Pumpkin Pie and the Main Event
Me, Cena, and Russell spent the past weeks bouncing between Burning Kong and Rkdawn, stoking the anticipation for Ring Survival higher with every appearance.
Then the fourth week of shows wrapped, and our rough positions had settled into place.
Me and the Burning Kong roster — the top dogs, carrying WWF's flagship brand on our backs.
Cena and the Rkdawn crew — the indignant underdogs, seething at being treated like a second-rate farm show.
And finally, Russell, playing the wildcard position of the whole contest.
That was how the three of us carried our rivalry dead even, right up to the very end.
All that remained now was to deliver a hell of a match at Ring Survival.
But before that, today was for Thanksgiving.
Having sent Cena and Russell back to Rkdawn and GCW respectively, I rejoined the Burning Kong team with Tiffany, and together we attended the Thanksgiving party the company had put together.
Now, it wasn't anything as grand as a year-end awards gala — they'd just rented out a pub near the arena and cooked up a proper Thanksgiving spread. Even so, everyone was in high spirits, and Tiffany and I slipped naturally into the middle of it.
"Let's just relax and enjoy ourselves tonight."
"Sounds good to me."
It was the first real break I'd had in a while, so I had no intention of turning it down.
Thanksgiving Day.
Alongside Christmas and Easter, it was one of the great holidays of the Protestant calendar. But like any holiday the government stamps onto the calendar, anyone who wanted to enjoy it did — Protestant or not.
We tore into turkey, the signature dish of the season, sliced through an assortment of pies, drank whatever we pleased, and whiled away the hours.
As for me, I ate pumpkin pie — the thing I'd craved for so long — until I couldn't stomach another bite.
This is pure carbohydrate.
God, I loved this guilt.
Something apart from meat, something that filled you right up to the core — this heady, decadent rush of indulgence.
Tiffany, watching a day where I nearly shed actual tears, looked at me in alarm.
"Is it really that good?"
"...I don't usually get to eat things like this."
"Oh, dear. Is there anything you've been wanting to eat lately? I'll make it for you."
"Doenjang jjigae."
"...?"
"Soybean paste soup."
"...??"
Tiffany had no idea what to make of that.
But I was picturing my mother's doenjang jjigae in my head.
Anyway, the electric pleasure still lingering on my tongue made me seriously wonder whether I'd ever manage to practice restraint again starting tomorrow.
Just as I was working my way through the delicious spread, someone drifted over to where Tiffany and I were sitting.
A man with black curls grown down to his shoulders — Greg Hart.
"Fine party, Sin."
"Ah, Greg. This pumpkin pie is genuinely incredible, you know."
"Ha! You're supposed to eat well before a match anyway — puts lead in your spine."
He gave my shoulder a couple of hearty pats, then finally pulled out a sheet of paper.
"More to the point — have you seen this?"
"What is it?"
"The betting site odds for this Ring Survival."
"Oho."
My interest was piqued.
A franchise with global reach like the WWF was prime prey for every gambling site on the internet.
And when it came to one of the Big Four pay-per-views, where public attention converged like nowhere else, millions upon millions changed hands.
Which was precisely why the company took such care to keep match results from leaking — nothing draws a story like a genuinely shocking outcome.
For the truly important matches, only the two competitors and Bart were told the result.
Ours was no exception.
The only people who knew how it would end were the wrestlers involved, Tiffany, and Bart. Every other wrestler on the roster had no idea what our match would ultimately produce.
"So what do you make of it?"
"Hard to say."
"I won't ask you to tell me the result — just give me a hint, eh? Who wins at Ring Survival?"
"I was taught you don't share results with other people."
"Other people? I think of you as my own nephew."
"You have an actual nephew, though."
"...That boy's too stiff-necked for his own good. I could ask him until Doomsday and he wouldn't tell me a thing."
Well, naturally.
Leaking results was bad business no matter how you sliced it.
Having concluded as much, I took a moment to study the odds sheet Greg had brought over.
A straight wager on who wins the match.
The moneyline ran Sin > Cena > Russell — meaning the public had already anointed me the favorite.
I allowed myself a small smile.
In the end, their prediction would be right. The winner of the Ring Survival match was going to be me.
