Tales from the Ring - The People's Champ

August 2066. The Evilobster, now a wrestling star under the name of Mr. Claws, is going to face a new, deadly foe on the ring - the robotic wrestler known as The Obituary. For the lobster, it's a question of pride and upholding the kayfabe. As he steps towards the ring, a question looms over him. What does it really mean to be the People's Champ?

(Proofread and edited by Kaleb O'Halloran)

“You can say no, you... you aren't forced to do it.”

A locker room, with two benches and several open closets. One mirror with photos plastered here and there, a small shower with a large bathrobe hanging from its side, a much smaller bathrobe right near it. Two people inside, sitting, looking deep into each other's eyes. Or maybe, just one person? That depends on whether or not you consider a giant mutant lobster to be a person.

“Please, just think about it. It's too dangerous! It's not worth risking your life like this!”

The lobster closed his eyes, sitting in silence. The woman sitting next to him could hear his breath, feel his thunderous heartbeat. Her hand caressed the chitinous claw. He nodded, staring at her, into those jade-green irises that were begging him to reconsider. Dana Aberdeen, his agent. The one who was solely responsible for his massive success. The one who believed in his potential.

“I can organize another match for you, something staged as usual! You saw what happened to Rocco, right? You saw the state that he was left in!”

The lobster shook his head. No amount of talking could change his mind. Nobody could deter him from his purpose, not even Dana. And that was saying a lot about his determination, his resolve to see this through. Right after Go Ottari let him free to decide on his own destiny, the lobster found himself in a strange world he had no understanding of. Nobody could grasp what he tried to say. His hulking claw-hands weren't suitable for anything other than destroying and maiming. He had no home, no place to stay, no way to get by. But he had a dream. Being left all alone, without any guiding light or the means to eat something warm every day, would have been a hopeless situation for anybody else. But not for him.

After the second Black Lightning, the lobster asked Go to be sent to the US, as a last parting favor. Go somehow understood what he said, and managed to organize a trip on a private plane, with a temporary three months visa, to give him time to try his luck. Once he arrived in Uncle Sam's land of the free, the lobster went directly to the AWA central office — the American Wrestling Association in Minneapolis. He knew what he was going to do. He wanted to be cast. He wanted to fight in that ring. It was his life-long dream.

A dream that immediately came close to crashing against the sad reality of his condition: he couldn't speak English. He couldn't even write in English. There was just no way, no way someone like him could ever hope to be a real wrestler… If it weren’t for Dana.

“Please, if you won’t do it for yourself, do it for me! I know you think you can beat him, and yes, I believe in you! I’m sure you can beat that hunk of junk, but...”

When she met him for the first time, Dana Aberdeen, known by her ring name of “The Crimson Demon”, was also looking for a chance to start anew. She had recently been hospitalized for three whole months, after a brutal cage match that went tremendously wrong, destroying her knee and killing her career. Professional wrestling had been her lifetime dream as well, and against all odds she had managed to make it real; she became popular enough to snatch the Cruiserweight Championship title from a man, becoming the first woman to ever do so in the history of the AWA. Unfortunately, her fall shattered her aspirations, just as it shattered her bones. She wouldn't fly from the top rope anymore. She wouldn't perform her signature Devil Wing DDT ever again. Not being able to fight with her new prosthetic leg, she desperately clung to the only chance she had to remain in the biz: becoming an agent for new wrestlers. This made her the right person at the right time, when the lobster came to try and join the association. Their meeting was a match made in heaven. And, somehow, it ended up saving both of them.

“Please...”

The lobster stood up, shaking his head. He took her hands in his claws, emitting a low sblagalash that could only mean “I’m sorry”. He looked at the woman, the twenty-five-year-old woman with striking red hair and a star tattooed on her cheek, who was standing in front of him. He looked at her sharp tuxedo, her trousers, her shirt, her perfectly adjusted tie. She looked too elegant to be an agent — let alone his agent — but she was also a lot scarier than him, when bargaining with the bosses. He would never want to be on her bad side. Yet, this time, he had no choice.

That was what it meant to be the people's champ.

**

For Delphi and The Metch, the sight of the lobster was still an instinctive source of horror, sending chills straight down their spines. His debut in the AWA coincided with a “holiday trip” directly to the hospital for both of them, due to the severe concussions they suffered as a result of their “match” against him, if one could even call it that. Yet, after a reasonable three-month-long grudge, they ended up at least getting on speaking terms with him. Of course, Dana was the only person able to translate his loud noises and guttural sounds to proper words, so she was always around as well. Once, she even proposed that the lobster join their BBK stable (“Boys Born to Kill”), but the lobster refused, to which they both heaved a sigh of relief. However, this time they were forcing themselves to overcome the fear. They wanted to stop him. No, they needed to stop him. When the silhouette of the giant lobsterman entered their field of view, they both quickly stepped in, calling on what little was left of their courage to give them the strength to stand in his way.

The lobster stared at the two humans, the black-haired man with a goatee and sunglasses, and the blond man with a leopard-patterned bandanna. They were standing still, their arms spread, shaking their heads. Delphi sighed.

“Listen, lobster, we can't let you do this.”

His partner followed soon.

“This is too dangerous. You saw Rocco, didn’t ya? That thing broke his spine! His spine! If he's lucky, he'll be spendin’ no less than three months in the hospital! And if he isn't, he won't walk anymore!”

The lobster closed his eyes, stepping forward. The Metch put himself on his path.

“Pal, we might not be on the best terms, but wanting to take you down is one thing. It’s a whole other thing wanting you dead! As much as we would wanna see you lose…”

Delphi joined him, finishing his sentence.

“...We don't want to see you murdered.”

The lobster looked at them, at their scared eyes, then looked back at Dana, nodded at her. Dana buried her head in her hands, leaning on her artificial leg.

“He has no intention of backing down. I've... I’ve tried my best… but he doesn't flinch.”

