. That was when he decided to hang his mask in the closet and retire from the world of lucha libre. Nevertheless, he had always dreamed of making a name for himself over at H.E.O.R.O.T and even hoped to form a strong bond with Hrothgar, but he never quite managed to achieve those goals.

Much like Hrothgar himself, Beowulfo believed in the foundations of lucha libre, and he refused to allow a dirty malefactor like El Grendelio destroy the just ruler’s legacy.

The retired juggernaut’s valiant trip to Chipotle was quite an inspiring experience.

Many a Musculonian encountered him on his way to his destination, offering to give him a ride and even aid him in his fight against this fearsome, dreadful and evil menace.

He refused them, for he knew this was destiny for him, this was the well-built justicar’s calling, his chance for redemption after he seemingly disappeared from the life of his beloved admirers. Beowulf had to do this on his own, and no matter how many jaw-dropped devotees he stumbled upon, the answer was always the same.

“I must do this on my own.”

Words that were repeated way too many times for him to remember, but he was sure that by the time he set foot on the outskirts of Chipotle, the news had already traveled the lands. Guanacos near and far had trashed their previously assigned haikus and instead made new ones on the spot to let everyone know that, indeed, he was back. Not just about any luchador, but Beowulfo himself.

Musculonians were practically throwing an impromptu party on the streets. Sure, Beowulfo had not yet accomplished his goal, but his return was enough to light the fire inside everyone’s hearts.

On the contrary, silence reigned supreme in Chipotle. Dusty steps were all that echoed in the tense and grim quiet of the once-renowned cradle of lucha libre. Wherever the back-breaker glanced, all he could see was the absolute absence of life. The occasional curtain was drawn whenever he dared make eye-contact with one of the terrified Chipotlians who sought shelter in their houses or businesses. Closed shutters, drawn curtains, carteles with big red letters that spelled CERRADO on them; that was the reality of he who lived in this dirt-grounded town for what seemed like an eternity now.

The pillar of righteousness slowly advanced towards the monument that represented the identity of all northern Mexicans, the mecca of luchadores nationwide. His pilgrimage was slowly coming to an end, and one quick gaze at the horizon revealed that the Sun was setting, leaving the orange-tinted sky to give his exposed muscles a golden and artificial tan.

Whilst he expected to encounter a desolate reality, he did not know things were this bad just fifty miles away from his toolshed. Not a single soul came out to greet him, and this remained true up until he made his way to the very entrance of what was once known as H.E.O.R.O.T. The moment he approached the big gates, a cowardly and fear-struck guard approached him from behind, quickly tapping him on the shoulder. The man had clearly not read the hope-imbuing words on the back of his robe since he treated Beowulfo like a complete stranger and, even worse, a rookie.

“HEY! Y-You should get out of here, fast! H.E.O.R.O.T is closed, no battles are taking place right now, and Hrothgar doesn’t want to meet unregistered luchadores,” the simple-looking man informed him. One could not tell him apart from a chipotle seller, as his attire looked exactly the same as those who provided citizens with a tasty on-the-go meal.

The howling mass remained silent for a moment, chestnut orbs boring a hole into the unaware guard who presumed the man before him was yet another clueless and inconspicuous wannabe hero who wanted to free this place. But then… it dawned upon him.

“You… you’re…” the guard started, going mute as he stared in disbelief.

“I am here to fight for Hrothgar and free both H.E.O.R.O.T and Chipotle. It seems you finally recognized me, young luchador. But don’t you fret, just take me to your king and I promise that tomorrow you will be able to enjoy the ring once more, exactly the way you used to.”

Beowulfo’s words were assuring, and in an instant he soon found himself being led by the guard to Hrothgar’s whereabouts, taking the liberator through a series of back alleys and away from H.E.O.R.O.T itself.

The king’s small pseudo-palace was not too far away from his real one, for Chipotle was a relatively small city. However, Hrotghar’s current place of residence was nothing short of a humble hut, a make do throne of sorts that did the bare minimum job of letting others still see him as a king.

“El… G-Grendelio… he… he is watching, overseeing the entire arena. He was forbidden from attacking the king himself or even destroying his throne, but what good is a ruler without a castle?”

None of the guard’s words were able to shake the to-be savior’s mighty core, and instead he remained stern and decided up until they made it to Hrothgar’s domain.

