There are sensations that are so alien and surreal the human psyche struggles to perceive them. The pain was the first thing that surfaced. It was like a vise being tightened on all sides of his head. Sharp pain fluctuated with dull; pin-point sensation ebbed and was replaced by the all-over ache of systemic damage, then refocused into the minute raging of a single neuron. Damien’s brain was filled with a thunderstorm of electrical heat as the message of his injuries traveled through his spine, and the rest of his central nervous system was urged into action. Then, he went numb, and the disembodiment set in.

Damien Cruz sat straight up, and watched dumbly as blood spilled from his mouth into a dark red puddle between his legs. His vision snapped into focus, and the muffled haze of shock retreated to the borders of his view. The roar of the audience echoed in a far away place, and a white heat emanated from the base of his skull. Looking around where he sat, he pieced together what had just happened. In the far corner, a man was waving a barbed-wire bat, and the undulating crowd rose and fell at his command. Damien returned his gaze to the red puddle soaking into the canvas under him. His mouth sat open stupidly, and when he tried to close it, and redeem some level of dignity, it gaped defiantly. He lifted his hands to his face and did not recognize what he felt. It felt like a wad of gum: sticky, soft, and not attached to the rest of his body. Damien Cruz closed his eyes, and the world went away. He continued his infant-like exploration of his own face. The flesh gave way like a ripe fruit. The skin covering it felt overstuffed and thin. Beneath the surface he felt the shifting fragments of bone, and the heat that a thousand capillaries emit when they are tattered. A low roar from behind him forced open his eyes, and he spun just in time to see a black object crashing into his face. Then, there was darkness.

1995.

The old man sat motionless in the corner of the room. His hands worked restlessly with a string of rosaries, and his brow creased and shifted with a barrage of emotions. In some moments, his eyes closed with hesitation, in others, he sighed with resignation, in sparse moments of confidence he smiled, and in far more common moments of doubt he looked up at the skinny boy sitting across the room from him, searching for a last moment confirmation that he was not making a horrible mistake.

To the boy, however, there was no doubt. There was no shift, and there was no question. Damien pulled tight his boot laces, and adjusted the bulky pads on his knees. Despite the advice offered to him, he wore what he had spent the past five years training in. Sweat pants and a tank top. It was not the flashy tights, or bright colored singlet that the others wore, but it was comfortable. Damien made a decision very early to choose comfort over custom.

From the first day he walked into Father Morales’ gym to the day he made his debut in that gymnasium, Damien Cruz had been single minded in his goals. He was going to be a luchadore. As his body grew, his focus narrowed. As muscle replaced baby fat, and his reflexes sharpened, he could feel the inevitability of his choice take hold. He had embraced the feel of canvas, wood, and velvet-covered steel as natural and as purposeful to himself as his own skin. He claimed each and every aspect of that art form, and held onto it greedily. Each time his body slammed into that ring, it drove his passion even deeper.

The man who watched his evolution did so with a glowing pride. With each passing month, which blurred into years, Father Morales saw his prot�e’s ability blossom. Lessons that Father Morales had learned over the years were instincts in his young student; weaknesses that Morales came to grips with and overcame never occurred to Damien. There were fears, but none of them found a footing in the rise of The Last Son of Lucha Libre. The old man sat on the edge of doubt and resolve, neither one truly setting into permanence. Not until Father Morales saw the boy pulling on his wrestling pads, and waiting for his entrance music.

The old man rose, and walked to where Damien was sitting on the bench, and put his hand on the boy’s shoulder.

'Damien, I am very proud of you. You have grown to be a strong, wise, incredible young man. So if you go out there tonight, or if you decide to stay right where you are, I will understand. Know that I am proud of you either way.'

Damien lifted his gaze from his taped hands to his mentor’s eyes. He smiled.

The announcer poked his head into the room.

'Padre?'

Father Morales took a deep breath and let the certainty of Damien’s face answer for him.

'Are you sure you want to do this?'

The young man rose to his feet, and rolled his shoulder in his socket, absently nodding. He stepped out into the hallways that lead into the main stage, and into the life of The Latin Assassin.