The Metch and Delphi raised their heads, their eyes filled with determination. But as they looked up, they saw the lobster’s eyes. His eyes, the eyes of a champion, were far more determined than theirs. Filled with a burning passion, beyond anything else they'd ever seen. And both men stepped back, moved aside to let him pass. For they knew that nothing they could say would stop him. Nothing would stop the lobster from reaching that ring.

“Lobster...”

Delphi's voice trembled.

“...Promise you won't lose, okay? Because... because if there is anybody that’s gonna beat you for the first time…”

He fiercely pumped his fist.

“...It has to be us, the BBK!”

The Metch nodded, pumping his fist along with his partner.

“Yeah, don't ya dare go dying on us, lobster! We... we have to be the ones responsible for your first loss! Nobody else can have that privilege! And we can't do that if you’re dead!"

The lobster smiled between his facial pincers. He waved his claw, as a friendly goodbye to his wannabe rivals. Then, he went on, towards the ring, without even once turning back.

**

Gekko Santana was bursting with expectations, in his personal VIP seat of the AWA arena. The show was fully sold-out, ten thousand paying guests in the audience, all there for the match of the century: The “people's champ”, the so-called Mr. Claws, versus the brand-new technological marvel created by Zavira Robotics. Santana was a rather anonymous middle-aged man, with small eyes, a hooked nose, and a very conspicuous receding hairline. He had a keen intellect, though, and a penchant for showbiz. After the previous head of PR was fired due to gross negligence, he was unexpectedly promoted to cover his place and — thanks to him — it seemed that people were starting to forget the disastrous events of one year ago. Poor sod, he thought, looking at all the people in the audience, he was the wrong person in the wrong place at the wrong time.

After the second Black Lightning, rumor had it that a robot from Zavira, series H-168, was involved in the events and was used by the British military to kidnap an innocent civilian — something robots should be programmed not to do. Said robot was previously spotted in New Langdon, where it apparently killed one man and caused several thousand pounds of damage... but not before severely injuring three soldiers, one of which barely survived severe acid burns and had to be treated in intensive care for months.

The chassis of that robot screamed Zavira. And, when said chassis was retrieved in Euterpe — with all its memory banks mysteriously wiped clean — public opinion quickly pointed its nose at the Czech company. The former PR manager, Francis Vorzen, couldn't find a convincing excuse to cover up Zavira’s involvement in the Schwarzer Blitz project and, as a result, was fired on the spot. With Zavira's stocks plummeting, it was up to him, Gekko Santana, to find a way to salvage the situation. And, somehow, he had stumbled upon the perfect way to twist things in their favor.

Create a monster. Something people would fear, something people would want to be defeated. Make it so that it seems beatable at first, baiting the masses into a false sense of hope. Then, let it crush those hopes and any “heroes” that come its way. Zavira is already a villain? Make it even more villainous. Two negatives create a positive, no exception to the rule. That idea was the origin of Project Catch, the reason why he was there, sitting comfortably in the VIP tribune in Minneapolis, after their very own man-made horror beat all the most famous wrestlers in Europe in fair and square matches.

He knew that wrestling was staged, everyone knew that. That’s why the people needed a shocker. They needed something real. As the higher-ups at RealLifeAnime would have said, illusions sell less than something you could touch with your own hands. And thus, they created that very something. And that evening would be their crowning moment of awesome. Their creature took on the Heavyweight Champion, the fan favorite Rocco Dillo, the AWA wrestler with the highest ratings of all time, loved by children, teens and adults alike. But being a good actor doesn't make one a real fighter... so, naturally, their creation had no troubles, and made short work of him. All according to plan.

When everything seemed over, though, something unexpected happened. Someone willingly challenged their creature. Someone that Gekko could only describe as “the most bizarre mutant he had ever seen”. It was confusing, at first. After Dillo was taken to the hospital, a huge, burly lobsterman suddenly crashed onto the stage and headbutted their new mechanical champion. Repeatedly. Then, the robot went into a frenzy and retaliated, sending the lobster flying right out of the ring. Before the two of them could square off, Dana Aberdeen, formerly known as “the Crimson Demon” put herself in the middle, stopping the two fighters from killing each other right then and there.

But now, the day of reckoning had come. Zavira stocks were higher than ever. It was the show the people wanted. The show they were waiting for. Gekko Santana sunk into his chair, licking his fat lips. After this bout was over, nobody would ever dare to challenge their creature again. And then their real plans could begin: they could start their new robot wrestling league, in collaboration with RealLifeAnime, to supplant traditional wrestling. Their robot fights would be real. Not staged. They would be AI-generated, procedural. Infinitely more nuanced than “real” wrestling. And now, as the means to this brilliant end, they would break the most beloved champions in front of their audiences, to show that without their fragile kayfabe they were nothing. A bold plan, but definitely something Gekko was already beginning to see unfold. He opened up a tin of popcorn and smiled. It was time for the show to begin…

**

“From Orlando, Florida! Standing at 6’8”, weighing 278 pounds…”

The music blared through the stadium, the drums roaring, the crowd chanting and cheering. Blue, white, and red lights shone on the platform, a shower of firecrackers in the colors of the US flag greeting the entrance.

“Misteeeeeeer.... CLAAAAAWS!!”

The theme song hit its climax, guitars and drums hailing the gods of heavy metal, while the massive lobsterman set foot on the stage. A long black coat with a fur collar, the American star on his iconic blue top, his trademark aviator glasses, the thirteen red and white stripes on his shorts. The giant raised his claws to the sky and let out a powerful “SBLAGALASH!!” that echoed through the stadium, filled to capacity with spectators. The crowd exploded, kids with homemade lobster posters raising them up, imitating his signature cry, adults with caps made to look like his antennae, the whole venue coming together to deliver a standing ovation for Mr. Claws.

The lobster walked slowly, raising his arms, flailing them left and right, cheering right along with the crowd. He reached the ring, walked through the ropes, stood alone on the AWA logo at the center. He raised his arms again, the audience mimicking the motion, all together like a human wave.

