Luchador Name: Warlord Mars

Luchador Nicknames: Bringer of War

Height: 6 feet 6 inches

Weight: 464 pounds

Hometown: Molvanîa 40,000 AD

Gimmick / Persona:

Having somehow traveled from the grim darkness of the far future, Warlord brings with him a stark warning of impending doom...

The world as we know it comes to an end. Humanity is on the brink. In a post-apocalyptic, irradiated Earth, Man is beset on all sides by hostile forces. Against the backdrop of societal collapse, it’s every man for himself - dog eat dog.

Barely surviving in nuclear winter, traversing desolate ruins, and scavenging for scraps has cooked Mars' brain. He's paranoid and has a volatile temper. His black heart has never felt love. He can never trust others or show mercy, lest he be stabbed in the back. He sleeps (not for long) with one eye open, and watches over his shoulder in the day. His body is trapped in a permanent fight-or-flight response - with fight always winning out. With no companions by his side, this lone wolf has gone barking mad.

Despite (or, perhaps, in spite of) his nihilistic outlook, Warlord presents a loud, uber-macho bravado and a sarcastic sense of humour. He'd fit right into any 80s sci-fi/action B-movie.

Why has this wasteland wanderer darkened the doorway of The Temple? Claiming to possess intel which points to it as the origin of all Man’s future woes, he seeks to understand just what went wrong, and why…

Mars is an amalgam of Immortan Joe from Mad Max Fury Road, Urdnot Wrex from Mass Effect, and Marcus Fenix from Gears of War. His presentation is a bastard hybrid of Borderlands, Fallout, and Warhammer.

Catchphrase: “This… Is… WAAARRR!!!”

Moveset & Wrestling Style: Powerhouse brawler. Basic-bitch stuff below, but feel free to use anything that has him ragdolling mofos like the hoss he is.

• Belly-to-belly suplex
• Chokeslam
• Corner hip attack
• Corner splash
• Discus clothesline
• German suplex
• Lariat
• Leg drop
• Military press
• Powerbomb
• Running senton
• Running splash
• Samoan drop
• Short-arm clothesline
• Sidewalk slam
• Stalling suplex

Finishing Move:

War Machine - Torture rack into Argentine powerbomb

Signature Moves:

Warhead - KO headbutt, standing/running/diving, often sets up for the War Machine

War Crime - Moonsault (KIWF)

Taunts/gestures: Bicep flexes, chest beating, Brock Lesnar voice-cracking war cries - any macho bullshit.

Entrance Song Title: March of the Iron Sovereign

Ring Entrance: Orange lights flicker and pulse like muzzle flashes and fire in a war zone. Dry ice fills the stage like smoke and dust from an explosion. Militaristic, rousing orchestral music heralds the arrival of Warlord Mars. The caped behemoth of a man cuts an imposing silhouette as he marches to the ring - his own personal battlefield.

Backstory: 38 millennia separated us from Warlord Mars. He shouldn't be here to begin with. Beyond a tear in space and time, all that's known of him or his origins are what he elects to tell us in his war stories. The only sure thing about the Bringer of War is that, one day, the titan emerged from the waters on a beach in Molvanîa, smoke coming out of his nostrils like a goddamn Kaiju. He fights under his own banner, loyal to no nation, man, or god. He doesn't fight out of love or hate. He's never been able to count on friends; money has even less value to him. Fighting for survival is all he's ever known, and he'll go down swinging. In his mind, dying in the ring would be an honourable death.