This is a story by BROther Laughing Man !!6Ltud83uedY.
Playing half-orc monk. Decided to play something beyond weeaboo 'i am master of martial arts'. Spent 100gp on an inlaid mask with intricate tribal designs sewn on the sides with a 'fin' on top. Thus I became LOS TIBURON, THE SHARK OF THE LAND, MASKED WRESTLER. I took all my feats revolving around grappling. Grappled EVERYTHING. EVERYTHING. EVERY. FUCKING. THING. Including, but not limited to, a bear.
Final part of the campaign: OH SHIT DRAGON. Dragon acts like a faggot, ducking into the water and popping out for breath weapon. Fuck that; I'm charging its ass. My brother was playing a warforged fighter and assists my MIGHTY LEAP into the air, where I pose mid-air and shout about the HONOR OF THE MASK. That's how I TACKLED A FUCKING DRAGON. Dealt unarmed damage, latched on, and took a deep breath to prepare for the underwater struggle.
Dragon goes up. Forgot they can actually fly. DM gives me the option to let go before he goes up. Fuck that, I'm still wrestling! 200 FEET IN THE AIR, STILL WRESTLING A DRAGON AND DEALING UNARMED DAMAGE! Dragon actually starts hurting me; I need a plan. That's when brilliance strikes me:
"I roll to pin."
The entire table fell silent. "I roll to 'pin' the dragon's wings behind its back, so it can't fly anymore." THE ENTIRE TABLE LEANS FORWARD TO WATCH THIS ROLL OF DESTINY. NATURAL. FUCKING. TWENTY. I pin the dragon's wings, sending it and me hurtling into the ground. I have one combat round left to make my final statement.
"I AM LOS TIBURON! AND I... AM... A LUCHA!!!"
Dragon's neck snaps on impact. Through sheer luck or GM fiat -- possibly both -- I survive at -4 HP. The party cleric brings me back up to 1 HP, picks me up, and holds one arm into the air. My brother the fighter immediately bangs his shield twice, making the bell noise. Party's bard/diplomancer announces "And the winner is... Los Tiburon!"
And that's how I made it to level four.