The lobster nodded, tossed aside his long coat to show off his custom patriotic leotard, the bright colors of the star-spangled banner flashing in the night.

Then, the bell tolled. Once, twice, three times. A slow drum build up, a church organ with loud techno music layered on top of it. The lights went out, the gate surrounded by complete and utter darkness. Then, two glowing dots pierced the wall of cold blackness, followed by a hellish grin, burning like fire.

“From Prague, in the Czech Republic! A 6’11” titan weighing in at 397 pounds…”

And then there was light. Guitars exploded, an imposing silhouette standing still, motionless, his eyes ablaze. Silence fell upon the arena. Nobody blinked, nobody cheered.

“Theeeee OBITUARYYYYYYY!!”

A true giant. A robotic mess of cables and mechanisms, wrapped in a ripped black coat, with a brimmed hat and a gravestone strapped to his back. Thick biceps, thicker artificial thighs. Unnerving movements that fell right into the middle of the uncanny valley; too smooth to be fully mechanical, too unnatural to be human. The Obituary moved forward, each step echoing like a herd of bison running over dry soil. Sat at his spot in the VIP tribune, Gekko Santana started clapping his hands in excitement. He was the only one clapping, but he didn't care. His design team went above and beyond to give The Obituary the most menacing look possible, and with the additional touches that made him look like an undertaker, they knocked it out of the park. What better symbolism for the creature tasked with burying the AWA forever?

Finally, The Obituary reached the stage, his dirge still playing. He passed under the ropes, removed his coat and gravestone, leaving them by the post right outside of the ring. The carving on the stone slab read “Mr. Claws – R.I.P. 2066”. Some timid voices trickled from the crowd, followed by a subtle booing which soon grew louder. And louder. And louder, until it became a full blown choir.

“Back to the junkyard! Back to the junkyard! Back to the junkyaaaard!”

A full, ten-thousand-man-strong ensemble chant, shaking the stadium to its very foundations. But he didn't care. The Obituary was not programmed to be intimidated by humans. His sole task was to beat the lobster to a pulp, making sure to give the audience a show to remember. Then, the music stopped. The lobster's aviator goggles reflected The Obituary’s fiery artificial gaze. Unflinching. Uncaring. The two combatants stood in front of each other, without moving, without saying a word. The referee stepped in, forcing some distance between them. The Obituary couldn't truly understand emotions, only catalog them. This time, however, he couldn't quite find a label for what he was seeing. The lobster wasn't intimidated or anxious. The lobster wasn't sweating profusely. The lobster wasn't shivering. It was the first time one of his opponents didn't seem to feel even a little bit nervous. In those reflective aviator glasses, he could see only himself staring back. If The Obituary could have felt emotions, he would not have liked what he saw.

The lobster was unnaturally calm. He was breathing slowly, looking straight at his opponent — the heartless robot who injured Rocco, who ruined the lobster’s upcoming Heavyweight Championship title match against him. Of course, Rocco would have kept the title anyway, as he was too popular, and the lobster was okay with that. They were preparing a show for the fans, something unique, their best ever performance together. Everything was planned out. Everything was ready. Then, those sleazy dogs at Zavira decided that they had to spoil the fun and bring in this big, mechanical asshole. The lobster wanted to ignore him, to let things go on as scheduled... but Rocco didn't. Rocco wanted to fight the monster himself, for all the people who believed in him.

“It's what it means to be the People's Champ” — he had said — “Sometimes, you gotta make a choice for your audience, instead of taking the easy way out. We are their hopes. We are selling them dreams, lobster. And we are making those dreams real. So, I'll do what I do best and try to keep the dream going. We cannot disappoint our fans. Without them… we’re nothing.”

After that, he had donned his crocodile mask and entered the ring. He came out of it minutes later on a stretcher, his back unnaturally twisted. Yet, he still had the strength and willpower to flip the bird to the robotic juggernaut, with both hands, as he was declared the winner by DQ amidst the cheers and applause of his supporters. Rocco won for his audience, but fainted soon after. He didn't expect The Obituary to be so violent, so overwhelming, but he did what he could to entertain the people, never, ever breaking the impression that the fight was staged. He kept on taunting, showing off, pulling out some impressive finishers — even those that he knew weren't effective against a robot. All for the sake of the show. Up until that finishing move, that fatal backbreaker. Still, he wouldn't go out in tears or in pain. He would go out in a blaze of glory. The lobster had been impressed with Rocco’s efforts, but he simply couldn't contain his rage. Not anymore. He wanted to jump in immediately, and tear that oversized teapot apart with his own claws.

Now, he finally had that chance.

“Okay pals… r-ready to duke it out?”

The referee was nervous, he didn't know what to expect. This fight wasn't staged. It was a “last man standing” match... but the audience didn't need to know that. The kayfabe had to be upheld, at any cost, or else Rocco’s sacrifice would have been in vain. They both knew it, the referee and the lobster. They knew their entire careers hinged upon this one fateful match.

The bell rang.

Before anyone could even process it, the lobster went for a big boot, with all his body weight pushed forward. The Obituary took the hit in his abdomen, he flinched, his pressure sensors overwhelmed for a fraction of second. Then, he raised his head and answered with his own big boot. The lobster tanked it, his chitinous skin softening the impact. But the momentum was too much to handle. He stumbled back, almost falling over. The Obituary roared as he performed a swift palm chop to his opponent’s torso. The lobster gasped, taking another step back. Gekko Santana was already rubbing his hands in excitement. No matter who was fighting against him, The Obituary simply couldn't lose. That mutant freak was just an obstacle, the last obstacle, and he was sure his robot would make short work of him. But his face rapidly changed hue as soon as he saw the clothesline from Hell. One second, the lobster was kneeling down. The next, it was The Obituary who was lying on the ring, belly up, flattened to the ground by a sudden, blinding assault.

