The Birth of a Masterpiece

The broadcast carried on with the script half-torn apart and rebuilt on the fly.

The Pock, apparently delighted to get a taste of how things worked in my old industry after so long, kept tossing ad-libs into every sketch. Wrestling runs on reading the crowd in real time, so delivering lines off the cuff was second nature to us. The SNL crew, professionals to the bone, brushed it all off without missing a beat, and in that atmosphere the show rolled along far looser and far better received than it ever did with a typical host.

And then the show was over. As the audience filed out and the staff began striking the equipment, SNL's executive producer came looking for us — and standing beside him was Andy Gilberg, the leader of the SNL crew himself.

I was a little surprised. The man famous as one half of the comedy song group Lon Island, here in the flesh.

The producer excused himself to speak with Bart and Flair privately, and in that gap, Gilberg recognized me first and offered his hand.

"Oh — Sin!"

"Mr. Gilberg. It's an honor."

"Because you're cool. I saw that match of yours and it absolutely blew me away."

"I thought F*** the Land would sound pretty fun too—"

Ah. That song comes later.

"Sorry?"

"Ah — nothing, nothing."

"F*** the Land... now that's a hell of a phrase. Why do you f*** the land, exactly?"

For reasons known only to him, he pulled a little notebook and a pen out of his pocket.

...Screw it. I'll just answer.

"When you're cutting across the open ocean on a gorgeous yacht, you can't help telling the land to f*** off, can you?"

"Ooh! I see, I see. I'm the owner of a boat... — kind of that vibe, hmm."

Gilberg began humming a melody under his breath. It was startlingly close to the song I knew him for, and that caught me off guard.

And so, in this life, I became the inspiration for the song that would soon take the entire world by storm — I'm Owner Boat.

Anyway. I spoke first.

"That was a great show."

"Of course it was! That's what our crew exists for."

"Haha. First-class, as expected."

"But tonight was something special. The ad-libs in the sketches you all joined were absolutely killing."

"We've always got live audience feedback to work with, so keeping the show tuned to it means plenty of practice at improvising."

"Ah, true — unlike us, your crowds hold nothing back when a bit lands badly."

"Exactly."

"But Sin — you always steer the reaction exactly where you want it, don't you?"

Gilberg hit the nail square on the head.

"Do I?"

"Honestly, that's why it didn't read as funny as we expected."

"Hm?"

I tilted my head. There had been a sketch around the middle of our appearance — The Pock coming out as a Nerd character to learn exercise from me, Joe, ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠and Flair. The comedy was supposed to come from the disconnect: Pock, whose body was actually monstrous, playing the student to us while secretly outperforming every one of us.

"You went and got genuinely sexy."

"Uh, hmm..."

"Not my personal taste — I mean the crowd's reaction. Like Joe chowing down on hamburgers, or Flair being ancient. The laugh the script wanted just didn't have the punch it was supposed to."

Originally, that bit had been built on the prejudice baked into their concept — the notion that Asian men aren't hot. Gilberg never said those words out loud, but that was exactly how it came across to me. Turns out I was actually hot, so the gag stopped landing.

But what was I supposed to do about it?

"I've been working out hard."

No matter what, I had zero interest in playing along with a cheap joke like that. With a meaningful smile, I shook Gilberg's hand once more. All in all, I was glad our style had sparked something in these people.

Just then, something enormous popped out from the side of the stage.

The Pock.

Baseball jacket on, a beaming smile on his face, he came straight for us — and asked for my handshake before Bart, Flair, or Joe could get anywhere near me.

"That was fantastic, Sin."

"You were incredible yourself, sir."

"I didn't waste my years in Hollywood, you know. You've got to deliver acting like that before the big shots out there even learn your name."

Light, easy jokes. Gentle as advertised.

"I'd love a chance to talk more sometime. ...Oh, right — why don't we swap emails?"

"Of course."

"Well, I'll be damned. First time I've ever seen Pock take an interest in a rookie?"

"Big Joe, why are you picking a fight?"

"You punk, you go radio silent for years and then turn up a Hollywood superstar all on your own — of course I'm sore about it."

"Hahaha! I'm still a wet-behind-the-ears rookie. Plenty left to learn."

"So any of that time in this business actually pay off for you?"

"The name recognition helped. So did the habit of keeping the body in shape — right down to selling bumps and action work?"

"Goddammit — I should've ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠gone when that horror movie offer came in."

"Oh, hey, you remember? That King's Rumble where it came down to just the two of us?"

"Remember it! You tipped me clean over the top rope and took the whole thing!"

"You know my debut film, right? Scorpion Invader. The producer told me — he'd planned all along to cast whichever of us won that Rumble."

"..........H-he did?"

"He did! You could've become Scorpion Invader — an actor pulling in ten million a year!"

"Ugh... uuugh..."

Big Joe's face crumpled. But The Pock just chuckled and kept twisting the knife.

"Life's a riot, isn't it! Am I right?"

"S-sure is."

He is absolutely going to cry in his hotel room tonight.

I answered lightly, remembering Big Joe's surprisingly tender heart. He was one of the most successful big men in wrestling history — and unlike Taker or Kane, a genuinely versatile performer who could carry comedy characters too. Kind to everyone backstage, but deeply sensitive, and a notorious crier besides.

