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Steven Bannon Rodriguez was a legend.  He'd worn the black and white referee's jumper for Chikara, World Entertainment Wrestling, even underground boxing rings in the 80s, and when the Mixed Martial Arts movement had split away, he'd split with them.  He'd worked day and night for his dreams, hosting tournament after tournaments for far less then minimum wage to set rules and regulations for everything under the sun. He'd refereed in Reading, arbitrated at Albaqueque, and judged at Jefferson's Pass. It was under his tuition programs that refereeing had become established and unionized, and it was under his watchful eye that many a young and gangly lad in a black and white jumper two sizes too big for him had taken their first steps into the squared circle. And he was knocked out and tied up in a position any japanese rope enthusiast would recognize as the Gyaku-ebi, or reversed shrimp. Joaoquim tied the last set of ropes into position around his mouth and threw him bodily into the man-sized wardrobe.

That took care of that. Joaoquim made his way to the locker room's one and only mirror, glancing at his own features in the mirror. Not too hard to change. He'd have to swap out his hat for a metric tonne of brylcream to get the referee look down, but apart from that one thing, they could have practically been brothers. One thin, dark-haired, Hispanic male looked like pretty much any other. That and nobody would really notice. He'd seen a few of the contestants, between last nights brouhaha and this morning, when he'd sneaked in here with a dustpan and brush pretending to sweep the floors. None of them were professional athletes, regulars who'd put together a long and perfectly choreographed show. They were all newcomes and freaks! It was the perfect crime. He'd waltz in, stand in the corner occasionally writing down fouls, collect his paycheck and leave. And he'd get to see more of these psychoacoustics in action and find out what the hell they were, too.

He riled through this new set of clothes and their new pockets. He didn't like how sparse and empty they were. He'd have to correct that in future. But for now, he had a solution. Taking yet another set of paracord rope from his old clothes, he tied it into a simple three-band weave and threaded it into the loop of his belt, ready to be yanked out at a moment's notice. He wore the ref's whistle around his neck, giving it a silly little toot, before taking a look at the absolutely monstrous pile of paper that was the rules of this tournament. He wondered if it would make good cigarette paper.