The audience roared. The lobster raised his arms, flailed them along with his fans’ cheers. He ran against the ropes, bounced off them, jumped in to get the elbow drop. But The Obituary raised his knees. A scream from the audience, the celebration cut short. The impact left the lobster breathless, forcing him to retreat, as the robot slowly got back on his feet. Gekko's skin color turned an acceptable shade of pink. The Obituary wasn't supposed to act like he was losing, not so soon in the match, at least. No, that knockdown was real. A genuine knockdown from a point-blank clothesline. He shook his head in disbelief. That wasn't physically possible. That couldn’t have been possible. He took a deep breath. Whatever. Just a hitch. Now that things were back in The Obituary’s favor, the rest of the performance would be flawless. He ripped open a second tin of popcorn and kept watching the show unfolding.

The robot growled, grabbing the lobster, raising him above his head. Then he performed a perfect sit-down power bomb, smashing his opponent head-first onto the ground. At the side of the ring, Dana gasped, her hands nervously clinging to the mat. The Obituary raised his arms to the sky, a guttural noise, his victory cry. But it was too soon. Amazingly, the lobster was standing again, dusting off his leotard as if nothing had happened. Then, before the robot could react, he grabbed him from behind. All his muscles, all his being, all his strength was channeled, giving everything he had to move those 397 pounds of metal. With a loud SBLAGALASH, the lobster lifted The Obituary, delivering a beautiful German suplex, the robot’s head colliding with the ring hard enough to give a normal person a concussion. Dana pumped her fist.

“Yes, YES!! Don't give him time to react! Press him! Tear that rustbucket apart! DO IT!!”

The lobster stood up, his muscles aching from the undertaking, but not yet spent. He went to the ropes again, bounced, prepared for the elbow drop a second time. The Obituary raised his knees again, but the lobster saw it coming. He was waiting for it. Instead of dropping, he grabbed his opponent's legs, pushed them to the sides of his torso.

“He's going... Mr. Claws is going for his Empire State Suplex?!”

One of the commentators jumped out of his chair, the audience chanted, called his name. The lobster nodded, looking around at all those expectant faces. He delivered them his loudest SBLAGALASH ever, and prepared for the giant swing, to throw the robot around like a ragdoll.

But he couldn't.

The giant metallic body wasn't moving, wasn't tilting. The Obituary was just staring at him, mockingly. He was just too heavy, even for the lobster’s superhuman strength. He cursed under his breath. From offstage, Delphi and The Metch were anxiously watching, trying to read the situation. The Metch shook his head in sadness.

“He can’t… he can't do it. He can't go for his finisher!”

Delphi wiped the sweat from his forehead.

“Without his best moves, does he even have a chance?”

Even the crowd seemed to understand the situation. Even the powerful Mr. Claws wasn't powerful enough to go on with his signature technique, not against this opponent. Gekko smirked. It was all going as planned. The Obituary was grinning deviously, his fixed grimace taunting the lobster, mocking him for his lack of strength. The lobster frowned, then let out a powerful, defiant sblagalash.

Dana's eyes widened. The lobster just uttered “Screw that!” with a confidence she hadn't heard from anyone in years. And then she saw. And she believed.

“Incredible! Mr. Claws can’t lift his opponent due to the sheer weight of his frame, but... but...”

The lobster spun on himself, using his own weight to twist The Obituary's body face down. Then, he pulled both the robot’s legs towards him.

“...he's going for a Boston crab! He's going for a BOSTON FREAKIN’ CRAB!!”

The crowd exploded with cheers, as the lobster continued to pull the mechanical legs towards him, further and further. Delphi gasped, running towards the ring, The Metch following soon after. He was a submission wrestler; holds and multi-joint locks were his specialty. He knew exactly which muscle to twist and which not, but he also knew something else: The Obituary felt no pain. He screamed at Dana.

“Tell him to stop! It's useless! A robot will never fall into a submission!”

Dana stared back at him, her green eyes now burning with the same confidence of the lobster's.

“It's not about forcing him to give up. It's about sending a message!”

“What?”

“The lobster can’t lift him from his legs. He can’t use his best moves. He knows this, and yet, he’ll still go full throttle, no matter what… and always uphold the integrity of the show!”

The lobster pulled the legs once more, with all his might. A grating metallic noise, the cry of the machine’s artificial tendons starting to feel the immense tension they were being put under. Robots cannot feel pain, but their sensors can quite accurately predict when something is going to break. And The Obituary knew he had to make a move. He whipped his legs with a loud roar, making the lobster fly off, crashing straight into the referee. The poor man tumbled outside of the ring, hitting his head on the floor, knocking him out cold. The lobster, however, recovered from the blow, standing again on his feet. But The Obituary wasn’t done, and charged the mutant, ramming him at full speed.

“THE REF IS OUT!! The ref is out of commission! And The Obituary has thrown his full weight at Mr. Claws with an impressive spear! Will he be able to get up from this one?!”

The crowd held its collective breath as The Obituary towered over the downed lobster, growling in anticipation for what was next…

**

Dana could perfectly remember the fateful day she met with the so-called Evilobster. She was sitting in the AWA offices, waiting for her permit to become an agent, still getting accustomed to her new artificial leg. That accidental fall from the top of the cell onto a protective fence severed her tendons, broke her bones, and destroyed the nerves under her knee. She had to have her leg amputated and replaced with a prosthetic, and she was still in partial denial over the whole situation. Still, she had to accept her position and make the best out of it. Right there, in the offices of AWA, she had just obtained the last holographic stamp she needed to officially act as a free agent. It was strange to be on the other side of the business. And it was even stranger to don an elegant man's tuxedo instead of her usual red stage leotard and oni mask. Not that she had any other choice to remain in the business. Her wrestling career was sadly over, and she just had to deal with it.

As she was just leaving the building, she heard a strange commotion, noises coming from the entrance, screams of terror.

“Please! Someone call in the security! Call in the securityyyy!!”

