El Sasquatcho took another swing at the training dummy. Frightening invention, this. He wondered with actual, honest scrutiny why Wildcat didn’t just bring these things into battle against the forces of evil. 

At first, he cranked the difficulty level up to about halfway. You know, start off slowly. He realized his mistake a little too late, shortly after picking himself up from the heap of hair and sarcasm into which he had been hurled, far across the room. Afterwards, he dialed it WAY down and set it to “Intermediate, Instruction Mode”. Scanning through the styles offered, he tried Boxing the first day, figuring it would round out his melee options. By the end of the day, however, he met and fell into heavy flirtation with Capoeira. Something that could compliment his Wrestling, with excellent striking technique, [i]plus[/i] capitalized on his abilities as an acrobat. 

He spent the next few days dedicating his training time to it. 

True to his word, he called his old teacher, Luis Martinez, and gratefully accepted a position with the Gotham Cultural Arts center. A few hours a day, A few days a week, he taught Hispanic Art classes and consulted on similar matters. Growing up as he did, he was exposed to more folk art of this nature than very possibly anyone else in the state. As promised, it was rather easy. It was fun. And he worked with kids that would otherwise not have exposure to their ancestor’s culture. It was an excellent juxtaposition to how he spent most other hours of his day. 

It was after a particularly strenuous night of receiving more abuse from the automated training dummies that he took a moment to ponder introspectively. Why was he doing this? For days now, he had spent the majority of the evening hours pushing himself in this underground (and very, very cool) training facility. His jocularity the first night, symptomatic of a colorful, extroverted personality coupled with an [i]awesome[/i] burrito high, was replaced with a gnawingly intense need to better himself. 

Not that he would tell anyone else around him, but his defeat last week and subsequent forced swim shook him up. The last time he felt that level of helplessness, he was a boy of fourteen. Another bad day. Perhaps his present “flash and fanfare” attitude was part of a defense mechanism, keeping him functioning and driven in the hard world he voluntarily thrust himself. Aw, hell; perhaps he was just hungry. 

The furry Luchador, for whatever reason, put himself on a diet consisting mainly of fruit and roughage. The occasional jar of peanut butter and loaf of Hawaiian bread, but that didn’t really count. He craved meat. Meat and peppers and rice. Meat, peppers, rice, and some manner of syrupy pineapple soda. Yes, it was time to hit The Taco Hut. With a vengeance. He threw a coat on over his training gear and hopped in the El Camino. 

He returned twenty three minutes later, stacks of refried goodness in large bags emblazoned with the Taco Hut logo; a cartoony pueblo style dwelling with a sombrero for a roof. He made his way to the break room, tossed the food to a nearby table, and bowed with the grandiose flair of a bullfighter, whipping his coat about him. The vocal augmenter in his mask amplified his words into an anti-heroic roar as he exclaimed, “[b]Midnight snacking time, boys and girls! El Sasquatcho has brought a bounty of Tacos and Churro Bites![/b]” 

Titans present in the break room, or any within earshot who felt like taking a meal, were greeted with a veritable cornucopia of quick-service Mexican inspired delights. Their signature tacos, certainly, plus fresh avocado guacamole, salsa, and mountains of chips. Boxes of yellow rice, fajita fixings and warm flour tortillas, and a stack of burritos, making way for warm cheesecake-filled sopapillas and chocolate covered churro bites. One bag stood alone, its contents unadded to the mounting buffet of meaty, cumin-ous aromas. “[b]No no, my friends. This one is for me. Enjoy.[/b]”

El Sasquatcho dug into the untouched bag with reverent glee, contemplating where to begin his carnivorous destruction of the contents within. He lifted his mask enough to give a wide area of approach for his feast, and began to devour. Through a mouthful of carne asada, inquired, “Ey, is Senor Wildcat still around? Maybe he should get in on some of this, eh?” before returning to his gluttonous rampage. 

A few minutes into the meal, he looked at the assembled would-be heroes. “Guys, we have got to get to know each other a little better if we’re going to work like a team, eh? El Sasquatcho has noticed a that we’re all taking a great deal of alone time. Whatddya say, next time we all have a day off, we go… ida know… do something? Like, as a group? Maybe we can catch a movie, or hit the cockfights, maybe go to the park and join a Tai Chi group…”

At this exact moment, a loud issuance of sound burbled from El Sasquatcho’s abdomen, reminiscent of plumbing beginning to back up. “Oh, no.” whispered the luchador, gritting his teeth and swallowing the bite he upon which he was presently working. He instantly regretted his decision to consume massive amounts of fiber and peanut butter over the past few days. The sudden addition of beef and fat and capsicum knocked something loose, somewhere in the deeper reaches of his digestive system; it threatened imminent breach. A threat that sounded strangely like the death growls of two pumas, their tails attached by means of a steadfast square knot. 