2003

The floor swam under his steps as he tried to regain his balance. A fist slammed into the back of his head, and he was sent reeling forward. He tumbled into the side of a car, and his fist went through the window as he tried to break his fall. The shattered glass peeled ribbons of skin and tissue from his arms, until his ribs hit the car door and he stopped moving. Despite himself, he had the presence of mind to remain careful as he removed his right arm from where it had landed. Gratefully, it obeyed his intensions and there was no numbness. But there was blood. Sheets of it rolled down and collected at his fingertips. As the blood thumped in his tears, the flow pulsed with each beat. It was bad.

The large Texan pulled on his shirt, and began collecting his purse from The Organizer. Then a bold woman pointed out the fact that Damien Cruz was on his feet, finding his fighting stance. The man laughed, and shrugged off Damien’s last minute surge of defiance. Damien drew his fists up, and began his approach. When The Organizer saw this, he withdrew the offered cash, and the fight continued. The Texan was annoyed by the delay. He spun and caught Damien Cruz in the jaw with his large boot, and quickly pounced on the fallen Mexican. A series of blows rained down on Damien’s face. Damien lifted his arms up to guard his face, but the Texan simply weaved around them, and punished the man for his attempts. With each punch, Damien could feel his will slipping away. It had been seventy-eight hours since he had landed in Las Vegas, and he was about to lose the last of his money. The House always wins.

Damien felt disconnected as the Texan pulled his head up to meet each blow; disconnected, apathetic, and stoic. If this was how it ended, so be it. Then he felt it. He felt his muscles perform a series of movements that had almost been beaten out of him and forgotten. As the Texan drove his fist down, Damien’s body twisted, and the fist flew past his head. Damien’s legs lifted his lower half, pushing the man’s weight forward and off-balance. In that moment, Damien gripped the man’s wrist, and brought his knee up into the man’s ribs hard. Damien heard the Texan exhale hard, and felt his body go limp. From there, it was a mechanical action that Damien had practiced into Zen. His legs wrapped around the man’s shoulder, Damien arched his back, and the pressed the inside of his leg against the joint of the Texan’s elbow. Then, he tugged as hard as he could until the resistance of the man’s arm gave. With the arm, so went the Texan’s fight.

Blood emptying out onto the cement, his vision doubled when not gray, exhausted, and surrounded by an angry mob that had just watched their hard-earned money lost on a sure thing, Damien closed his eyes and slept. How he got back to his hotel room that night, and how his arm was wrapped in a towel that he had bled through over the course of the night, was still a question he could not answer. Even more amazing was that his entire earnings were in his backpack by his bed when he woke up.

2000

The X-ray looked like an erector set. The man held the gray-black image up to the light and pointed to Damien where the screws had been placed. He spoke perfect English, but could only repeat ‘incredible’ to himself over and over.

In what was supposed to be a teaser match, Ken Hatashi sent Damien a message. The message was simple; a foreigner does not challenge for the Nippon Grand Title in the Parliament Grand Palace. The Demon of Fuji was suspended for two weeks, and forced to make a public apology. Ken Hatashi took the two weeks with double pay, and made a smirking apology to a cheering crowd. The Latin Assassin, meanwhile, was released from the company for ‘uncertain physical status’, and was written out of his storylines as a shamed cheater.

'Mr. Cruz, I am glad and very surprised to inform you that you have no lasting effects from the brutal attack. In performing the surgery, we cleared out the chipped fragments of your cheek bone, and reconstructed the eye socket. Fortunately, you have no disfigurement, and the bone has healed almost flawlessly. Additionally, the nerves that we thought severed in your eye were spared, and I am glad to hear that the floating spot you used to get has disappeared.'

Damien sat quietly, coming to understand his injuries fully for the first time.

Dr. Terashita returned to the X-ray, shaking his head.

'Mr. Cruz, there was substantial damage, and through our skill and your great fortune, you have made a full recovery. I will hope that you take this as a warning. You will most likely ignore my advice, but I want you to at least take it seriously.'

Damien Cruz nodded, thanking the surgeon for his incredible handiwork and his greater concern. The doctor could only wish his patient well as he knew that it would begin all over again.