Curious, she limped over, slowly, to witness the cause of the outburst. And there she saw him. A giant, imposing lobsterman in a blue leotard, with a proud American flag printed on it. He was waving his arms, shouting something completely unintelligible, random noises that seemed to have no meaning. Many employees were cowering in fear, standing down, hiding under the desks. But the lobster wasn't doing anything else. He was just standing there, looking at the map of the building on the wall, his claw continuously pointing at one room in particular, while also seemingly voicing his disappointment at not being understood. Dana decided to take her chance and try to talk to him — her rationale being that something dressed like that couldn't really be all that dangerous. He looked like a wrestler. He was probably going to act like a wrestler too. Unless, of course, he was yet another one of those failed experiments by RealLifeAnime, now roaming free and murdering people in cold blood. She had heard that Ireland was overrun by terrifying creatures because of something similar, but she had never really cared to look more into it. Heck, she couldn't even point to where Ireland was, on a world map.

“Can I help you... uh, sir?”

The lobster looked down at her, at her tiny frame — at least compared to his — and nodded vigorously, repeatedly pointing his claw at the map, at a particular room labeled “casting”. Dana's eyes widened, as she understood the implications of that gesture.

“Wait, you want to… join the AWA?”

The lobster nodded in excitement, jumped in place while flailing his arms. Dana looked around, saw that the people in the room were starting to get their composure back, some of them even being strangely fascinated by the bizarre mutant. Dana's brain began to put two and two together. She was now an agent. He wanted to become a wrestler. And looking at him, he had willpower, strength, and he certainly had stage presence. He was unique.

She proffered her hand.

“Dana Aberdeen. I'm a newly appointed free agent, and I just so happen to be looking for new talent.”

The lobster stared at her, then began to browse his bag with his giant claw. After a moment, he took out a small plastic badge, and gave it to the woman. Dana squinted her eyes. It was a business card.

The Evilobster, from Orlando, Florida. Looking for a job as a pro-wrestler, as my lifetime dream. I cannot speak or write English, but I can understand it and I mean no harm. This card was typed by my former boss, whose recommendation letter is attached.

Dana read it over, twice, to be sure she understood it. Then, she read through the accompanying letter the lobster gave her — signed by none other than Go Ottari. This wasn't a hoax. This was a legit job application. Never in her life would she have expected to meet a mutant, even if their existence was widely accepted. But a mutant lobster that was interested in wrestling? With a recommendation letter written by the Go Ottari, the richest fishface in the United Kingdom, and quite possibly the whole known world?!

That was a recipe for success. Or, at least, for a grandiose, spectacular failure. Whatever, Dana thought. An opportunity like that was worth the risk. It was worth everything. She smiled.

“Mr. Evilobster, correct? I like you. You are simply perfect for the biz! I want to help you, I want to get you into the big leagues! Please, let me be your agent! Let me support you in realizing your dream!”

The lobster didn't think twice, accepting her offer on the spot. And just a mere two months later, he made his spectacular debut, wiping away the BBK stable in his very first match, quickly becoming a fan favorite. That was the beginning of the lobster's legend, all thanks to the foresight of a brave woman who believed in his potential.

**

The Obituary reached down, grabbed the lobster by his neck, lifting him off the ground with ease. His arm pulled his prey higher and higher, his other hand dragging his thumb along his neck in a taunting motion, his eyes blazing all the while. The audience was booing, everyone shouting against the robot, everyone chanting the lobster's name. In vain. The Obituary slammed his opponent right back to the ground, with a resounding thud, smashing the lobster's back against the ring mat.

The commentator shot right out of his seat, shouting his lungs out.

“Oh my goodness, did you see that, DID YOU SEE THAT?! That was a DEAD MAN’S CHOKESLAM!!”

His partner chimed in with an even louder voice.

“But why go for that, what’s the point? It's a finisher, right? But the ref is KO'ed! He can’t count Mr. Claws out, so what’s the point?!”

To annihilate him. Gekko Santana laughed, with an unpleasant gah gah gah that sounded like a walrus choking on peanuts. The Obituary had no mercy. He just needed to obliterate his opponent, no matter what. Finishing moves? Pinfall? Submission? All outdated concepts. Victory by KO was the only way to go. He opened yet another tin of popcorn. This match couldn't be going better.

The lobster was on the ground, motionless, breathing hard, his muscles aching. And yet still, he was smiling. His blood was boiling, his rage was mounting. No way, no chance he would let that rustbucket steal the show, but he had to take some hits. It was for his audience, for the kayfabe. This match wasn’t staged, he obviously knew that, but he couldn't let Rocco down. He couldn’t ignore what he had fought for.

He slowly stood up, cracking his neck, dusting his outfit, while his opponent stared away from him. The referee was out of commission, so there was no need to go for the big guns… At least, no rational need.

“Look! Mr. Claws is... is... OH MY…!!”

Before he could even process it, The Obituary was grappled again from his back. But it wasn't for a German suplex — no, this time it was something different. Something personal. The lobster lifted the robot on his shoulders, in one swift motion, all that weight carried by forward momentum and sheer force of will. Then, he slammed his back straight into the ring mat with full strength, without giving the robot even a chance to react.

“It's a Crocodile Swamp Slam! A CROCODILE SWAMP SLAM!! Rocco Dillo's signature finisher!”

The crowd burst into a wave of excitement, rejoicing in disbelief. Gekko almost choked on his popcorn, just about coughing some out of his nose.

“Oh my god! Mr. Claws… Mr. Claws is doing it!! He's doing it for him! For us! For all of us!! Rocco, if you’re watching this, that was for you! That was for YOU, pal!!”

Delphi pumped his fists, Dana shouted in excitement. The audience was in an uncontrolled frenzy, cheering like mad. The lobster put his right claw behind his own head, extended the other, started shaking his hips, mimicking Dillo's famous Louisiana Beat taunt. The spectators stood up, did the same gesture, all together in a human wave — all except Gekko Santana, who instead was having a minor panic attack. Wha… what exactly IS that thing?!