The just ruler was hidden inside his hut, shutters down like the rest of the town. He seemed to have made a replica of his office over at H.E.O.R.O.T. After all, it was his rightful place, he had earned his kingdom and refused to let some crooked evil-doers usurp it from him. A king with a crown, a king with a throne, but a king without palace.

A knock on the door and the king called out to whoever was on the other side.

“Who is it?”

The voice sounded manly, but frail. Powerful, but afraid.

“Who IS IT!?” Hrotghar reiterated once five seconds had passed and his previous question was left unanswered. Then, without warning, the steel door knob was turned and the almighty back-breaker entered the king’s office.

Two legends finally came face to face, and the expression on Hrothgar’s face denounced his admiration for the mythical luchador standing before him.

“I… B-BEOWULFO!?” he exclaimed, a rhetorical question that needed no answer. Then, the masked fighter extended his arm, waiting for the king to shake his hand. A handshake of atomic proportions ensued soon after, a cataclysmic bond had been formed between the two parties that put both El Grendelio and the Cartel at peril. Even Chipotlians themselves could feel that intensity of that peacemaking limb-wrestling from afar, weaving words of hope and prosperity into their hearts.

The handshake lasted all of thirty seconds, enough for an unspoken agreement to take place between the two. No words were needed, no contracts were signed, but promises were made just from the look in their eyes.

“Leave it all to me, Hrothgar. I will bring El Grendelio down, take his mask as proof of his defeat, and then restore H.E.O.R.O.T to what it once was. It is my rightful duty as an exemplary luchador,” Beowulfo told him, taking pride in his status as one of the modern bastions of lucha libre, a person who had set high standards for this national and cultural phenomenon.

The hopeful ruler placed his hand on the luchador’s shoulder, then gave him an affectionate nudge.

“Oh, Beowulf, you came when we needed you the most. Rest assured that not a single soul here believes that that wretched creature will outpower you. Not even Unferth, that cynical bastard…” The king in despair showered Beowulfo in praise before he had even gotten hands on with the beast, but it spoke of how confident he was of the champion’s success rate.

Every second wasted was precious time that could have been better spent rebuilding what this abominable creature had destroyed. Beowulfo knew that, and so he decided to attack the creature head on. He was completely unaware of where El Grendelio was hiding, but he knew that he was lurking somewhere in the arena’s shadows; the cunning enforcer would execute whoever dared trespass these fighting grounds.

Beowulfo made his way back to H.E.O.R.O.T, decided to take the creature down right then and there. It would be its final resting place.

Much to his surprise, Beowulf had a plan which was unveiled as soon as the ring became illuminated just like a stage, and its main performer quickly showed up to invite the antagonist to battle for the future of Chipotle.

The blinding lights of those lanterns high up near the ceiling were enough to bring El Grendelio out of hiding, slithering its way to the ring and jumping over the clothesline.

This unscripted play started with Beowulfo taunting his cloaked opponent, raising both of his hands and daring him to close the gap. El Grendelio, whose figure remained a mystery as his body-long attire refused not even a glimmer of light to permeate it, was fast despite such cumbersome-looking outfit.

Long, dark and clawed hands reached out to strike the justicar but missed just barely, for the brave luchador’s reflexes were simply godlike. As he was about to counterstrike with an uppercut, the evil creature retreated and tried to circle the wolf, proving just how fast and menacing he was.

As the fight took place, more and more people came out of hiding. The lights from the arena were attracting them like moths to a lamp. Guards, merchants, even panhandlers all started swarming the arena much to El Grendelio’s dismay. He could not hunt them down, he was busy trying to bring this absolute powerhouse of a hero down, and he was failing miserably.

“BEOWULFO! BEOWULFO!”the crowd chanted, imbuing Beowulfo with the spirit of a true champion. Such unmatched strength took El Grendelio by surprise, and not even his cheapest blows such as using his unnaturally-long and sharp fingernails were able to stop the brave luchador. In fact, up until this point, Beowulf was pretty much unscathed.

The Cartel’s vicious weapon was being dismantled piece by piece, and in the heat of the moment he fell victim to a series of strikes as Beowulfo unleashed a flurry of unprecedented attacks. To El Grendelio, he had never seen such powerful moves, but most die hard Beowulfo fans knew what was to come.

“HE IS DOING IT!” one of the spectators exclaimed, very excited for what was about to happen.

Turning El Grendelio towards him, Beowulfo threw the cloaked monster’s arm over his own shoulder, then pulled him right over his own body and slammed his back down on the ring. After reverse-arm slamming his opponent, he picked his body up from behind and backdropped his head down onto the ground, then he leaped backwards and repeated the motion again with his arms locked under El Grendelio, thus masterfully executing a double German Suplex.

