The Chairman's Test
James Wan had completely lost himself in the performance unfolding before his eyes.
Sin, who had been sprawled on the floor, slowly rose when his turn came. And then James saw it — the Jigsaw he had envisioned, standing right there before him.
Yes. This was exactly it. Pleasure earned only through the crucible of agony.
The camera captured that Jigsaw from every angle. Writhing under the continuing torment, he was somehow still smiling — the sole joy available to a man whose skin was dying inch by inch from burns. A living testament that he was, in the end, nothing more than a killer who feasted on pleasure.
Wan sat spellbound for a long while.
An actor's first take on a role almost never matches what the director had imagined in his head. Gradually tuning that gap was an essential part of the filmmaking process — the actor first analyzes the script and builds a character, then refines it through table reads, slowly calibrating his performance against everyone else's.
But Sin's acting was different. It was exactly what Wan had pictured.
"Life is a blessing. But wretched people never understand how precious it is."
"AAAAAGH! HAAAAGH!!"
"The key was in that bathtub all along. I gave you a chance."
A repulsive murderer who sermonized his own philosophy at his screaming victims, rationalizing every atrocity.
Jigsaw.
"Game over!"
SLAM!
The door crashed shut.
Even long after the scene had wrapped, James Wan was so moved he barely registered that it was over.
'I didn't expect it to be this good.'
It was an extraordinary gift for character interpretation. Honestly, it had been inevitable ever since Sin caught the twist in the script. He'd played Jigsaw as if he'd already watched the finished film, and every last detail of it delighted James Wan. He nodded with a smile.
'My persona.'
He didn't know it yet, but he found himself thinking that might well come to pass. The highest praise a director can give — and Sin had earned it.
"Um... Director?"
"Huh? Oh — oh, right."
Only when someone spoke beside him did James come back to himself, and he looked up to see Sin walking back onto the set. Everyone's eyes had changed completely.
"That was incredible."
"Seriously, that was amazing!"
The crew offered their compliments one by one, and the lighting team and the other actors gathered around Sin to heap on praise. At the center of it all, smiling brightly, Sin looked every bit the consummate performer.
And so the first job was done.
Fortunately, I had little trouble dispelling the doubting looks. Everyone acknowledged my work, and they all told me to call them anytime if I ran into trouble on future shoots. In that warm atmosphere, we finished filming — after which the director handed me one more piece of work to do separately.
Voice recording.
In the film, Jigsaw delivered instructions to his victims through messages played back on a cheap tape recorder. I had no idea how they'd shot that part in my past life, but for the sake of efficiency, I'd decided to handle it this way. I had other work to do, after all. Not that I could record inside the team bus — too much noise — so I'd have to find somewhere quiet.
I kept rereading the script on the road, thinking through how I'd approach the recordings. If this went well, all that remained was one more shoot in the mask, plus a retake of the final scene. Five percent of a film grossing a hundred and fifty million dollars.
In a word, it was a lottery win.
Practicing the script's lines as I traveled, I made my way to the city hosting the next Burning Kong: New Orleans, Louisiana. The climate stayed relatively warm even in winter, and the downtown carried a romantic air befitting the birthplace of jazz — so much so that it felt faintly wasteful to be there on business.
But the moment I arrived at the arena, I was summoned straight to a conference room. Bart was calling for me.
'He wants to ask about the film work.'
I was half right. The movie was merely an appetizer before the real subject came out.
"I hope the filming went well. The better known your name becomes outside the ring, the better it is for us."
"I'll make absolutely certain nothing interferes with the company's schedule."
"I'd appreciate that. Not butting heads with each other is the most important rule in this business, wouldn't you say?"
"Of course."
I answered with a smile — even though Bart was, in fact, the first man to blow up whenever things didn't go his way. Still, I knew how to handle him, which was why we'd never once butted heads.
As a brief silence settled over the room, Bart suddenly began studying my face across the table, intently.
"Hmmm..."
"Is something the matter?"
"Just wondering if you're a good-looking man."
"I'd say I'm not bad to look at, sir."
"Is that so?"
"You may not care for it, Chairman, but I'd call it plenty attractive by ordinary standards."
Sharp eyes, a high nose bridge, a solid facial structure — and on top of that, good height and a well-balanced physique. I genuinely believed it all worked in my favor as a competitor, so I let my confidence show. At that, Bart smirked, leaned his upper body across the table, and brought out the real business.
"There's a lot of talk in the company about pushing you to the top."
So that's what this is, I thought. My journey, from the European tour all the way through Ring Survival — anyone who had watched all of it could hardly deny me. Sin had more than earned the right to rise to a Main Eventer.
But I deliberately kept my reaction flat.
"Is that so."
"Decent face, great physique, and nothing to fault in your in-ring ability. That's why I asked you here."
"Coming from the Chairman, that's high praise for a rookie like me."
"Well, my own opinion differs."
"Does it?"
"Your bulk is far too small. It's hard to project any menace in the ring."
"I built it as large as I could while keeping my athleticism intact, you know."
Besides, I thought this was precisely the sweet spot — a body that appealed to hardcore wrestling fans and casual viewers alike.
"Your height's about average, too."
"Am I not taller than the average man? Out on the street, I could count on one hand the people bigger than me."
"And your looks are... no, never mind."
"Please, do finish the thought, sir."
I caught Bart just as he was trying to slip away, and he spat out the words as if he'd been waiting for the chance.
"You're an Oriental, aren't you."
"And is that supposed to be a problem?"
"Steamboat was the only one who ever made it big as an Oriental."
"He was mixed race, though."
He'd worn a mask with vaguely Asian features, but he wasn't fully Asian at all.
