Bolivar the Butcher

No one forgets their first time seeing Bolivar the Butcher.

The lights in the arena had barely dimmed when the metallic clang of a meat hook scraping steel echoed through the air. The crowd fell silent. Then came the deep, deliberate footsteps. Boom. Boom. Boom. And finally—the curtain tore open.

There he stood.

Apron soaked in old stains, muscles thick as hanging slabs, and a cleaver bigger than a referee’s clipboard. Bolivar the Butcher was not just a man. He was a walking health code violation with a championship belt and a European sneer that said, “You next.”

But tonight… tonight was different.

Tonight was Meat Madness Monday.

It was a special promotion at the DWC Arena, where every fan in the front three rows got a complimentary smoked sausage—“Certified Butchered by Bolivar.” He had set up a miniature butcher station by the ring, complete with a chopping block, a few suspiciously twitchy sides of meat, and a grizzled assistant known only as “Goose.”

As Bolivar sharpened his cleaver in full view of the audience, the announcer, Jazz Jupiter, crept ringside, holding a mic like it was a live grenade.

“Bolivar! Care to say a few words to the fans tonight?”

The Butcher paused mid-hone, turning his iron stare toward Jazz. Then he cracked a small, unsettling smile.

“I haff prepared… something special for tonight. A little cut… for every one of you screaming porkchops out zhere.”

The audience roared, some with delight, others with a twinge of fear. A kid in the front row dropped his bratwurst. Goose caught it.

“Tonight,” Bolivar growled, “I wrestle a man who claims to be the Prime Cut of the DWC…zhe kitty cat called Leonid.”

Cue the sizzle. Literally. Someone backstage triggered the pyrotechnic steak grill effect too early, filling the arena with the smell of medium-rare mayhem.

Leonid—his mane of thick hair bouncing behind him—pranced into the arena, a feral grin on his face.

“I only wrestle grass-fed competition, darling,” he sniffed, pointing with a manicured nail at Bolivar. “And you look like a back-alley brisket.”

Bolivar didn't flinch. He simply walked over to his chopping block, picked up a prime rib, and powerbombed it into the wood. Meat flew. Fans howled.

The bell rang.

The match that followed wasn’t a match—it was a butcher’s brawl. Bolivar didn’t just wrestle. He tenderized. He tossed Leonid like a sack of discount sirloin, the blood flowing before he hit is infamous finisher, the front enziguri he called the Primal Cut!

One… two… three.

The bell rang. Leonid lay sprawled on the mat, singlet shredded like deli paper. Bolivar stood tall, cleaver raised.

But instead of taunting, he reached down, pulled Leonid up, unsteadily to his feet, and patted him on the shoulder.

“You cook nice under pressure,” he muttered. “But next time… bring marinade.”

The crowd exploded. Goose wheeled out a cooler full of Bolivar’s branded jerky. Meat Madness Monday became a DWC tradition.

And Bolivar? He didn’t say much after that. Just went back to his locker, hung his apron, and sharpened his cleaver. Because in the DWC… every match is a fresh cut.