Minor Copy
"A minor copy."
At those words, everyone present turned to look back in bewilderment.
Even Baku frowned at the discourtesy of it.
In this industry, mutual respect and trust mattered above all else. What I had just done broke that unspoken rule. It wouldn't have been strange at all if I'd been booted out on the spot with a swift kick to the backside.
But I decided to trust the Russell Hart I'd seen so far. A man with both talent and skill to that degree would surely understand that my behavior right now was all part of a carefully scripted 'book'.
"Why is everyone staring at me? It's not like I'm wrong. That kid is nothing more than a minor copy of his uncle Greg Hart, who's currently working the main show."
"…Quite the talker for a man from the back alleys."
He had deliberately used the word 'backyard'—a term taboo in the WWF. In other words, Russell understood this situation perfectly too. He looked a little flustered, but after giving that answer, Russell beckoned to me with a flick of his fingers, microphone still in hand.
"If you've got a problem, come up here."
"Be happy to."
I gave a nod, then rose and climbed into the ring.
Face to face.
Literally, it meant standing face to face, but in the pro wrestling industry it carried a far more symbolic weight: two rivals in a 'feud' pressing their faces together, glaring into each other's eyes to build tension.
What's going to happen?
A brawl. Mutual insults. A heel lamely running away at the anticlimax. Or someone making a run-in. Spectators mostly bite their nails through a face-to-face, expecting one of those outcomes.
It was no different now. Standing on the stage, I planted myself in front of Russell Hart and glared at him.
Russell stood 185 centimeters tall. So I, at 188, spread my legs ever so slightly to make our heights look nearly identical.
The two hottest performers in the room. Jun, risen from the underground—and Russell Hart, forged and groomed from childhood beneath the Hart Family banner. If these two ever traded holds in a real match, who would win? Or better yet—who would the company take? The fans? Me?
That was the fun of pro wrestling. A show unfolding in real time.
And it looked as if this face-to-face was about to end in a 'run-in'—Cena, genuinely convinced that Russell and I were about to throw down, had climbed onto the ring apron.
"Now, hold on—!"
"Shawn Cena."
But it was a fan who stopped him. Baku.
"Get your ass down off that ring right now. Don't ruin a good picture."
He had understood from the moment Russell summoned me into the ring that the whole thing was a worked segment—two arrogant rookies tearing down reality and building the show back up in its place. A hesitant Cena climbed back down. I took the microphone from the producer who'd come with Baku and picked the thread right back up.
"Here I am. Got something to say?"
"I can't just let it slide. My own uncle's minor copy—me?"
"You do share his habit of lazily cranking out half-assed Sharpshooters while squatting like you're taking a dump, and that fruity fashion sense. What you don't have is the charisma to match."
"Spending your youth drunk in back alleys, I see, has left you incapable of understanding honor or legacy."
"And does that change the fact that you're nothing but a minor copy?"
"No. It gives me reason and resolve to act."
The moment those words left his mouth, Russell's eyes went wide—as if he'd surprised even himself.
So he's just discovered a side of himself he never knew.
Only then did I understand why Russell had framed his gimmick the way he had. Russell believed he had no choice but to live buried in the shadow of an uncle who was simply too brilliant.
"A minor copy? Fine, maybe I am. Greg is a great Icon, after all. But I keep a single word carved into my heart, always."
Russell declared it with his head held high.
"I will surpass Greg Hart. Just as he surpassed his own father. And to pass that legacy on to the generations that follow—that is my goal."
"Then I'll shatter that dream. I'll teach you the reality I learned, bitterly, back in those alleys."
"Do your worst, old man."
"When?"
"Last week of the camp, right? Let's settle it then. Our conclusion."
"You'd best figure out what 'legacy' you're leaving your family before you show up."
A single clap rang out. Baku.
"Now that was one hell of a segment."
A ring segment—the umbrella term for anything one or more wrestlers did in the ring to deepen a storyline.
"Yeah, yeah. You got me, you insolent little punks. Watching characters develop through a feud really is the charming part of pro wrestling, huh."
Snickering, Baku came up to the ring and stretched out a hand. "So—which one of you's the babyface, and which one's the heel?"
"That's up to the fans to decide."
I shrugged. It was a statement that turned the existing paradigm completely on its head. Baku stared at me like I'd lost my mind.
"The fans… decide?"
"Yes, sir. We'll package our gimmicks as persuasively as we can—but whether it lands or not, that part belongs to the crowd."
I turned to look at Russell. His character had developed through this feud with me and taken on a distinct identity of its own. No longer just 'a wrestler from the Hart Family'—now he was also 'the young nephew trying to surpass his great uncle'.
At his core, he was a babyface role. The family-viewing demographic would probably love Russell. But there would most definitely be people who hated a guy like that too.
Younger fans especially—they'll dismiss him as a stale relic with no fun in him.
And weighing those side effects while fluidly adjusting a performer's role—that was what 'booking' meant. That was why I'd said it couldn't be known yet. The most important variable, the fans' reaction, was still an unknown.
Having understood my point, Baku couldn't keep the grin off his face. And soon enough, he turned to the trainees standing at the back.