What came after had the crowd on the edge of their seats; it was the grand finale, the very end of Beowulfo’s combo and the spectators could see in real time how hope and prosperity was being restored to Chipotle. Following the suplex, the luchador turned around grabbed the creature upside down, locking his strong muscle-busters around El Grendelio’s waist, then slammed the upper-half of his back and his neck down onto the ground in a deadly piledriver.

No sooner Beowulfo started moving again, the cheering from the crowd became so loud the entire city was now awake. He was about to do his signature move, the one had cemented his status amongst the deities of lucha libre.

Beowulfo raised the criminal scum by placing his extended legs over his shoulders and then leaving his unprotected head dangling down. One leap into the air and the bone-chilling roar of a wolf were followed by his signature “Howling Screwdriver” as he came spiraling down like a corkscrew before slamming El Grendelio’s head right into the ring itself.

That move had been Beowulfo’s curtain call, his key to victory. Chestnut eyes fell upon the slumped body of El Grendelio who was struggling to even breathe following such heroic punishment. The brave and powerful luchador was staring down at the past; the creature that had tortured and tormented this city for so long was no more.

In the middle of all the cheering and the chanting, he leaned down to remove the loser’s cloak and rip his mask off, but before he could do that El Grendelio slithered away, escaping H.E.O.R.O.T and avoiding further humiliation. Beowulfo was left with the enforcer’s cloak on his hand, which he gripped triumphantly. He held the cloak high up in the air for everyone to admire and then let out a victory roar akin to a wolf’s mighty howl.

Amidst all the chanting and the cheering and the singing, Hrothgar joined Beowulfo in the ring, shaking his hand once more as the exiled king regained his beloved pride, H.E.O.R.O.T.

“I, Hrothgar, king and leader of the ‘Asociación Chipotleana de Golpes’, wants to thank you on behalf of the entire population of Chipotle for having disposed of this pesky evil-doer and having restored peace and prosperity to the bedrock of modern lucha libre.We are in eternal gratitude with you for such a heroic achievement.”

Beowulfo gladly accepted Hrothgar’s words of praise. “I appreciate your kindness, my king, but it is my rightful duty as a luchador to defend such a landmark of our national sport. I simply could not allow this to happen, and had I been noticed sooner I would have come to your aid months ago.”

“The past is the past, my dear champion. What is important now is that H.E.O.R.O.T will go back to being the magnificent arena it once was, a place where all luchadores can gather and knock themselves out… errr, take that as you wish.”

Beowulfo decided to linger around in Chipotle for a week, for the king had requested him to enjoy the city to his heart’s content. Hrothgar told him that he would make sure he got showered in all sorts of gifts, souvenirs and the like, and even sent his best cooks to prepare whatever delicacy the hero desired. Regardless, the wolf was not compelled by such grandiloquent rewards, yet he still indulged in some of them out of respect for Hrothgar himself.

The news of his victory over El Grendelio seemed to travel fast, as every single guanaco over at Musculonia was currently reciting haiku after haiku explaining Beowulfo’s triumphant deeds and how he had set Chipotle free.

A visit to Hrothgar’s office revealed many things. H.E.O.R.O.T was currently under repair, El Grendelio’s cloak was currently on display on the office’s largest wall, and the king himself appeared to be much happier and gleeful now that he no longer had to worry about that spiteful creature killing his men as well as Chipotle’s citizens. However, even through the expression of sheer relief and satisfaction on his face, Beowulfo could see that something was still troubling the just ruler.

“Ah, Beowulfo…” Hrothgar started as the hero walked into his office. “I know I have said it a thousand times already, but I can’t thank you enough for what you have done for all of us. Your actions have completely eradicated all traces of that evil creature’s presence and we can go back to fostering the rich culture of lucha libre. That is what I would say if… there wasn’t another source of impending doom looming over the horizon.” The king’s words acquired a rather grim tone as reached the end of that sentence, clearly worried by something.

“What is the matter, my king? I thought I made sure El Grendelio would not pose a threat any longer.”

“And that you did, my dear hero. THAT… you did. The problem is that ‘El Cartel de las Piñas’ were the ones who sent El Grendelio after I refused to cave in to their threats. I am afraid that they may retaliate following what you did to their brainchild, their greatest enforcer and the sole reason why they are feared oh so much.”