The Obituary, however, was having none of it. He got back up on his feet, staring at the lobster. This match had already lasted far too long. He ran at him, his arm outstretched for a clothesline. The lobster read the motion, ducked down to avoid the attack, then jumped up and struck the robot’s head with a dropkick. The Obituary's head bobbled back and forth, shaking in place. Only to immediately find itself caught in the lock of the lobster's bulky arm, forcefully bowing forward. Mr. Claws raised his other claw, let out a powerful SBLAGALASH. Then, tilted his full weight down, into a perfect DDT.

“Wall Street Bubble! Wall Street Bubble!! Mr. Claws is going all in! All in!!”

Gekko crushed his popcorn tin. That was too much. The lobster was getting too much leeway. It should have been easy for The Obituary. Why wasn't that goddamn bucket of bolts going for the kill by now? Why make it so much longer and more painful to watch than it should have been?!

Then, he remembered.

To annihilate their hopes and dreams.

And he smiled, foretasting the delicacy of a sweet, sweet revenge. Sandbagging was an intentional part of its mid-match AI protocol, to create false expectations. Nothing to worry about. At the right moment, The Obituary would exact his revenge. With this newfound peace of mind, Gekko slumped back into his seat, ready to enjoy the rest of the show.

**

Rocco Dillo nearly fell from his hospital bed, when he saw the lobster perform his Crocodile Swamp Slam. Despite still being numb from the medications, he was flabbergasted at how the mutant decided to pay homage to him, his rival, in such a spectacular way. He couldn’t help but burst into tears, right as the whole crowd performed his taunt, chanting both his name and that of Mr. Claws in unison. He really wasn't expecting that from the lobster, from that rookie who came out of nowhere, under the protective wing of Dana “Crimson Demon” Aberdeen.

In the beginning, Rocco couldn't help but mock him, at least a little bit. He couldn't talk intelligibly, he couldn't write, he couldn't really communicate in any meaningful way, except through his agent. It was rumored that Dana had spent one whole month living with him in order to learn how to interpret his random gibberish… and also that she came to quite enjoy the size of certain attributes of his. Dana just smiled in a complicit way whenever maliciously asked about it, by female and male acquaintances alike, neither confirming nor denying the suggestion. Whatever the relationship between the two, Dana was most likely the only person in the world able to understand him. She would translate his sentences for the audience and regularly converse with him. She often carried around a small notebook containing several annotations on how to read the lobster's facial features and how this changed the meaning of each sblagalash® (yes, the two of them actually had his signature cry registered, and got it printed on tons of official Mr. Claws t-shirts and other merchandise). When the lobster first entered the fray, Rocco was already an accomplished wrestler. Italian-American, his family coming from Naples and moving to Louisiana right after his father was born. He had been to Italy more than once, but he couldn't speak the language, only a hollow shell of his grandma's dialect. At heart, he was purely an American, born and raised along the wide banks of the Mississippi, running through the bayou. He would later conceive his wrestler persona and gimmick — his crocodile mask — taking inspiration from the local alligator population. And, somehow, he ended up becoming one of the most beloved performers in the whole AWA circuit. After witnessing the lobster's debut, he immediately recognized his potential, a potential that wasn't really evident until that point. Rocco quickly started to respect him, to see him as a new contender, someone who could become a people's champ just like him. He was proud of the Evilobster, and he grew fond of him after he rechristened himself as Mr. Claws. He was thrilled that he would get to fight the lobster in the upcoming title match, thrilled to give the audience the spectacular show they deserved.

But then, The Obituary came. And suddenly, everything fell apart, shattered into many small pieces, much like his spine.

Rocco grabbed his mask from his bedside table, still mostly numb from the painkillers. That tribute was proof that he wasn't wrong about the lobster; that he had the heart to do what no one else could. That Rocco was right to be proud of him. He grinned at the TV, savoring the thought of their future final showdown. Together, on a ring. For the crowd.

“Come on, lobster! Break that rotten piece a’ junk! Give'em a good show!”

**

The Obituary stood up once again, despite the slam, the dropkick, the DDT. None of it was enough to stop him. The lobster locked eyes with him, started to move sideways, without averting his gaze. The robot did the same, the two fighters now circling each other tensely. The referee was still unconscious. Everyone was holding their breath. Nobody dared to talk. Then, without warning, they both charged straight at each other, big boot versus big boot. The lobster scored the first hit, the robot’s metallic abdomen resonating like a hollow bell. But The Obituary's kick was stronger. The lobster stumbled backward, the impact propagating through his entire body. He knelt down in pain, his claw clutching his stomach. Before he could get back up, the robot grabbed him, lifted him up, then threw him down back-first with a savage powerslam. The lobster gasped, trying desperately to get back on his feet. Only for The Obituary to grab him again, performing a second, even more forceful powerslam.

Dana bit her lip, her eyes shut, her fists clenched tight.

“Come on, come on, come on! You can't give up! Not like this!”

The commentators went crazy, their loud, amplified voices booming throughout the stadium.

“The Obituary has seemingly gotten the upper hand! After two brutal powerslams, he’s left Mr. Claws writhing in pain on the mat! And now he’s… uh… he’s leaving the ring?”

The robot stepped back through the ropes, his heavy impact against the floor causing the referee to finally start to come back to his senses. He went for the post, grabbing his custom-made gravestone. He pushed it up onto the ring, the rock slab standing on the mat. The commentators shouted in horror.

“Wait! What does... is it really over? Is it really going for…?!”

The Metch and Delphi gasped, almost in unison. Dana shook her head wildly in disbelief.

“No! Somebody stop him! Please!”

She desperately looked around, hoping someone could interrupt the match, DQ the monster, do anything.

But nobody could. The Obituary was now standing tall over his downed opponent, with his tombstone in his large, mechanical hands.

“Wait, we have a chance! The ref! We have to wake up the ref!”