"Everybody see that? That's what a 'gimmick' is. You all learned something today, so don't you dare forget it."
"Yes, sir!"—a chorus of voices answering in unison filled the training facility.
Several days passed after that. Training carried on as usual—and on top of it, the ones whose gimmicks had been finalized began taking extra classes in mic work and acting. The trainees who couldn't settle on a gimmick were gradually winnowed out, and those with lackluster records were cut and sent home. That was how we dwindled to ten.
Leaving the departed behind us, we threw ourselves back into training. Me, Cena, and Russell—inside the passing line—worked twice as hard. While the others rested, each of us hammered away at our own weak points: I sculpted the body I'd show the crowds, Russell deepened his gimmick, and Cena kept drilling the fundamentals.
One notable thing amid all of it: Russell and I had almost entirely stopped talking to each other. I caught on immediately to what that behavior meant. Russell was upholding a tradition of the industry that had long since faded—the kayfabe. It meant staying in character even in everyday life, off the stage. A device for deepening the show's intrigue and sense of reality. These days, for any number of reasons, nobody kept kayfabe that airtight anymore.
But it didn't seem to be without effect.
"…You two are doing okay, right?"
Whenever we found ourselves alone together in the gym in the dead of night, Cena would ask something like that, worry written across his face. Everyone else was the same.
"Jun, nothing weird going on lately?"
"Loosen that face up a little. Smile once in a while."
"Let's grab a beer sometime."
The trainers, the fellow trainees, Mrs. Hobbs who'd befriended me at the cafeteria—everyone seemed quietly preoccupied with the state of things between me and Russell.
But we were fine.
…We really were fine, so why was I climbing into a van?
And why, of all things, was Russell sitting right beside me, still holding kayfabe?
"Alright, everybody sing along!"
And why had old man Baku been blasting country music since ages ago, forcing us to sing with him? It was as if he were saying, 'You two clearly have feelings all hurt, so hash it out already!'
Worse, Baku could not sing. Genuinely, skull-rattlingly, blood-boilingly bad…
"Country roooads~ take me hoooome~ to the place I belooong~ West Virginia, mountain mama~"
…I'm going insane.
Why were these people so damn considerate?
And by this point, Russell surely could have dropped kayfabe and explained the situation. So why was he sitting there in silence? I shot a sidelong glance at him. Apparently enjoying the song, he was tapping his fingers along on his crossed knee.
No way. Surely not.
Was he actually sulking? A pro wrestler? Over something that happened on stage?
"That's, impo—"
"What'd you just say, Jun!"
"No, nothing! …But where exactly are we headed, Baku?"
"Wal~maaart~ take me to Wal~mart~!"
I'm losing it. Now Baku had started singing his answers along to the country music. Groaning, I pressed a hand to my forehead for a moment, then glared at Baku in the driver's seat.
"Why Walmart?"
"To buy the chow I'm gonna feed you lot once training wraps up this week."
"You're buying that, Baku?"
"Got a problem with that?"
"Then why are we going?"
"Somebody's gotta haul the bags."
"So again, why—"
"Don't like it, I'll turn the van around."
The massive tendons coiled around Baku's arms flexed for an instant.
"Nope! A day out, some fresh air—it's great. Really."
I cranked the window down with a rattle and decided to just enjoy the situation for what it was.
He's right that I could use a break.
The training volume had climbed even higher lately. Every muscle in my body was being worked to the bone without a moment's reprieve.
Still, Cena's been spotting me, so I've been careful about injuries.
Tightrope-walking right at the edge of your limits wore you down mentally, too. You needed to step off the wire once in a while and let the overheated body cool down.
"Might grab a cola."
The moment I muttered it, I felt a gaze right beside me. When I turned, Russell was smiling, chin propped against the window. His lips moved, silently mouthing, 'Coca-Cola?'
…This little punk.
Kayfabe had its limits, for God's sake. It felt like we were carrying on some secret office romance. A shiver ran up my shoulders as I mouthed back.
Pepsi.
But then I laughed.
The beat-up old van tore down the highway toward the nearest town. Bear country—dense forest rolling past under a perfectly ordinary American sunset. By the time we finally pulled into the Walmart parking lot, night had all but fallen.
"Come on, everybody out."
Baku herded us along like an overbearing kindergarten teacher. Russell clammed up again the moment he stepped out of the van, and I resolved once more to simply embrace the awkward atmosphere.
The dim, shadowed parking lot. America wasn't exactly the safest place—as soon as the sun dropped, people holed themselves up at home. As a precaution, Baku had brought along a handgun in case anything happened.
Still, what could possibly happen?
Criminals targeted people who looked weak but seemed to be carrying something valuable. All we had on us was muscle, so really…
But that line of thinking came to an end before long.
So a situation like this could happen after all.
Not that we'd be the victims—we were about to become witnesses to it.
Over by an SUV parked in the distance, four men were savagely beating a fifth. Beside them, three figures—a wife and children, by the look of them—trembled in terror.
Under normal circumstances, the sensible move would be to quietly slip away and run…
"…What the hell is wrong with you [expletive]s?"
As I'd said before—Baku was exactly the kind of man you never, ever wanted to make angry.