The door of the Mustachio Mobile burst open with the dramatic flair that only a man of this particular caliber could summon at 11:47 in the morning.

Mustachio stood in the doorway — five-foot-eleven, two-hundred-and-fifteen pounds of magnificent chaos — wearing a silk robe the color of a sunset having a mental breakdown. Gold. Magenta. A little bit of teal that nobody asked for. The handlebar mustache was freshly waxed, each tip curled to a point sharp enough to conduct legally admissible business transactions. He held a breakfast burrito in one hand and his phone in the other, squinting at a video playing on the screen.

It was Leo Maximus's promo.

Mustachio watched it to the end. Then he watched it again. Then he handed the phone to his travel companion — a retired greyhound named Chorizo — and pointed meaningfully at the screen.

Chorizo sniffed it and went back to sleep.

"Chorizo," Mustachio said gravely, "that man has a hologram of me in his basement."

He let that sit for a moment.

"In his basement, Chorizo. In the mountains."

He stepped back inside, closed the door with his foot, and climbed onto the small fold-out table that served as his Winnebago's dining area, boardroom, press conference podium, and occasional nap surface. He straightened his robe. He twirled the left side of his mustache with the focused intensity of a man addressing the United Nations.

"My name," he began, to no one and everyone, "is Mustachio. I am the current SWF Internet Champion as far as I'm concerned. No offense Masked Muchacho. I am the People's Handlebar. The Sultan of Sequins. The man who once got a standing ovation at a Denny's in Albuquerque for ordering in Spanish when the menu was in English and I'm Indian. And today — today — I have been personally studied, dissected, holographically reconstructed, and psychologically profiled by a man who woke up at four in the morning in a building he named after a Greek sun god to prepare for me."

He took a long, slow bite of his burrito.

"I feel terrible about what this is going to do to him."

He had watched Leo's promo three times now, which was two and a half more times than he normally gave anybody. And in fairness — in fairness — Leo Maximus was impressive. The man had a sensory deprivation chamber. He had a dog named HELIOS, except HELIOS wasn't a dog, HELIOS was a computer, which was honestly a step down from Chorizo in Mustachio's personal estimation.

"Here is what I have learned," Mustachio said, pacing the narrow aisle of the Winnebago with the gravity of a philosopher. "Leo Maximus has been undefeated in his last twenty-three televised matches. Incredible. Impressive. I tip my mustache to him." He actually did tip his mustache, using one finger to dip a curl in a little bow. "Meanwhile, I have been the Internet Champion in many different places, mostly online but that counts — which means I have been defending a title while he has been defending a spreadsheet."

He paused.

"Big difference."

He sat down on the edge of the table, crossed one leg over the other, and addressed the camera on his phone, which he had propped against a jar of Abuela's Famous Mango Habanero Salsa that he brought to every city because he was not an animal.

"Leo, I want to talk to you about the hologram. Specifically, I want to talk about the fact that you programmed my Twirl and Whirl — and I am quoting the promo here — the infamous Twirl and Whirl spinning back elbow — into a computer system so you could practice dodging it at 4 AM. Leo. Baby. I invented the Twirl and Whirl on a Tuesday in a Waffle House parking lot in Memphis because the promoter's Wi-Fi was down and I got bored. It took me eleven minutes to invent. You spent weeks teaching a robot to simulate it. I am not sure this data point supports the argument you think it supports."

He took another bite of burrito, thoughtfully.

"Also, I want to address the part where you said my win rate against technical wrestlers is 41%. That's actually really good considering at least four of those losses were to guys I was also dating at the time and I was being supportive."

The morning sun had baked the outside of the Winnebago to approximately the temperature of a panini press, which was fine. Mustachio thrived in chaotic thermal environments. He had trained in worse. He had once prepped for a championship match in a Planet Fitness in Flagstaff, Arizona where the squat rack was broken and someone had left a motivational poster that said "BE THE YOU YOU WERE MEANT TO BE" which he felt crossed several grammatical lines but wasn't going to address right now.

"Leo says I prepare for the moment," Mustachio continued, picking up a small notebook from the counter. "He says I don't study tape. He says I chase likes. He says I party after shows."

He flipped open the notebook. It was a restaurant loyalty card for a taco place in Denver. He was three stamps away from a free guacamole.

"First of all: yes."

He set the notebook down.

"But here is what Leo Maximus, Paragon of Perfection, cannot quantify, cannot holographically reconstruct, and cannot simulate in his altitude-adjusted sci-fi training dungeon: the crowd. Leo, you said yourself — in your own promo, which I have memorized better than you think — that removing the audience variable makes my timing falter by eighteen percent. You said it. You put that in your files. Your robot read it back to you in the dark."

He leaned forward.

"Leo. That means with the audience, I am one hundred percent. You built a whole dissertation around the eighteen percent that isn't there when the people aren't there. But I don't wrestle in sensory deprivation chambers. I wrestle in arenas. Loud, sweaty, beautiful arenas full of people who showed up because they wanted to feel something. And when that music hits? When those sequins catch the light? When the Twirl and Whirl loads up and ten thousand people hold their breath?"

He paused. He was genuinely emotional for half a second.

"Eighteen percent shows back up, baby."

Chorizo stirred. Mustachio looked at him warmly.

"He's right," Mustachio told the dog. "I should wrap up. I've got a drive and a meet-and-greet and I promised the promoter I'd arrive sober, which is technically still achievable."

He stood. He straightened his robe. He twirled the mustache one final time — a full rotation on each side, ceremonial, the way a samurai might check his sword before battle.

"Leo Maximus. You spent days in a mountain fortress preparing to defeat me. You studied my psychology, my weaknesses, my signature moves. You slept for 9.8 out of 10. You ate bison and quinoa and thought about my elbow timing. You looked in a mirror and practiced your intimidating yet charismatic expression."

He picked up his burrito.

"I'm finishing breakfast in a Winnebago."

He took a bite.

"See you Sunday."

He winked at the camera. The mustache caught the light like a declaration of war.

Chorizo sneezed.

The Paragon is prepared. The Mustachio is still hungry.