Wild & Dandy
The shoot, thankfully, went better than expected.
Everyone on set—the director included—was a woman, which made the atmosphere a good deal more comfortable.
After all, striking poses in front of men would have been a little much.
The all-female crew, I suspected, was a deliberate consideration of a model's feelings. Most people don't enjoy performing suggestive acts in front of the opposite sex.
I'd started the shoot in a crisp suit, but by the time it wrapped, I was standing there in nothing but slacks, soaked completely through. It was roughly on par with what I dealt with in the ring on a regular basis, so I could live with it.
Wild & Dandy.
That was the concept of the photoshoot, and I took home a few of the finished photographs as keepsakes.
Back inside the camping bus racing to rejoin the Burning Kong crew, I lay on my bunk and went through them one by one.
One shot of me in horn-rimmed glasses, yanking my tie loose with rough impatience. Another of me drenched in water, sweeping my hair back from my forehead. And beyond those, a whole stack of photos baring my body to the camera.
They definitely came out well.
Still, knowing these would grace the cover of Maxen Women's a month from now made me feel oddly sheepish.
That said—I was a product. Maximizing my value while I could was hardly a bad decision. The pay was fat, and knowing women found me attractive didn't exactly feel terrible either.
It was just a little embarrassing, was all.
And also—
A little guilt-inducing, if I'm honest.
Tiffany came to mind.
After a moment's deliberation, I set the photos on the bed, snapped a picture of them, and emailed it to her. The caption read: What do you think?
It wasn't some unspeakable betrayal. This was my job. Tiffany would understand.
But she'd be hurt all the same. Feelings, after all, don't obey our commands.
My phone rang.
[What is this?]
"A photoshoot."
[No, I mean—for what? Where?]
"Maxen Women's. They had me shoot it as part of a new gimmick I'm picking up."
I gave a flustered Tiffany the broad strokes of the situation. She went quiet for a while, and then, at last, spoke.
[Hold on a second.]
"Sorry?"
Before I could ask what she meant, her voice drifted away from the receiver, and I caught her speaking to someone off the line—something along the lines of, "Call the Maxen president right now and tell them to send me every original photo. Immediately."
[I'm back.]
"Why do you need the originals?"
[Quiet. I have uses for them.]
"......"
[So. Did you send me this specifically to ruin my sleep tonight?]
"No, well—technically I was going to talk about the gimmick I'll be running."
[A new gimmick?]
"Once the magazine drops, I'm rolling out a Playboy gimmick."
[......I'm sorry, what?]
"Yeah. It's an assignment Bart handed down."
[Isn't the Playboy gimmick usually something a heel does?]
"That's a narcissist. They look similar, but they're completely different animals."
A narcissist was a gimmick built on loving oneself. The Playboy, by contrast, was built on loving women.
The Playboy look doesn't exactly fit a babyface either, mind you.
But Bart had promised his full support, so I figured I could make it work one way or another.
[I can't picture it at all. Specifically, what's the plan?]
"Unlike the other wrestlers, I'm going to make the women happy."
[Hm. The way you usually do?]
"Who? Me?"
[Well, it should be entertaining. A great new angle that builds on your character without treading on anything that's already been done.]
"Glad you underst—"
[Don't push your luck.]
Tiffany's voice went frost-cold.
In my mind, this angle hinged on three things.
First, my looks. Second, my rival. Third, the female wrestlers who'd fall for me and become the spice that held the whole story together.
Though right now, they're technically just Divas.
Either way, I set about preparing each of those pieces.
The looks went without saying—Maxen Women's had already proven that for me. Next, the rival. And the man I chose was the one who'd followed me faithfully this whole time: Lance Orton.
The moment I arrived in the city hosting Burning Kong, I called him out. We talked over dinner at a nearby restaurant.
"......I'm sorry, what?"
"I asked if you'd be okay getting a little more pathetic."
"Why on earth would you want that?"
"Because I need a favor."
Since our feud had ended, Orton had been given no fresh angles—left drifting with nothing to do. His interest in my proposal was only natural.
But even so, he never saw my answer coming.
"Of course I'll help."
"Yeah?"
"I'm an Orton. Like my father and my grandfather before me, I always pay back what I'm given."
"The belt's what I gave you."
