Everyone just calls him The Champ - because that's what he was, once. Twenty years ago, he crossed the border the wrong way, a young gringo with stars in his eyes. He became a star of the Lucha Libre - Mexican wrestling - but he lost control for a moment. Broke a guy's neck. And the guy just happened to be the nephew of the local mob boss. The Champ has spent most of the last two decades paying for that mistake, working for the mob. He's done it all: enforcement, collections, assassinations, and underground bare knuckle fights where people bet on men like roosters. What he hasn't done, he's seen. He thought nothing could shock him. He thought wrong. The mob is deep in the pollero (human smuggling) business. About a million Mexicans cross the border into the States every year. The polleros charge $1200 a head or more to get them there. You do the math. It's a big enough business that the mob has partnered with a bloodthirsty splinter group of the Minutemen. The mob sends The Champ to ... Written by
When you're this far South, sometimes it's better to be dead than alive.