And The Pock was dropping shocking(?) bombshells right in front of him without a flicker of hesitation. I quietly revised one entry in my mental files on the man: he's a little oblivious.

For once, since this counted as official business, the company had booked us a hotel. The same hotel as The Pock, no less — which is to say, five stars. A room all to myself. It was the lowest-tier room a five-star had to offer, and it was still nicer than any hotel I had ever set foot in. And it was free.

A real night's sleep, for once.

America was a country where you always had to protect yourself from threat. Not every corner of it was as lawless as popular belief insisted, but there was no harm in being careful. My rule had always been: in a rough neighborhood, stay in a mid-range hotel that was hard for an intruder to breach. Moving with the other wrestlers helped keep crime at arm's length, but it was never a guarantee of anything.

Which was why this expensive hotel felt like nothing short of paradise to me.

No more sleeping with a gun stashed above the headboard.

I'd finished a very good dinner, taken a shower, and flopped backward onto the bed. Then I picked up the phone. We had agreed to talk after the show.

A few rings, and she picked up on the other end.

Tiffany giggled.

I floundered and hurriedly talked her down. Still, it didn't feel bad having someone get angry on my behalf. Tiffany took a long breath as if smothering her temper, then moved on to the next question.

That piqued my interest. Pock hadn't been active in the business during my era, so I knew almost nothing about him — which made Tiffany's rundown genuinely valuable.

Right at that moment.

Ding-dong—

The doorbell jolted me upright, and a vague sense of foreboding pulled my brow into a frown. And I was right to feel it. Through the fisheye lens on the door stood The Pock.

...In rabbit pajamas.

With that settled, I hung up and welcomed Pock inside.

"Pock? What brings you here?"

"Sin~ Thought I'd have a drink. If you're up for it, come along to my room."

"Oh — sure, just give me a second."

He didn't smell like he'd been drinking. So he really did want to talk business, just as Tiffany said.

A movie role?

Buying myself time to think, I turned around and pulled on a light jacket, sorting through ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠my head.

Take a movie role, and I'd be off the shows for a month or two at the least.

Would that actually help a career that was climbing right now? To be fair, wrestlers on the way up all made a film eventually — Batista built a whole second act as a movie star after retiring, for instance. WWF had even founded its own studio, producing films under the WWF Films banner. Mostly B-grade action flicks starring WWF superstars, but still.

Would it really be all right?

"What's with the long face? It's just a drink. Don't overthink it — come on, let's go."

"Ah — yep."

Had I deliberated too long? Either way, I followed Pock straight out. He took me to the elevator and swiped his key card, and the car rose without a single stop — straight to the top floor.

And my jaw hit the floor. The entire ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠top floor was the room. Decorated from wall to wall like some king's palace — the sheer scale of it was striking.

Noticing my shock, Pock smirked and spoke up.

"Not a bad room, eh?"

"...How much does this place run?"

"Let's see... five thousand a night, give or take?"

I'm going to faint.

"Don't go thinking I'm being flashy. Money only does its job when you spend it — it circulates and puts food on people's tables."

The exact same logic Tiffany used to preach. Did wealth inevitably rot your brain in this particular direction?

"If I had money to throw around like that, I'd have this place converted into a homeless shelter."

"BWAHAHAHA! Now that I'd like to see!"

Pock roared with laughter, swept into the room, and turned sideways through a doorway.

"But we've got company."

"Company..."

So this was what "here it comes" felt like.

"We were in the middle of talking business, and they took an interest in you."

There were three men inside. All of them nursing whiskeys and vodka at their own pace, and the instant I appeared, their gazes struck me like arrows.

Directors, then.

No idea which was which, mind you. The atmosphere felt a touch heavy as I took it in — until Pock bulldozed straight through it with his cheerful voice.

"Hey~ What do you think? This kid's the real deal, trust me. And handsome to boot!"

Pock turned back to me.

"Say hello. This is Eugene Douglas, Antonio Emboos, and Alexander Kimura. Film directors, the lot of them."

"I'm Sin — pro wrestler."

I stood before the three men and introduced myself just like that. Truth be told, I had forgotten every single one of their names the moment Pock finished reeling them off. Not one business card between them, and he just rattles the names out — what was I supposed to do with that? Sloppy operator, this man. And just as I thought it, the man standing in the center addressed me, eyes lazily sizing me up.

"Pleasure to meet you, Sin. The Pock here says you've got the real quality."

"As an actor, you mean?"

"Right. There's always demand for Asian actors, but finding a good one is the hard part."

The bald man on the left spoke up, carefully.

"Mind taking your shirt off?"

"Sure. No problem."

I nodded without a hint of resistance, peeled off my top, and showed them what was underneath. The looks in the room changed. Smooth-cut abs and pecs, shoulders flared wide — years of relentless work had given me a genuinely striking frame.

"Oho."

"See? Told you he's good, right? He's a monster in the ring too, I'm telling you. You should see this kid when he gets on the mic — absolute fire!"

Beaming with pride, Pock launched into a full litany of praise on my behalf.

Honestly, I couldn't begin to guess where this opportunity would lead — but one thing was certain.

They liked me.

My nipples are a little cold, though.

That was the price of it, anyway.

But this kind of "liking" was absolutely not the kind I wanted.