Delphi ran towards the injured man, Dana limping behind him. On the ring, The Obituary raised the slab over his head like a folding chair. The lobster tried to stand up, to recover his balance. He raised his head, trying to focus on the robot. But it was too late. The stone slab crashed down upon his head, shattering his glasses, slamming his skull back down onto the mat.

“Oh my God! OH MY GOD!! He’s really done it! The Obituary hit Mr. Claws with his stone, exploiting the fact that the referee is out cold! This is utterly INSANE!!”

Gekko giggled like a little kid. That hit would have been strong enough to slaughter a cow. It was finally the end, the end of the lobster, and the end of AWA. His unnerving gah gah gah was overshadowed by the booing of the crowd, the screams, the protests. But The Obituary still wasn’t done. Not yet. He grabbed the lobster, tossing him over his shoulder, the tombstone still lying on the mat.

Delphi was shaking the referee, the poor guy finally returning to reality. Dana couldn't avert her gaze from the ring, from the limp body of Mr. Claws being carried like a ragdoll by the mechanical monstrosity.

“He's going for it! He's going for it! The Obituary's most dreaded finisher! The Call of the Grave...”

The Obituary jumped forward, bending his knees, the lobster's body kept in front of his own.

“...Tombstone...”

The lobster’s head made impact with the slab, twisting his neck, his whole body shaken by the brutal collision.

“...PILEDRIVEEEEEER!”

Mr. Claws’s body bounced off the gravestone, landing next to it, completely motionless. His body was stiff, no sign of breathing. A moment of absolute stillness. Pure silence. Not a sound. Not a noise. No chants. No boos. Just raw, unadulterated, morbid silence.

Dana covered her mouth with her hands, her eyes wet with tears.

“E... Evilobster? No, this can't... no, no, no, please, please...”

Nobody said anything, nobody dared to. Nobody except one person, the one person who had to say something. The referee, back on his feet thanks to Delphi, woke up too late to disqualify the robot. But not too late to start his KO count. With renewed strength, walking near the lobster, he started to do his job.

“ONE!”

And that single word felt like a death sentence.

“TWO!”

Delphi fell to his knees in disbelief. The Metch could only give up.

“THREE!”

Dana shook her head, her tears flowing freely down her cheeks.

“FOUR!”

The Obituary stood still, as cold and heartless as ever. He could have capitalized on this moment, winning by pinfall, but there was no way he would. KO or nothing. That was his programming. No matter the circumstances. He just had to wait, wait for that miserable human to clear the count and declare him the winner.

“FIVE!”

Gekko Santana's obnoxious gah gah gah laugh was resonating within the VIP tribune. He was happy. He was so happy! Destroying the lobster, crushing him in such a decisive way! That was it! That was the end of the AWA!

“SIX!”

A surreal atmosphere, not even the commentators having anything to say. Everyone was listening in religious silence. A single child began to cry in the grandstand, his shouts and whines resonating around the whole venue.

“SEVEN!”

The Obituary turned his back to his opponent, roaring like a beast, his eyes blazing with fire.

“EIGH...?”

A sudden flap of the claw, the referee cast aside. The Metch's mouth fell agape.

“D-Dana! Look!”

Out of nowhere, the body of the lobster started to twitch, to move, to pull himself up. His head tilted left and right, his claws dug into the mat.

“Ev...”

With an inhuman effort, Mr. Claws managed to get up on one knee. Slowly, he rose to his feet, his torso bent forward. Then, he stretched his arms out, flailing them, throwing his head back. His eyes affixed to the ceiling, as he let out the most powerful, dreadful SBLAGALASH to ever be heard.

“EVILOBSTEEEEEER!”

With that, his theme music began blaring through the arena, the entrance fireworks went off, the crowd chanted, no, roared his name. Gekko Santana spit out his drink, almost falling from the balcony.

“EVILOBSTEEEEEER!”

The audience went mad, tears of joy flowing, everyone, every single one of the spectators pumping their fists into the sky. The commentators remained speechless for a moment, then one of the two managed to get a hold of himself, grabbing the mic.

“We... we apologize for the inconvenience… We, uh, played Mr. Claws entrance effects by mistake, I don't know how... why...”

“Jack, don’t be dumb, it's because they love him! It's because WE love him! Everything seemed over, Jack, but look at him! LOOK at him, for God's sake! He's there, he’s standing! He's fighting for us! He's our champ! He's the mother. Fucking. EVILOBSTER!!”

The music stopped as suddenly as it started, but it wasn't important. Not anymore. Mr. Claws was up. Mr. Claws was standing strong. The Obituary simply stared, his AI refusing to compute, to comprehend the situation. Nobody had ever survived his finisher. Not a single person could survive that without having their neck broken. And yet... his processors went mad, trying to calculate the probability of such an event, always verging towards an absolute zero. His AI wasn't trained for that. It didn’t know what to do. And, for the first time, the emotionless robot began to truly understand the meaning of fear.

Dana jumped on her healthy leg, shouting like her life depended on it.

“FUCK HIM HARD, LOBSTER! Break him down like building blocks! YOU CAN DO IT!!”

And, before The Obituary could think, the lobster was already on him. Mr. Claws lifted his arms, then brought them down like a pair of hammers from both sides. The impact almost crushed the robot's steel cranium, causing an eye to pop out. The Obituary backed away, shaking his injured head. He glared at the lobster, trying to reestablish the status quo. But it wasn't enough. It could never be enough. The lobster hit him hard with his shoulder, his claws moving in to secure the arms of his opponent. He bent his legs, giving all his power to each and every one of his muscles. And with a mighty heave, he lifted The Obituary up, nearly 400 pounds of metal carried on his shoulders.

“Christ, Jack! Mr. Claws... the Evilobster is going for it! HE’S GOING FOR HIS FINISHER!! Here comes...”

With a gigantic effort, the lobster spun the robotic body in the air, grabbed it right before it could touch the ground.

“... HERE COMES THE UNITED! STATES! OF ATOMICA!!!”