Kind of embarrassing, honestly.
It meant that, ahead of two formidable rivals like Cena and Russell, I currently held the highest standing of the three.
Part of me was pleased about that, and part of me was relieved that things would unfold the way people expected — no need to worry about the surprise being spoiled.
I wanted to live up to that expectation with one hell of a match.
"Greg, let me say one thing."
"Go ahead, what is it?"
"Our three-way match is going to be the hottest thing on the entire Ring Survival card."
I said it with complete confidence.
Ring Survival, match day.
Slotted into the semi-main event, our match was — in truth — the most anticipated matchup on the entire pay-per-view.
Three wrestlers, each built on a fresh image and a compelling story, each having carved out a career in his own right.
Sin, Cena, and Russell.
Determined to make the most of the opportunity we'd been given, the three of us had prepared for today's match with everything we had.
And before a crowd of one hundred thousand, Ring Survival began.
The pay-per-view unfolded as a ferocious back-and-forth, with Burning Kong and Rkdawn trading victories one match at a time.
Then came the ninth match of the night — our Triple Threat.
Entering to a wall of fan hysteria, me, Cena, and Russell launched into the match exactly as we'd planned it.
We opened by trading offense at a measured pace, stoking the atmosphere bit by bit.
Slowly, like heating a grill.
Letting the rich aroma build until the crowd was aching for the second half.
Russell, the technician, toyed with Cena using nothing but his own craft.
He chained arm drags into chain wrestling, racking up damage on Cena little by little.
"Ngh?! Damn it—!"
BOOM—!
Cena had the power, and every time he got knocked down he sprang right back up, blazing — but he couldn't find an answer to Russell's attack.
That was when I stepped in.
SMACK!
"Gkh?!"
With a vicious chop, I launched into a rapid-fire offense — deliberately fast, deliberately relentless — to keep Russell from locking in his chain sequences.
Now and then I sprinkled in the technician's arsenal Russell himself had been using.
"German."
I called it short, then — just as Russell had done to Cena — snapped behind him in a flash.
SLAM!
I cinched the waist and hurled him over, and Russell hit the canvas with a thunderous crash.
And when I rose, Cena was standing there in front of me, fury written all over him.
"Wha—?!"
He hoisted me clean off my feet, and I crashed down onto my back, breaking the fall the only way I could.
The ring kept shaking.
The exchanges got faster and faster, each of us trying to drag the fight into territory where his own strength ruled.
Cena wanted a power game.
Russell wanted a technical one.
And me — a goddamn brawl.
"......"
Thinking about it, it was almost comical, but there really wasn't a better word to describe my wrestling style.
That was just the kind of character I was.
I'd steamroll Cena with sheer speed one moment, then turn around and hold my own in a technical exchange with Russell the next.
And so I carried the early portion of the match with the momentum in my grasp.
But the middle stretch turned the situation on its head.
The strongest of three cowboys is, more often than not, the one the other two point their guns at.
Russell and Cena joined forces.
Their attacks came in unbroken sequence, and I couldn't hold the line — I gave ground.
I scrambled for any opening to escape, but the two of them kept coming.
SLAM!
The saving grace was that they were watching each other too, so neither could go for the pin.
Whenever the double-team escalated, the two of them would end up trading shots with each other as well, and the match rolled on and on like that.
Every new sequence of moves drew an even louder roar from the crowd.
We gave them not a single second to breathe, pressing forward without letup.
We drove the pace hard, showing off our strengths to the absolute fullest.
Triple Threat.
Fifteen minutes of match time.
In a slot that short, we kept our pacing to an absolute minimum — no lulls, no coasting.
My breath climbed all the way up my throat.
Russell and Cena were just as drenched in sweat as I was.
Scripted or not, what we were doing was still a fight — and fights drain you to the bone.
Whenever our strength faltered, we leaned on one another to push through the wall.
And the higher we struggled up the mountain, the louder the crowd roared for us.
Right up until the final spot of the match, I lifted Russell and Cena, got lifted by them, and fought without pause.
Then came the home stretch.
After all that suppression, I finally got caught — my throat seized, and I took the double vertical suplex from both men at once.
My body rose straight up, then dropped hard toward the canvas.