Taking down an entire cartel was usually outside the scope of just about any normal person, and even some powerful entities would think about it twice before messing with such dangerous people. Their status as vicious and fearsome criminals notwithstanding, Beowulfo was not afraid of them in the slightest, but given that their whereabouts were currently undisclosed, he would need to find a way to get access to their hideout.

A soldier knocked on the king’s door then, barging in afterwards and showing Hrothgar a letter with a piece of black cloth attached to its envelope. Silence reigned in the room as the ruler opened the letter and started reading it out loud. His voice remained firm, not intimidated by the violent nature of this message.

Deciding to put an end to this once and for all, Beowulfo not only decided to accept responsibility for his actions but also realized that if he wanted for Chipotle to become a thriving and threat-free city he would have to make sure the cartel was no more.

The hero took the letter from Hrothgar and put it back in its envelope, then walked with the guard until he met the cartel’s designated messenger. The poor man looked like an average Joe, nothing like the enforcer they had sent to tear H.E.O.R.O.T down. He seemed to be doing his job, sent to deliver this inquiry. Knowing that there was no other way than to comply, Beowulfo walked outside the colossal arena with the unknown and unnamed messenger, sat in the back of a flat-bed, rusty-looking truck, and then awaited as he was driven to the city’s outskirts, hopefully to El Cartel de las Piñas’ hideout.

The trip was long and arduous. Despite Beowulfo not having to move a muscle during the trip there, the Sun felt hotter than ever. For the first time, the sandy surroundings felt grim, dismal even. Everywhere he looked was desert all around. In the distance, a tiny black box seemingly got bigger and bigger the more the truck traveled towards it.

Less than a mile away, Beowulfo was able to make out that blurry figure; it was a building, more specifically an abandoned warehouse. The closer they got, the more he was able to appreciate its features. It sort of resembled H.E.O.R.O.T, only if the architect overseeing its construction was filled with evil and negative thoughts.

The truck finally came to a stop right by the secret base’s entrance. The driver did not descend from the cabin, but the messenger did and then waited for the proclaimed hero himself before the two of them walked right through the main doors.

Only the tiniest hints of light could penetrate the thick black cloth covering every single window in the building, and so the only source of illumination were a couple of depressing lamps hanging from a long cord that had its source right on the ceiling. The centerpiece of this den of crime was a mistreated, run down and untidy ring that tried to replicate the glorious one located in Chipotle. This gave the place a very gloomy atmosphere, devoid of any emotions, and making it look like a bitter, depressing reflection of H.E.O.R.O.T.

“He was like a son to us,” one masculine voice proclaimed.

“We raised him… and you took him from us,” another one said. Like an angry mob, shadowy men started to approach Beowulfo from every direction. Their features were kept a mystery for the time being as the dimly-lit building made it impossible to tell them apart from the pillars.

One by one they started getting closer and closer. Four, six, seven… eight of them, that was how many the heroic luchador could count. They all believed themselves to be capable of taking the lone fighter mano-a-mano using nothing but their fists, and Beowulfo truly respected the fact that they lived up to the name of their less-than-legal organization.They had clearly ambushed him with the intention of bringing him down, but there was no way the justicar was going down when these people were posing a threat to the future and well-being of lucha libre.

A man in front of him dared step forward, and that was all it took to unleash a seemingly endless and unrelenting barrage of violence, a chain reaction derived from one simple footstep. Beowulf delivered a knuckle sandwich to the evildoer who approached him, striking his chin so hard the bare-fisted criminal was sent flying backward. A loud thump signaled the impact of the man against the wall, leaving him knocked out and down for the count.

The other seven were clearly taken aback by the masked hero’s might, and tried their best to keep their wits about… or lack thereof. Their moves were sloppy, unprofessional, yet the sheer strength of their blows more than made up for their lack of techniques. Regardless, one by one they started biting the dust as each and every single one of Beowulfo’s punches hit its target.

The groans of corrupted men being defeated by a pure-hearted being echoed in the empty warehouse. The last three of them were disposed of rather easily, with Beowulfo punching one of them right on the chest, knocking him down, grabbing him by the legs and holding them around his waist. Then, he started swinging the unconscious evil-doer around, knocking the others to the ground before flinging the unfortunate human carousel out of the window. Hiding behind one of the pillars was the wimpy messenger, a weakling made just to serve as an errand boy.

