Hello, Kung-Fury
The story was falling neatly into place.
James Kwan had agreed to accommodate my every convenience — and at the same time, he cast me as the killer in his film.
Fortunately, he hadn't yet settled the details of who would play Jigsaw, so I managed to claim the role for myself. From his perspective, I was the one man who had read a single synopsis and grasped the killer's intentions with perfect clarity. Who else would it be?
He also mentioned that he wanted to rework Jigsaw somewhat, tailoring the character to fit me.
In the Hell Saw of my past life, Jigsaw had been an old man ravaged by deep illness. That was the whole point of the character — a dying man so devoted to the preciousness of life that he tortured those who wasted theirs, trying to teach them its value. So what kind of character would Jigsaw become when I took the role? The anticipation was palpable. Add James Kwan's imagination — the man destined to leave a deep footprint in film history — and I had no doubt something magnificent would emerge.
All that remained was to inform Bart. I certainly couldn't sit around waiting for the official paperwork to arrive from James's production company.
Early November.
The company was abuzz with talk of the pay-per-view at the end of the month: Ring Survival.
A brand warfare — the champions and superstars of Burning Kong and Rakedown colliding head-to-head to decide who reigned supreme. A colossal event ranked among the WWF's Big Four pay-per-views, alongside Wrestle Imperium, King's Rumble, and Summer Suplex.
The Big Four were unique in that Burning Kong and Rakedown co-hosted them. Which was precisely why everyone gave their absolute all — for the ratings, and for the ticket sales.
And in the middle of it all, our workaholic-in-chief, Chairman Bart Maxen, was pulling all-nighters as always. Which meant I could come find him whenever it suited me.
When would that be, you ask?
Two in the morning.
Knock, knock.
"Come in."
An office tucked into one side of the arena. Bart was still buried in the endless stream of documents coming in. Honestly, I had never once seen this man rest. Whenever I arrived for work, he was always at the arena before me, issuing meticulous instructions to the staff down to the smallest detail. That was how he lived — obsessed with work, obsessed with controlling people. And when he dug his heels in at the wrong moment, he invariably botched the job. Recently, for instance, he'd taken the world title off a red-hot Booker-Lee and handed it to Silverback, his personal favorite.
Silverback drew vicious negative reactions for it, and Bart — rather than own the decision — blamed his subordinates' mistake and raged about it.
And it was now two in the morning. Right about the hour when every nerve frayed to a razor's edge. Bart looked up at me with his brow knitted.
"...Sin?"
"Got a moment, sir?"
"What is it now? You haven't even gone home yet. What brings you here at this hour?"
"The boss is still working. An employee can hardly leave first, can he?"
"...If you actually did that every time, it might move me."
"I was training at the gym and running an errand on the way out. Cut me some slack."
"Kukuku, you really never fail to talk a good game."
Bart gestured for me to take a seat. "Care for a drink?"
"Got any protein shakes?"
"Of course I do."
...I was joking.
But I couldn't back out now. Bart was always rigorous about his own conditioning, proudly carrying a bodybuilder's monstrous musculature in every season. And so, vodka declined, I accepted a protein shake and sat down.
Bart once again showed me that uncanny, almost frightening insight of his.
"Every time I think about you, it strikes me — you're far more seasoned than your age. Like a man who's lived several decades ahead of himself."
"...Thank you."
"So what's this about? If it's nothing, brace yourself."
"I apologize for bringing this up during such a hectic stretch."
"Out with it."
"I've received an offer to appear in a film, and I'm considering taking it."
"..."
Bart went silent. He fixed me with a look of profound displeasure.
"The company hasn't received so much as a formal word, and here you are, strolling into my office at midnight to announce you're off to make a movie."
"The formal request will arrive in a few days. The director and I simply met and talked on our own."
"Dwight Johnson. That son of a bitch has gotten his hooks into you, hasn't he."
"Something like that."
"And what about the belt? You can hardly waltz off to film a movie while you're the champion."
There it was. That's the normal reaction.
From Bart's perspective, what I was saying was frankly outrageous. I had won the title barely any time ago. A champion who was supposed to dominate the show suddenly announces he's leaving to shoot a film? Without even consulting the company? They trusted him with the belt, and this is how he stabs them in the back?
