A Bluebird Comes Flying
Gangs in America carried guns.
So we needed guns too.
But an enraged Baku chose something more reliable than any firearm — his own two fists.
Spitting out a thick stream of profanity, he clenched his fists and strode forward.
Perhaps because they were too busy with their assault, the gang members hadn't noticed us at all.
Russell and I locked eyes for a split second, then dropped low to the ground in perfect sync. It was bare concrete, but that was the last thing worth worrying about.
He and I had both learned more than enough amateur wrestling. Which meant we understood each other without a single word.
What needed to be done.
Take one of them down and pin him hard.
I was grateful to have come here alongside fellow professional wrestlers.
We were not cowards.
But we weren't fools drunk on bravado and reckless courage, either.
We were pros.
Two wrestlers slid low across the ground as they closed in, like wolves closing on their prey.
By the time the hyenas caught on, it was far too late. One of the gang members whirled around and lunged at me, but I tucked his head under my left armpit.
Then, keeping him there, I reached between his legs, gripped with all my strength as if wringing something out of him, and hauled him up by force.
"Uh, uhh……?!"
I showed him no mercy.
He might die.
But this was America. Beneath the veneer of civilization, the law of force still ruled.
KWAJIK!
The man dropped, his skull slamming into the concrete first.
Without even checking on his condition, I spun around to face what was behind me.
"GRAAAAAAGH!!"
"……."
Baku stepped in.
One man in each hand.
"Want me to gouge your eyeballs out? Damned street thugs. Not a single pleasure in life except tormenting middle-class families, you worthless punks."
"……Did you just say 'punks'?"
I muttered, dumbfounded.
Baku had the men's faces locked in his grip. The sound of bones snapping — a sickening crunch, then a wet crack — was absolutely brutal.
Wow. What is that grip strength?
"You know what use these bastards actually have? One single use?"
"What's that."
"You can lay techniques on them as hard as you want, and they've got nowhere to complain."
Baku flashed a grin and began applying his finisher from his active days — the Iron Claw.
A finisher. A technique that was, essentially, his ultimate weapon for matches.
But the Iron Claw, which seized and crushed an opponent's neck or face, only ever worked when the other party agreed to receive it properly, cooperatively——
CRACK! Pop-pop!!
"KYAAAAAAAGH!!"
Huh. So a human face really can crumple up like an aluminum can like that.
I watched in awe as the two men fainted on the spot.
Which raised the question — what was the great Russell Hart, standing behind them, doing?
"……."
"A, AAAAH!! GRAAAAAGH! Tap! Tap! Stop it! Stop!! Please!!"
Perhaps in agreement with Baku's philosophy, he was executing the finisher that represented the entire Hart family — the Sharpshooter — right there on the concrete.
A technique that entwined the opponent's legs, trapped them between your own, and then turned over to compress the spine.
If someone were hit with that move for real, their back could genuinely snap.
Not that our own bumps being real was ever in question.
Since it was a technique I'd have to receive with my own will, it sent a chill down my spine just watching.
"KKEUHAAAAAAGH!!"
"GYAAAAAAAGH!!"
The more the gangsters screamed, the more the two of them seemed to savor it.
After all, guys like that almost always picked fights by sneering that pro wrestling was fake anyway.
So this is how they vent the stress they usually absorb.
Leaving those two behind, I moved to help the man still being beaten down by four gang members.
I was the only 'sane one' among us.
"Ugh……."
"Honey! Honey!!"
"Daddyyy……!!"
"Um — are you all right, sir?"
"Th — thank you! Thank you so much, sir!"
"Yes, yes. Careful now. Looks like you've got a broken bone here. We should call 911 and the police right away."
"Yes! Yes!"
"Do you have a phone?"
"Yes!"
"Ma'am, please give your wife a call…… First off, we'll need to get some first aid done at the Willmart clinic. Ah — leave the kids in the car."
With that, I lifted the half-conscious man to his feet. Something slipped out from his coat and fell.
A business card.
A journalist?
The Atlanta Local Paper.
A regional newspaper.
And — head of its Arts & Culture section.
"…………."
So this life of mine really did intend to go a little smoother than the last.
"GYAAAAAAAGH!!"
Them, though? Not so much.
When the patrol officers from the local precinct arrived after the report, they were struck speechless by the scene before them.
"Isn't professional wrestling supposed to be… all fake……?"
As if to refute those very words, the four gang members were left in utterly miserable condition. The worst off among them was the man whose head had cracked open, blood pouring out in sheets.
Looking at the man's state, Baku — a former WWF pro wrestler — offered the following assessment:
"Idiot."
Russell agreed.
Though he himself didn't seem aware of it, it had been a textbook Northern Lights Bomb.
A vertical drop suplex that planted the victim head-first.
In the near future, it would become a banned, murderous technique even inside WWF rings.
And he'd used that killing move on bare concrete. The man had survived purely by 'dumb luck.'