Three months later, The Latin Assassin returned to the ring, and began his steady climb to the top of the Japanese circuits. This time, no one was able to stop him.

When he reached the apex, he closed his eyes, and jumped. Less than twenty-four hours after leaving the Tokyo dome, he was landing in Las Vegas with a handful of money, and the address of a guy who had told him he could get him a try-out with an American company.

2006

The snow that had fallen the day before was black, watery, and quickly turning to ice. Damien sat on the edge of his window, looking down at the world below him. From atop his Brooklyn home, he felt very small.

The loft in which he lived had a history that rivaled its newest owner. Originally a factory in the early 1900’s, it stood three hundred yards away from one of the busiest ports in the world. New York Harbor fed the city with a constant influx of idealistic travelers who felt that the world was just beyond the rusted gates of the docks. In the lands they left behind, taverns and temples were filled with whispered stories of unrivaled opportunity in New York. So, they came. Many died, many prospered, and many changed the face of the nation. In the end, they kept coming.

In the 1940’s, the factory was bought by The US Government for the War effort. In the 1950’s, the factory was left to the highest bidder, a man named McNamara who decided to manufacture his own brand of television. In the 1960’s, the abandoned factory became a Mecca for revolutionaries, idealists, and bored suburbanites who really wanted to get out of Long Island. A few revolutionaries converted the place into a studio, and began using it as an artist’s space. When the art didn’t sell, they sold it internet millionaires who just HAD to live in a loft. Eventually, it was auctioned off to the highest bidder when the web was flooded by search engines that did it better and faster. The highest bidder paid thirty-four million dollars to own it, and convert it into a seven-level apartment building, with the penthouse being his dream home. Then, three hundred yards from that building, The City was changed forever.

Scared and desperate to get rid of it, he accepted a young man’s offer of seven million dollars, paid over three years. He considered the property an American Chernobyl, and gladly handed it over without looking back. Damien Cruz didn’t realize it at the time, but he had become very wealthy by buying what he thought was a ‘nice quiet place by the R-train.’

The doorbell rang, and brought Damien back to where his thoughts had begun. He took a final look around, and made minor adjustments before walking to the door.

When he opened his front door, she was looking down at her feet. He waited, and she lifted her gaze to look him in the eyes. Tears rested in the corners, and Damien spared her the need to say anything. He took her by the hand, and no words were exchanged.

2005

The letter sat in a pile of many others. Damien almost threw it away with the other junk mail. If not for the large logo on the lip of the envelope, he would have assumed it to be another credit card application, or an invitation to another corporate fund-raiser looking for a famous face to boost their PR points.

As he walked out the door, he picked up the pile of mail, and absently sorted through them, dropping a handful into the trash bin as he walked out to the street. What he didn’t have a chance to go through was tucked into his inside pocket, and left to read when he had five minutes to himself. For the rest of the day, the thin envelope sat in his pocket.

Sitting in the dentist’s office, he saw the red and black logo and knew that the shot-in-the-dark application he sent them had just paid off.

When he arrived in the FUSE offices, and met with a representative who promised him the world, and he felt like things were about to go to take shape.

In the weeks between his signing and his debut, he trained harder, pushed himself further, and really put his viscera on the slab and picked through them to figure out what he was willing to give to make a name for himself.

2007

And he did. And as quickly as he built his repuation, he allowed it to slip away. It happened too quickly too easily. He couldn't blame anyone but himself. But he tried to. He tried to because that was what was what made it okay to be Damien Cruz. Being The Latin Assassin was a whole other matter.

Damien Cruz sat in his car, overlooking the San Francisco Bay. The water rolled along the rocks, and The Latin Assassin was doing the math in his head. In three weeks, it would be a new year, and his contract would come up for review. If he stayed, he would most likely be on the low end of the pay scale. If they released him, he would be drifting around the circuit, just trying to stay in the public arena. Something had to change, and it would take a bit more than the excuses he was offering up until that point. With a final decision, he started the car and returned to his hotel room. If they wanted a reason to overlook him, he would gladly accommodate them. Invisible is very useful when it’s time to take on the throne.

At this point, there was nothing left to say.