"And even he topped out as Intercontinental Champion. Never once held the company's main title."
"Belts didn't change hands nearly as often back then, sir."
Steamboat had competed in the same era as Captain Logan. The wrestling industry was smaller then, and shows were held only once a month. With so few opportunities for titles to trade hands, champions routinely reigned for a year or more by default.
Bart chuckled.
"Fair point. And amusingly enough, you happen to be the Intercontinental Champion right now. You do resemble Steamboat."
"You could say I'm a hotter version of Steamboat, then."
"Quite the arrogance."
"Not at all — on the contrary, it's the highest tribute I can pay the man."
"PUHAHAHAHA!"
Bart exploded with laughter.
Nicky Steamboat. Known as The Dragon, he was a wrestler whose name outlived his era. And here I was, ranking that legend beneath me — worse, dressing it up as a compliment.
Honestly, even I found it funny. But like I said — unless I truly believed it myself, it could never actually become true. I believed that I would become Hot Steamboat, and that I already was that man.
After a long bout of roaring laughter, Bart finally seemed to make up his mind.
"Shall we put you to the test, then?"
"What kind of test?"
"Something like Kung-Fury. But this time, regardless of what the contract says, I'd delegate the creative entirely to you."
"...You mean you'd give me a new gimmick?"
"Yes — well, more of a small idea than a gimmick this time."
After a theatrical pause, Bart Maxen demanded of me what he himself considered the most difficult gimmick imaginable.
"How would you feel about a playboy concept? A heartthrob the women go crazy for?"
"Why that one?"
"Well, it's an assignment, isn't it? If I want to see what you're capable of, I have to throw you a difficult topic."
"..."
There it was — Bart Maxen's racial prejudice laid bare.
'So he thinks that's a gimmick I couldn't possibly pull off.'
That had to be why he dressed it up in grand talk of "tests" and "assignments." But Andy Goldberg, the comedian I'd met back when I appeared on SNL, had once said this about me:
"The reason your jokes didn't land as jokes is that you're genuinely too sexy."
In other words, those writers had assumed there was no way I could be sexy, and that assumption was what made the humor work. Pure prejudice. 'Asian men aren't sexy.' That belief had persisted, unchallenged, right up until the day I regressed. Asian men supposedly lacked sexual magnetism. But as I was about to prove, it was nothing more than a stereotype.
'This won't be hard at all.'
Bart's test had officially begun — the first gate on the road to becoming a Main Eventer. And this first assignment looked, unexpectedly, like it would be easy to clear. Still, there was one thing I needed to confirm.
"You're not asking for a slapstick routine like Kung-Fury, are you?"
"Of course not. What kind of Intercontinental Champion would that make?"
Bart flashed a thin smile. I named my price.
"In that case, Bart — before I debut the playboy gimmick, could you arrange a photoshoot for me?"
"A photoshoot?"
"Yes. A women's magazine... nothing too risqué, of course."
"I'll look into it, though I can't promise they'll say yes."
Bart laughed dryly. But his dusty old conviction that Asian men could never be sexy — and the world's — was about to be sorely mistaken.
A few days later, I received a formal photoshoot offer.
Maxine Women's.
A venerable magazine targeting the American adult woman, its covers always featured the men women loved — film stars, singers, sports icons. Only once before had a pro wrestler appeared in Maxine Women's.
John Michaels. In his prime, a heartthrob wrestler whose looks could go toe-to-toe with any Hollywood actor. And the second would be me.
'Not bad at all.'
Truthfully, I'd have taken any magazine, but one with guaranteed sales like Maxine was far better. So after wrapping the Burning Kong schedule, I headed for New York, where Maxine's headquarters stood. Ushered into a gleaming building, I was greeted by a woman in a sharp business suit — sharp features, black hair twisted up into a tight bun, radiating the image of someone very, very competent.
"I'm Sarah Coleman."
"Sin. A pleasure."
Sarah, it turned out, was the editor-in-chief of Maxine Women's.
'She looks about my age, too. Impressive.'
After brief introductions, we headed straight for the studio — and along the way, I got a professional's appraisal of my market value.
"Your confidence is a real asset."
"Is it now?"
"Yes. An Asian man with raw masculine appeal, something American media has never had before. Viewers start out thinking, is he really that hot? and then get pulled all the way in. It's hypnotic."
Sarah dissected my marketability through the lenses of her glasses.
"Your physique can span every taste out there, and you carry that hyper-masculine pro wrestler cachet on top of it."
"Th-that's very kind of you."
"And it's not overdone, which is the best part. Honestly, I can't wait — it's been ages since I got to shoot so many different concepts with one guy."
"I was told the base concept would be wrestler, though."
"I spoke with Chairman Maxen a bit more about that. We agreed a plumber concept would be fun. Or a carpenter."
"..."
That dirty old coot.
"But the concept I'm most excited about is actually something different."
"And what would that be?"
"This."
Pausing mid-stride, Sarah handed me her horn-rimmed glasses. I gave her a puzzled look, then put them on. The editor-in-chief shot me a sidelong smile.
"Perfect. Now let your bangs fall down, a little messy — like that?"
"You mean like this?"
"Wild and dandy. The kind of style that makes women lose their minds."
"Uhh... hmm."
"Actually, the private-school boy concept is the best one yet. Fresh and innocent, but wearing a uniform and absolutely corrupt underneath it."
"Um... that wouldn't trip the censorship board, right?"
"Relax, Sin. We've agreed you'll be wearing pants for the shoot."
Watching Sarah declare this with total confidence, I laughed dryly to myself.
It was a great deal, no question.
But I couldn't shake the feeling that I was about to lose something.