“So it comes to this, then…”
We find ourselves on a deck somewhere in suburbia. The former Classic Wrestling Tag Team Champions, the Foreign Legion, are seen relaxing, looking out towards the sunset. Leon Van Zandt greets us by raising the rather sizable bottle of one of Belgium’s finest ales, while the monster known as Mushigihara simply nods to us.
Leon Van Zandt: Classic Wrestling will be no more, and the Foreign Legion must move on.
The grappler sighs deeply.
Leon Van Zandt: My heart is heavy, yes. Classic Wrestling was a home to Mushi and myself, and we made it quite a home. Lamentably, it appears our campaign to regain the Tag Team Championships will simply not come to pass, with this closure.
Mushigihara mutters under his breath and grumbles a low…
Leon Van Zandt: But that does not mean we can not walk out of this place on a high note, so to speak, in the form of a victory against the tandem which dethroned us; a consolary victory over the Amazing Amarettos.
Leon chuckles and takes a big swig from his bottle.
Leon Van Zandt: Don’t we just have the devil’s luck, my friend?
The Emperor turns his head to his partner and cocks an eyebrow.
Leon Van Zandt: We fall from the summit. We fight. We settle our differences, cast aside our unbecoming ways… and suddenly, the game simply… ends.
Mighty Mushi takes a pull from what appears to be a glass flask in his hand, before letting out a deep groan and a sigh.
A pregnant pause. Leon puts his focus once again on the setting sun.
Leon Van Zandt: But I suppose that truly is life, is it not? The day ends, a new day begins, and all we can do is simply march forward.
Leon takes another, larger drink from his beer bottle.
He pauses, and looks over to Mushigihara.
Leon Van Zandt: I’m glad you and I have made this journey together, my friend.
Mushi looks confused at first, but he warms up, smiling and nodding at his partner, before raising his little flask towards The Professional.
After staring at Mushi’s drink for a second, Van Zandt smiles and brings his bottle to him.
Leon Van Zandt: Yes. To the Foreign Legion. And to wherever the road takes us, friend.
“So Mushi’s told me about you.”
He sat in the corner of the training ring in DEFIANCE Wrestling’s DEFplex in New Orleans. Fresh off a workout, the veteran with a baby face that hid his years of experience stretched his arms out, sitting on the middle turnbuckle, while giving his guest a brief onceover.
“Said you were really deep in that old-world style of catch grappling. Like, the kind of stuff they were dismantling people with in the ‘50s.”
Leon could only nod in confirmation.
“Mushi sent me some tapes of the both of you in Classic, and he said you were looking to spread your wings and get some more work in the States.”
“Gotta respect the chutzpah, amigo. I figured a lot of the Europe guys would be terrified of us, worried they’d be made to be some boring joke.”
The Professional was a bit nervous. Was he walking into an interview, or a dressing down?
“I got to see your tapes, and I’m gonna be honest with you…”
The lump in Leon’s throat grew exponentially by the second.
“I really, REALLY think there’s a place for you here. You’ll have to start at the bottom, of course, but with these skills, it won’t be hard at all to get the bigwigs at Favored Saints to notice you.”
Leon was relieved to hear the good news. The vet noticed his shoulders loosen up, and cracked a smile.
“Y’know, you haven’t said much at all to me, but I feel we understand each other pretty well. I’m assuming you do speak English, or do you have that weird thing like Mushi where everyone understands you too?”
“No, sir, I speak English… obviously my first language is Dutch, but yes.”
The vet chuckled.
“Alright. Hold onto that Dutch though, it might be useful someday, you never know.”
He extended his hand.
“Welcome to BRAZEN, Leon.”
Leon shook it with a smile, “thank you so much, Meneer…”
“Oh, it’s like Mister in Dutch, but…”
“Nevermind that. Call me David. David Fox.”
And so, the next chapter had begun.