One last person showed up following Beowulfo’s victory, and for some reason his presence struck something in the masked luchador. It was a big, tall man with his head as bald and shiny as a bowling ball. He was donning a large trench coat that somehow resembled El Grendelio’s attire.

“The cartel is no more… you have single-handedly RUINED everything,” he explained. “I was the one who sent that letter, and I’ll be the one to bury you right next to HIM.” Then, Cain ripped the trench coat off his body, throwing the torn piece of clothing aside and jumping onto the ring.

“Come on, let’s have one last battle! If you win, I will retire for good and you will no longer hear about me or the cartel. But if I win… heh, you don’t want to know what I’ll do if I’m victorious.”

“You talk too much,” replied the back-breaking, bone-busting, bulky and burly bulwark of Chipotle. “Let’s see if you can back it up on the ring.”

Much like El Grendelio and the rest of his underlings, Cain’s arsenal was mostly packed with cheap tricks. From illegal sweeps and low shots to sucker punches, the mastermind of El Cartel de las Piñas proved to be a formidable opponent, but for all the wrong reasons.

Beowulfo was able to read Cain like a book though, for he had fought his henchmen before and so he knew exactly what to expect. From the get go, the balance was tipped in the hero’s favor, the brave luchador had kept a calm and serene mind throughout. On the contrary, his opponent was blinded by rage, consumed by hatred, fueled by wrath and the desire to eliminate he who had destroyed the cartel’s pride.

It did not take long until Cain’s mistakes caught up with him, making one wrong move too many until Beowulfo had him exactly where he wanted. Caught in the superior fighter’s arm lock, the bossman himself was left defenseless.

“Your time has come,” Beowulfo told him in that handsome, heroic baritone. From the standing lock, the luchador took Cain into a standing heel hold, grappling one of his legs and rendering his opponent weak to his next move. Straight into the mythical Indian Death Lock, he wrapped his adversary’s legs around his own, turned around and let his weight fall down onto the ring’s ground, nearly snapping the bald villain’s lower joints.

The entire fight came to an end as Beowulfo’s own muscular lower limbs locked themselves around his opponent’s; Cain was raised up into the air with the wolf still laying on his back. Holding him by his arms, the head honcho’s reign of terror was finally over as Beowulfo pulled a Romero special on him.

Cain’s unconscious and spent body laid on the ring’s, posing no threat whatsoever. Beowulfo rose to a standing position, feeling accomplished, victorious, triumphant. One by one, all of Chipotle’s enemies had been eliminated. He glanced in the meek messenger’s direction and made eye contact with him, that action alone causing him to flee the scene a desperate mess. With a grunt of satisfaction he walked out of the scene. The truck was no longer there, for it had simply arrived to deliver doom itself upon the cartel.

It had been a long and deadly fight and he was tired. Soon, Beowulfo would be met once more with Hrothgar’s praise as well as an unwanted shower of gifts, but for the time being he would have to walk the long haul back to civilization. The Sun was setting, and so after glancing one last time at the cartel’s remains, he started back towards Chipotle.

Lucha libre saw a massive revival in following the demise of El Cartel de las Piñas. Even those cartels that still remained were not as evil as Cain’s gang was, and none of them saw any reason or purpose in ruining what Hrothgar had built.

H.E.O.R.O.T was once more populated by luchadores from all over Mexico, both past ones and underdogs striving for a chance at becoming well-known and successful kings of the ring. Mug-hiders and costumes galore, of all colors and designs imaginable. There was no limit to the power of imagination, and even these new wannabe fighters were donning attires that no luchador would have thought of a decade prior.

Hrothgar’s rule eventually came to an end. Ramon Salazar was simply too old to keep being the president of the Asociacion Chipotleana de Golpes, king of H.E.O.R.O.T and ruler of Chipotle itself. That, and other aspiring successors thought it was unwise to let a man hold that much power. Even if Hrothgar was no longer sitting on that throne in his office, the hearts of every single Chipotlean still recognized him as the best king their land had ever had.

Much like the just ruler’s reign was reminisced by many, so were Beowulfo’s legendary feats. The destruction of the cartel had caused his popularity to skyrocket, and thus the hero had no choice but to make a comeback to the ring.

As much as he tried to hold back when fighting against those who challenged his title as the undisputed champion, his adversaries were no match for the inhuman strength he possessed.