The Obituary's body smashed onto the mat in a brutal sit-down powerslam, using the momentum of the spin to add even more force to the impact. The ring shook, the poles vibrated, emitting a shrieking sound like a wounded beast. Then, a snap. One of the support pylons broke down, making the mat tilt on its side, the referee tumbling along with it, trying to keep his balance. The crowd fell silent once more. For a tense moment, nothing happened. But then, the lobster rose up, his foot planted firmly on his downed opponent's head. And the crowd erupted with cheers yet again.

Dana shouted, screamed at the lobster in sheer excitement.

“Finish him! Finish him now! You can't let him go! You...”

But the lobster stared at her, shaking his head. Instead of crushing his opponent's mechanical brain, he rolled him belly up, on what was left of the ring. He raised one of its robotic legs, holding the rest of its chassis down with the weight of his body.

“Wait, what is he...”

The referee saw what he was doing and knelt down near him, his hand ready for the count.

“One!”

The Metch couldn't believe his own eyes, rubbing them twice to be sure he wasn’t seeing things.

“He... he wants to win by pinfall? But why?!”

Dana suddenly understood. She put her hand on The Metch’s shoulder, shaking her head.

“Because that’s what it means…”

“Two!”

Dana raised her fist, her voice reaching the heavens.

“...TO BE THE PEOPLE'S CHAMP!!”

“Three!”

“Pinfall! PINFALL!!”

It was over. It was finally over. A fair and square victory. Mr. Claws's theme blared from the loudspeakers, multicolored fireworks going off. Red, white, and blue lights flooded the stadium. The commentator called Jack buried his head in his hands. His amazement was more genuine than ever.

“I can't... I don't... I can’t believe it. The lobster, our lobster... he did the impossible, he...”

“You know, Jack, I'm not religious. I don't believe in any higher powers, much less in miracles. But tonight, Jack, tonight I think I saw one. And that miracle’s name is… MISTER CLAAAAAAAWS!!”

“NOOOOO!!”

Gekko Santana crushed yet another tin of popcorn. He couldn't accept it, he refused to accept it. There was no way in heaven, hell or goddamn purgatory that The Obituary could have lost, not like that. He looked down at him again, at the motionless body of the robot. It wasn't over, it couldn't be over. Then, he noticed it. A subtle movement first, the cracking and whirring noises of metal, his servos beginning to move again. The Obituary was coming back, coming back to life. It was too late to get the win, but not too late to save face. Gekko grinned, rubbing his hands together deviously. That lobster freak would go six feet under, one way or another, and without him and Dillo, the AWA would be crippled. A bittersweet victory, but a victory nonetheless. That stupid mutant was still too distracted by his vain celebrations to notice The Obituary making his move. A perfect opportunity.

However, on the ring, Mr. Claws had noticed it. He noticed that The Obituary was moving again, that he was going for his stone slab. He noticed the robot raising it up high, ready to crush the lobster’s head like before. But, in that frozen instant of time, he knew what to do.

“Lobster! Watch out! He's still–”

The lobster grinned. His claws moved to intercept the slab, ripping it straight out of the robot's hands. The Obituary stared at him, with a look that could only be categorized as one of confusion. Which quickly turned into pure dread when its AI realized what the lobster was going to do with it, right as he raised it up above his own head. With a loud SBLAGALASH, Mr. Claws smashed the gravestone on The Obituary's metallic head, pushing it down into the robot’s torso. Oil leaked from the joints, sparks burst out of its severed connectors. With a guttural cry, the lobster raised the slab once more and let the gravestone fall on the robot a second time, completely burying its head inside its mangled body, making it disappear in a shower of metallic sawdust.

“Oh my goodness, Jack! The Obituary tried to sucker slab him from behind, but...”

The crowd hooted and hollered, everyone shouting and screaming in excitement. Dana, Delphi, and The Metch joined in the choir.

“He got stuffed! He got exactly what he deserved! Take that, Zavira! Take that!”

The lobster tossed the gravestone onto the mat, then lifted up the Obituary’s broken, mechanical body, tilting it upside down in a last, humongous effort. He jumped forward, driving the heavy chassis down directly onto the stone surface. With a tremendous impact, the gravestone exploded into a thousand pieces of rubble, oil and scrap metal scattering everywhere around the epicenter. The Obituary’s body stood vertical, for a long second. Then, it toppled over, with a resounding thud. With that, the remaining supports of the ring finally gave up and cracked apart, causing the whole thing to collapse to the ground, the posts falling together with the ropes in a moment of biblical destruction. The lobster, still standing amidst the debris, raised his arms to the sky. And the whole arena echoed with the sound of his terrifying, solemn sblagalash.

**

Jackson switched on the TV in his cafe. It was early in the morning, almost opening time, and everything had to be ready for the first customers showing up. A news report took center screen, showing the familiar face of an oversized lobsterman he had hoped to forget about. Jackson frowned, but was too curious to let it go, so he increased the volume.

“...in a surprising outcome, the famous mutant wrestler Mr. Claws defeated and destroyed Zavira's technological marvel, The Obituary, in an officially sanctioned AWA match in Minneapolis. Zavira's PR representative, Gekko Santana, was found dead in the VIP grandstands by cleaning personnel shortly following the event. The ascertained cause of death was a minor heart failure in conjunction with suffocation, due to a piece of popcorn lodged in his throat. Zavira has declined to comment on either of the two events. The company's stocks have begun to plummet this morning, due to rumors about entertainment colossus RealLifeAnime canceling a partnership with them for the creation of a robot wrestling federation. The stock has since been suspended for excessive losses...”

Jackson tipped his hat, shaking his head with a smile. Whatever happened the previous night, it seemed the lobster had triumphed once more… and Jackson was sure the Takara children would be happy to watch the reruns of that match, the next time he had to babysit them. With that thought in mind, he made his way over to the door and switched the sign from closed to open.

A new day had just begun.