...That's what he'd be thinking.
But I began my explanation, slowly and calmly.
"That's exactly the arrangement I needed to negotiate. That's why I spoke with the director first."
"What arrangement?"
"Appearing on the show while filming the movie at the same time."
"A bit part?"
"The killer."
"Ha!"
Bart burst out laughing. "I'll never understand why our talent walk out that door and always come back as slasher characters."
"Well, no Asian man's ever been the killer before. Not until me, anyway."
"A kung-fu murderer, is it?"
"Regrettably, just a plain old murderer."
I flashed a light grin. And with that, I'd more or less steered past the part that had infuriated Bart most.
"The script looked like an absolute blockbuster — I hated to turn it down — and I had no intention of letting it interfere with company business. That's how I landed on this arrangement. Thankfully, they've agreed to work around my schedule."
"You sound like a man at confession."
"Technically I should've waited for the formal paperwork, but you're always teaching me lessons about life, aren't you, Boss?"
"...Fine words."
Of course they were. You're the one who taught them to me.
I gave a bitter smile and pressed on. "So I figured the right thing was to report it in advance."
This was the line Bart Maxen fed to all of his wrestlers. He liked to pretend his relationships went beyond contracts and cold hard cash — he treated his performers like his own children, as if he had something to teach them.
'In truth, it was all hypocrisy.'
Or maybe he was simply deranged enough to genuinely believe it. Either way, I had come here deliberately playing into that side of him, framing my visit as an act of respect — and it was working exactly as intended.
"I see. Very well."
"Who's the director?"
"James Kwan."
"James Kwan? Who the hell is that?"
"A newcomer. This is his first time directing a film."
"Turn him down, and I could line up a solid director for you. You know Kimura Alexander, don't you?"
Why does that name keep coming up?
"I appreciate the offer, but I can hardly put myself in debt to a chairman as busy as you are. Besides, I have my own ambitions. Which is why I will absolutely, scrupulously honor my schedule."
"Hmph. So from the WWF's standpoint, this means we simply pocket the money."
"Yes. We've already settled the royalties and licensing terms in detail."
"Hmm."
Bart struck a thoughtful pose. In truth, this deal meant the company would profit from nothing but royalties — I'd already made clear the filming wouldn't interfere with the show. Even so, he pressed the matter with his usual ruthless thoroughness.
"When you sign with them, I'll be reviewing the shooting schedule myself. Just so no one spouts nonsense at me later."
Frankly, I could only click my tongue at just how airtight the man was.
And so, while the negotiations between the film company and the WWF were underway, I kept pushing forward with company business of my own.
My program with Shawn Cena.
Burning Kong, second week of November. I climbed into the ring with the Intercontinental Championship in hand — its snow-white strap and gleaming gold plates unmistakable.
Ring Survival was a war between brands. For one night, the line between faces and heels blurred. The prevailing sentiment was simple: forget all of it, and band together against the other brand.
"And so... here we are."
Sunglasses. A scorched leather jacket. The belt slung over one shoulder.
My look, honestly, was cool enough to make anyone swoon. That's an objective fact — I asked Tiffany, and that's what she told me.
"I always thought it was a little strange, you know. That doofus Shawn Cena, the U.S. Champion."
[SIN! SIN! SIN! SIN! SIN!]
I knew it. If Orton had said the same words, he'd have drawn a chorus of boos. Not me. Which was to say: on this show, the fan affection ranking currently read Sin > Cena > (an impassable wall) > Orton.
So I deliberately carried over a touch of my heel persona — the mocking, needling voice. The story was that becoming champion had given me a new swagger.
"That punk used to trail around behind me back in GCW. No — actually, that's fair enough. That's just how things work in developmental."
Over twenty thousand fans hung on my every word — even though not a syllable of it contained anything resembling substance. They were simply happy to watch every word leave my mouth. Happy to be able to chant my name along with it.
"The world champion, Silverback! The tag team champions, Revolution! ...Honestly, a pack of bastards I can't stand — but their talent, I'll acknowledge. Well, of course I would. It's Nick Flair, after all. And Batista, to boot."