Still, inwardly, Russell and Baku were both stunned by how cleanly Junho had neutralized his target.
And it got worse. Two of them had shattered cheekbones; another had his spine wrecked.
But all four had been carrying drugs and illegal firearms besides, so three of them were released shortly after nothing more than a preliminary questioning.
By that point Willmart had closed for the night, and a fired-up Baku bought a bottle of John Daniel whiskey and started drinking.
And then he drove.
"……I thought I was a dead man."
Stepping out of the car, I recalled the skid marks carved all across the road and thought I'd nearly wet myself.
My hard-won second life had almost ended right there. I checked inside my pants, sighed in relief, and walked across the parking lot.
At that, Baku — inspecting the John Daniel bottle with visible regret (yes, he'd drained it) — came up beside me.
Russell, behind him, was wobbling so badly on his legs he could barely walk straight.
"Tch, those punks. If I'd known this was coming, I'd have planted a brainbuster on 'em myself."
"Take a brainbuster onto a concrete floor and you kill the guy."
"KHAHAHAHA! What are you talking about! You're the one who hit 'em with something worse than a brainbuster!"
"Worse…?"
"The Northern Lights Bomb. The legendary finishing move of Japan's great legend, Akina Hokuto — a masterpiece that'll go down in history."
"Right, that… was it?"
"Blood was gushing everywhere. Still, it felt damn good. Thieving drug-addled hippie gangsters like that all deserve to die."
"That was a magnificent Iron Claw."
Russell, standing behind us, offered his respects. Baku rubbed his nose awkwardly and pointed at the two of us.
"Anyway, that settles it, right? You two. We're 'comrades,' so whatever we hold against each other stays business and business only."
"……Um, Baku."
"I will consider it."
Russell said primly.
Still……?
There was kayfabe, and then there was carrying it too far. Wouldn't it be smarter to at least level with Baku outright?
…But then again, I found myself understanding. In a sense, Baku was the single most special spectator of our rivalry, after all.
More importantly, there was something to tell them.
"By the way, Baku — I'd say a bluebird's about to come flying. And not the bird in our hearts, but a genuinely magnificent one."
"Huh? What's that supposed to mean."
"The man we saved? He's a reporter for the local paper. In fact, he runs the Arts & Culture desk."
"……."
"……Re — really?"
Russell and Baku both froze solid as ice. I was certain we were all picturing the exact same thing.
An interview.
Exposure in a regional newspaper.
And — oh, right — Russell's and my rivalry kicking into a whole new gear?
Good either way.
Things are about to get interesting.
I smiled.
A few days later, Russell and I — mid-training as usual — were abruptly summoned to headquarters.
So the day has finally come.
Shina, who'd been drilling her falls in silence, watched us the way one watches problem students called into the teacher's office.
Of course, that wasn't it at all.
If anything, I walked tall.
Russell did too.
Thanks to that guy's incurable kayfabe, we headed for headquarters keeping a bit of distance between us.
Fourth floor of a building with no elevator.
The first thing I saw upon opening the door was a massive steel table. Department heads were gathered around it, seated in a row.
At the far end sat a considerably older white man. The sight of his face brought a smile to my lips unbidden.
Harley Racy.
The head of GCW itself.
"These are the two, is it?"
"You even have to ask."
Baku, who'd been escorting us, laughed.
Then I noticed a man in a suit standing at Harley Racy's side.
He looked at us and broke into a bright smile.
"Yes, these are the two."
"Your small act of kindness came back to you as a mighty windfall."
Harley chuckled heartily.
Russell and I stepped forward to the journalist. Blushing, he extended his hand toward us.
We each shook it and exchanged a light round of introductions.
"Robin Connor."
"Jun."
"Russell Hart."
"I truly can't thank you enough for last night. My two boys have been raising hell, insisting they want to become professional wrestlers."
"Think nothing of it. Anyone would have done what needed doing in that moment."
We traded polite nothings, dusting each other with courtesies like powder after a match.
The white middle-class family man — now able to keep living and providing for his family — looked deeply moved.
"So here's the thing. If it's all right with you three, might I run a heroic piece about you in our paper?"
"No, no. That's not nearly enough."
The one who answered was Harley.
When the journalist turned to him in bewilderment, he grinned around the cigarette in his mouth.
"Mr. Journalist. We happen to be far more charming sons of bitches than you give us credit for."
"And by that you mean…?"
"You'd vouch for that, right?"
Harley looked at us.
"Write a full feature article on professional wrestling. Especially these two who saved your life — they've been up to something mighty interesting lately."
"Well, that doesn't sound bad at all."
I quipped.
The conversation was unfolding on its own, without me having to push it forward. Could there be a more convenient situation?
"S — so what you mean is…?"
"First, why don't you stick around and watch our boys do some wrestling."
Harley pointed at Russell and me, standing there in silence.
"……?"
Okay, that feels a little too fast.