El Sasquatcho pulled his mask back down fully, praying panic would not overtake him while he tried frantically to figure out how one might relieve themselves in this armor. Dios mio, not [i]in[/i] the armor. He had to run. Pulling off his gear mid-stride, he bolted for the bathrooms. El Sasquatcho moved with breakneck acceleration unexpected of someone of his bulk, his years of Lucha training becoming useful as he partially ran on his hands while kicking off his tactical lower garments. 

He cared not for which bathroom – blessed oasis of gastrointestinal relief – he entered, male, female, or other, so long as it had a water bearing porcelain seat capable of supporting his weight, preferably with handlebars and a seatbelt. To his own horror, he almost overshot the door to his necessary destination while bounding down the causeway like a rampaging gorilla. Reaching a ham sized fist out to stop his forward momentum, he caught the door frame and was able to swiftly pull himself back onto his path of salvation. 

What occurred next would come to be known as The Great Intestinal Rebellion of Grant Gym, to be discussed only in whisper and rumor. 

El Sasquatcho hurled himself bodily upon the nearest toilet, carefully tucked away in a well-constructed stall built to last nuclear disaster. This was fortunate, as a DEFCON Level Assplosion was nigh. He barely placed his overly furry posterior onto its preferred docking station, before the torrent of dark, foreboding ichors began spewing therefrom. The force was sufficient to send the large man’s feet skyward, his hands pressing on either side of the stall, holding a tenuous balance. This dump would not defeat him. He would not go gentle. 

Unfortunately, he still wore his working headgear, vocal enhancer fully functional and projecting his scrambled voice in a manner that was quite monstrous. El Sasquatcho did not seem to notice, focused as he was on his battle. He began his counterattack as any good Luchador would, by issuing a challenge: “[b]Nunca, foul demonshit! You cannot hope to prevail! LUCHA!!![/b]” 

His sputtering foe responded by fro-yo’ing a renewed blast, erupting its fury with the sound of an underwater chainsaw, wielded by an inexpert lumberjack. El Sasquatcho growled and bore down, forcing his will upon the entity of colonic mayhem. “[b]…rrrrrrRRRRRAAAAAHHHH!!! Kneel before me, Cacafuego! You will submit before my massiveness! Tap out, I command you! SUBMIT!!![/b]”

Then the burning began. The feeling of acid marbles forced from a toothpaste tube came rolling down; each cat’s-eye or masher sending rolling waves of growing discomfort through his strain-wracked form. It just kept coming, flowing like a river of all things vorpal – but from his ass. The seeming betrayl of his dietary change, ironically designed to make him healthier, hurt his feelings but simultaneously gave him great resolve. “[b]Bastardo! I have looked into the eyes of suffering! YOU ARE NOTHING![/b]” 

The urgency of the noise issuing from his posterior reached a fevered pitch, now more the garbled screaming of a lamentably insane bull moose. El Sasquatcho, not to be defeated easily by anyone, let alone dinner, wrapped his fingers around the handicap assist rails to his sides, and lifted himself up from his lifeline toilet, crossing his legs in the lotus position and straightening his back. Despite resembling some manner of satanic yogi, this position gave him superior control of his core muscles and reliable aim. He growled with effort and pain, preparing to make his move. 

“[b]GRRRRRRRRAAAAAAH! Prepare to be pinned, Rectal Fiend! RrrrrRRRRRRRRR … One….  rrrRRRRRR …Two! Grrrraaahhhhgh THREE! EL SASQUATCHO WINS!!![/b]” 

In truth, there was more to come, but the fight had left his opponent. What remained, as the Bard said (Shakespeare, not the other one) was: “Full of sound and fury, signifying nothing”. El Sasquatcho took meticulous effort on the cleanup, washed his hands and arms twice, and returned to the scene of the battle. 

“[b]You were a worthy adversary, and out of respect, I shall flush twice. Ole.[/b]”

He tapped the toilet handle with his foot (twice) and moved to rejoin the others. Glancing at the mirrors on his way out, he finally noticed that he was wearing his working headgear – the mask with the vocal augmentation. Maybe nobody noticed. He returned to the break room, reequipping himself as he came back across his gear. Nonchalantly, he entered the room, checking on the status of his favored meal. He was pleased to note his burritos were still warm, and he retrieved one, intent on enjoying himself regardless of his earlier struggle. 

Partway through this burrito, he risked a look at the other Titans, staring at him with shocked (or amused) expressions. Understanding that the jig was up, he responded to their initial silence, “It fought bravely. You would give it proper honor to wait twenty minutes before entering the room.” 

El Sasquatcho cleared his throat, took another bite, and tried like hell to change the subject. “Sooo… you guys talk about where you wanted to go while I was away?”