The day came when a stranger from another land arrived in the city of Musculonia. He knew full and well that the most important matches took place in H.E.O.R.O.T, yet he wished to challenge the champion himself in his hometown, in the one place Beowulfo hailed from. The man’s appearance was not ominous in the slightest, but his professional-looking costume had other fellow luchadores respect him from his looks alone.

A fair-skinned and well-built, toned body completely clad in dark blue scales from head to toe, the unmistakable head of a dragon being used as his mug-hider. The dragon called himself Zoa, and nobody really knew what his real name was. Not that it was important, for he only wanted to challenge Beowulfo and take his title as “Champion of the Ring”. Most people saw that as well as the golden belt that came with it as the most precious, sought after treasure by every single luchador on Earth.

Zoa’s challenge eventually reached the ears of even the most remote Musculonians, which in turn caused guanacos to start spreading the news.

Beowulfo took notice of the fact that he was being challenged, and found it particularly interesting that his challenger chose the arena over at Musculonia, his hometown, as the stage for this grandiose event. He was not one to refuse a battle, not even if he was unaware of who his opponent was.

The two towns saw this as the fight of the century, even more important than Beowulfo’s triumph over El Grendelio a decade prior. For some, Zoa was nothing more than a small fry who made up for his lack of skills and strength with his attire. Those who knew the man behind the mask, however, knew that the dragon was the real deal.

Whilst the majority of his victories had taken place outside Mexican territory, he had defeated the biggest and most important luchadores in the southern part of the country. His last stop was Beowulfo himself, and defeating the legendary howler would be the end of an era and the beginning of a new one.

The day came, at last, and the two titans met in Musculonia’s local arena, a modest fighting center that did not hold a candle to the imposing mammoth that was H.E.O.R.O.T, but it was truly beloved by the local residents.

In one corner, sitting on a stool and examining his foe from head to toe was Beowulfo. Despite his muscular physique, one could see that age had had its effect on the luchador himself, and that he no longer was the young powerhouse that restored Chipotle to its former glory. Long due were those days, but he still believed he had what it took to come out of this ring an undefeated champion.

Zoa himself was unfazed by Beowulfo’s intimidating presence. Unlike the hero himself, he needed not analyze him nor detect a weak spot, for he had full and complete confidence in his own abilities.

The moment the match started, Zoa proved himself to be much superior to Beowulfo given his fast reflexes and his quick moves. Every time the wolf tried to attack, his blows were avoided with ease, only to be struck by a counter hit.

Despite the crowd obviously cheering for him through and through, the once legendary masked luchador was not what he used to be. He was trying his earnest to give his all, but even at his best he was no match for the dragon.

By the fifteen minute mark, Beowulfo was struggling to stand on his own two feet. The crowd were still chanting his name, hoping he would not give up, but it was futile. One surprise clothesline lariat sent him to the ground, and all Beowulfo could do was witness Zoa as he jumped on one of the poles and prepared to land on the downed fighter with all his might. The dragon did so, landing on the wolf’s torso with his elbow and knocking the air out of his lungs.

That one move had been the end, and Beowulfo tapped out mere moments later. He had been defeated right in front of all his fans, in the very town that had seen him grow and become the greatest luchador in Mexican history. That elbow drop had ended his reign as the reigning “Champion of the Ring” and, subsequently, his career as a luchador.

Zoa extended a hand out to the lying fighter, who gladly reached up and grabbed it without hesitation. A true luchador would never not admit defeat, and as Beowulfo rose to his feet he unbuckled the golden belt around his waist and held it up into the air for the crowd to see.

As the item changed owners, the tale of Beowulfo came to an end. Esteban believed that Zoa would get to appreciate a new era of fighters, a new age of luchadores. Lavished by his fans as a festival of roses rained down upon him while he left the arena, the retired luchador walked away into the sunset.

Esteban “Beowulfo” Vives: Mexican expy of traditional Viking Beowulf.

Ramon “Hrothgar” Salazar: Hrothgar himself.

H.E.O.R.O.T: mead-hall-turned-arena, acronym.

“El Grendelio”: fearsome luchador, Mexican expy of Grendel.

Chipotle: land of Danes, adapted to become just another Mexican city.

Musculonia: see Chipotle, based on the land of Geats.

El Cartel de las Piñas and Cain: Grendel’s Mother.

Zoa and the golden belt: the Dragon and the treasure.

German Suplex, Piledriver, Howling Screwdriver, Standing Heel Hold, Indian Death Lock, Romero Special/King's Bridge: professional wrestling/lucha libre moves.