And then, slowly, I turned the key and detonated — words pouring out in an explosive rush. This was my role on tonight's show.
I had come out convinced of Burning Kong's victory, primed to elevate our brand's superstars to the moon. In the Ring Survival script, I'd been handed the single most important part.
And through this very segment, I would be recognized as the finest mic-worker on the entire Burning Kong roster.
"The women's champion! Lina! I hear Rakedown doesn't even have a champion over there, huh? And don't even get me started on the men's team — Lance Orton, the man who tried so hard to bury me, is their youngest star. That tells you everything."
The crowd erupted in a huge pop at the mention of Orton's name.
'I've been acknowledged.'
He'd drawn a magnificent heel reaction during his entrance earlier, too. The match was well and truly cooked.
"I ask everyone here tonight! Do you believe Burning Kong loses to Rakedown at Ring Survival?!"
[NO! NO! NO! NO! NO! NO!]
"Do you believe I would lose to an idiot like Shawn Cena?!!"
[NO! NO! NO! NO! NO! NO!]
"That's what I thought! The Tampa crowd really is a magnificent bunch! And for all of you, tonight I...!"
That was the exact moment.
As my words were cut off mid-sentence, a roar of cheers exploded from one side of the stands.
A face contorted into something far more menacing than his usual easygoing nature. Football pads and seven-eighths shorts. Basketball shoes, a throwback cap — the getup of a man who was more rapper than wrestler.
[Cena! Cena! Cena! Cena!]
The crowd, blindsided by the surprise arrival, exploded.
Shawn Cena.
U.S. Championship strapped around his waist, he had vaulted the barricade and invaded Burning Kong without permission.
I looked down with an incredulous smirk at Cena, who had begun prowling the ringside area like a shark. Two cowboys standing in open country, squared up for a duel.
The crowd answered the sight by trading chants of SIN and CENA, back and forth.
Then again — the man truly was something else.
Just like me in Rakedown, he'd turned one program after another into gold, and despite playing a heel, he'd built himself into a lovable renegade drowning in fan adoration. And on the other side stood me. Both of us GCW graduates. Me, the one who'd outshone him back then, only to suffer at the hands of Revolution's underhanded schemes after the call-up to Burning Kong.
He knew all of it. Which was why Cena climbed up onto the apron, snatched the microphone right out of my hand, and spoke with total confidence.
"Hey there, Kung-Fury."
I pressed a hand to my forehead.
The crowd, howling with laughter, quickly took up the chant — KUNG-FURY! KUNG-FURY!
Truthfully, I didn't mind the gimmick; it moved a respectable number of T-shirts. But for the character of Sin, it was my embarrassing history. And Cena had gone straight for the throat, poking that exact sore spot to pick a fight.
From there, he rolled on with his rap-style mic-work, relentless.
His character was written as a bit of a meathead, sure — but the edges had faded a great deal by now.
"Yeah, no doubt, you were the man in GCW. Betrayed your friends, betrayed them again, won the title. But that was then, wasn't it? You came up to the big leagues and you never became what I became."
"Whoa, whoa, whoa. Hold it."
I reclaimed the mic and paused Cena for a moment. Then I said it.
"Weren't you in the Wyatt Family?"
"..."
"How about, for the sake of both our honors, we leave the old days in the past?"
"...Yeah. Yeah, let's do that."
The crowd howled. Cena extended his hand first, and the two of us shared a light handshake.
[Yeeaaaaaaah!!]
A roaring ovation. Our dramatically brokered truce worked beautifully as a piece of comedy.
But only for a moment.
Simultaneously, we swung the microphones in our hands, each going for the other's skull.
I dodged. Cena dodged too, and we broke apart, putting distance between us.
The crowd's eyes went saucer-wide at the suddenness of it.
Exactly as intended.
The atmosphere cooled in an instant, and I raised my mic with a grin.
"You're not built for me."
"What the hell are you talking about? The strongest man in the big leagues is standing right here."
Cena fired back with disses of his own, wringing every drop of reaction out of the crowd.
Ring Survival.
The Intercontinental Champion, Sin. The U.S. Champion, Shawn Cena.
So who would walk away victorious?
...Honestly? I was dying to know too.