THUD—CRASH!
"......!"
I rode out the impact, rolled sideways, and slipped out of the ring.
Draping my arms over the barricade and gulping down air, I felt people slapping my shoulders and arms, screaming their support.
"Sin! What are you doing?!"
"Get back in there and fight!"
"Win it! You can win this!"
"Damn it...!"
I clicked my tongue, hauled myself back onto the apron, and went straight after Cena.
Then I signaled to Russell, and we tried the double suplex on them — the same one I'd taken earlier, turned back on its owners.
But Cena withstood it.
A power house, through and through.
Cena channeled the strength of some mythic Hercules.
"Ugh?!"
"Ghhk...!"
He suplexed the two of us instead.
SLAM!
[Waaaaaaaaaaagh!]
The crowd went berserk at the sight of Cena flaunting that monstrous power.
[Cena! Cena! Cena! Cena!]
Feeding off their chant, Cena closed in on Russell, ready to keep the assault going.
But Russell wasn't about to just absorb it forever.
He deflected Cena's arm, snapped a kick up into his jaw, then caught the falling man's leg and rose to his feet.
Russell — a man who might, possibly, carry even more raw talent than Greg Hart, the greatest technician of them all.
The people who had witnessed his artistry in the ring roared his name.
[Russell! Russell! Russell!]
Now was the moment for the ceremonial rite of the Hart family — the Sharpshooter.
With practiced, fluid precision, Russell entangled Cena's legs and spun him over onto his stomach.
Cena, face-down with his legs trapped, took the full wrenching shock through his spine and hips, and let out a primal scream.
"GAAAAAHHH!!"
The referee hurried over and asked if he wanted to quit. Cena gritted his teeth and somehow, desperately, held on inside the submission.
And in that window —
it was my turn.
While every eye in the building was locked on those two, I rolled back out of the ring.
The cameras, exactly as we'd requested beforehand, stayed glued to Russell and Cena.
After one deep, shuddering breath, I stepped up onto the apron turnbuckle and climbed hard to its very peak.
The sight of me appearing again brought the crowd bolt upright out of their seats.
The most dangerous spot of the entire match.
And the final moment.
With one hundred thousand people focused on me and me alone, I ripped away the running shirt that was already half torn from my body.
[Waaaaaaaaaaaghhhhhh!!]
The biggest pop of the entire show — bigger than anything all night, all year.
Gulping down air, I launched myself into the air with everything I had, riding the roar of a hundred thousand voices screaming SIN.
Trusting Russell and Cena.
And them trusting me right back.
I dropped toward the back of Russell's head, elbow raised, as he locked in the Sharpshooter.
The diving elbow drop.
Inside the illusion that time itself had slowed, I clearly saw the referee leaning in to speak to Russell.
Sin's up — get ready to catch him. Something along those lines, anyway.
To protect Cena's legs, Russell eased off the Sharpshooter just slightly.
I came down not on the back of Russell's head or neck, but on his upper back — tucking into my own breakfall at the same instant.
CRASH—!!
Russell rolled through into a forward breakfall and collapsed, and the twin impacts against the canvas thundered through the arena.
With one hundred thousand fans losing their minds, I deliberately let my head come up a beat late.
Cena still couldn't rise — the Sharpshooter had taken everything out of him.
I flipped over Russell's motionless body and hooked the cover.
And at the same time, I asked him.
"You okay?"
"It hurts."
Russell, pinned beneath my chest, flashed me a wide, easy grin.
The referee slid down to count the pin, checking my shoulders.
The crowd counted with him, loud as cannon fire.
[1!]
[2!!]
[3!!!]
DONG DONG DONG!!
The ring bell tolled hard, and my music — cued and waiting — poured out over the arena.
When I lifted my head, I caught Cena desperately stretching an arm toward us.
That one detail made the final moment of the match all the more beautiful.
I rolled off to the side and lay spread between the two of them, gasping for air.
Honestly, this was the moment for the celebration — but I had something to say.
With Russell and Cena sprawled on either side of me, I used my entrance music as a shield and delivered word that we had gone off script.
"What the hell about the main event?"
We had just taken a perfectly good main event and made it look like beautiful garbage.