"And you gave me my career."
He made it sound grander than it was.
"If you hadn't stepped in, I'd still be suffering in the middle of those revolting boos."
"You still get booed these days, though."
"I get booed because I do scummy things. That's a different animal from what I used to get."
Orton, it seemed, had learned the joy of it—the strange pleasure of carrying a story as the villain, knowing full well how it ends in his defeat.
"You've more than earned your shot at the top. Fine. Name it, and it's yours."
"Before that, a few questions."
"Anything!"
"Back in high school—did you actually go around tormenting girls?"
"......Huh?"
"Let's just say you did if you didn't."
"Wh—wh—whoa, hold on a second!"
Orton thrust his spaghetti-laden fork at me, eyes wide.
"What kind of question is that?!"
"Orton, congratulations. You're now playing the role of a delinquent who does nothing but hassle women."
And there, sitting across from him, I grinned.
Orton whined, please, just stop......—but I showed no mercy.
With Orton secured, I went to speak with the two women I wanted as my supporting cast.
At this point in time, WWF's female performers were called Divas, and their role was essentially eye candy. The male audience of the era wanted one thing above all: pretty, sexy women. Most of them came from modeling or acting backgrounds, and their acting chops or appearance mattered far more than their ability to work a match. Some people went so far as to say Diva matches were pointless altogether.
I never thought that way. Whatever the circumstances they'd been handed, these women always gave their all within them—and that made them magnificent colleagues, no matter how you sliced it.
The first person I sought out was Stacey Chigler.
A striking 180-centimeter beauty who'd built her career on those long, gorgeous legs. Her ever-flowing blonde hair and fresh, lovely face were proof of the effort she poured into herself. Though she'd never stood out much as an in-ring competitor, among the fans she was spoken of like a legend.
"Oh—Sin! What's up?"
"I need a favor."
"Hm? What kind?"
I laid out the Playboy angle for her. She listened with rapt attention for a long while, then gave her answer without hesitation.
"I'm in. Sounds fun, honestly. Truth be told, I've been wanting to work with you for a while now anyway."
"Thank you. With Stacey on board, this is going to be a hit."
"Oh—actually, one thing outside the script. Do me a favor in return?"
"......What is it?"
"Teach me wrestling sometime. Bumps, falling, that kind of thing."
"S-sure. Deal."
"Thank you!"
Stacey flashed a radiant smile, blew me a kiss, and vanished just like that.
That part's handled.
Next, I went looking for the woman famous as the Voice of WWF—ring announcer Lily Garcia.
Responsible for introducing the competitors from inside the ring, she'd worked here for years thanks to her poise and her famously unflappable temperament. Even after retirement, whenever the Legends were invited back, she was always brought along with them—her contributions recognized that thoroughly. She'd been with the company over a decade now, and her preservative-preserved beauty hadn't faded an inch.
The male wrestlers certainly trained their looks relentlessly, but the women's dedication was every bit its equal.
"Sin~ our little rookie!"
"You're far too young to be calling me a rookie, Lily."
"Oh, hush, cutie. What brings you to your noona?"
"I was hoping you'd help me out."
"What's this? Another angle to rope me into? At this rate I'm renegotiating my contract."
She heard me out with a bright grin on her face—and then burst out laughing, as if she could no longer hold it in.
"PWAHAHAHA! What is wrong with you! You're really saying that to an old lady like me?"
"With Lily helping, I'll genuinely look the part of a Playboy."
"Fine, you've got a deal! Getting tangled up with you is always entertaining!"
With every recruitment complete, I threw myself into preparing Sin's new gimmick. I wrote up the angle with one of the writers, submitted it, and waited for approval to come down.
The answer arrived in roughly two minutes.
Do It.
I couldn't help laughing at the sheer absurdity of the reply straight from Bart Maxen himself. He clearly didn't even read it.
A setup, no doubt—if the angle flopped, he'd pin the blame squarely on me.
But I wasn't worried. With the three people I'd chosen by my side, this was going to be a colossal hit.
Of course, the shows kept rolling even while I prepped the new gimmick and script.
I ran my feud with Jack Hardy all through December and successfully defended my championship at the final pay-per-view of 2004. Christmas came and went, and then the last day of 2004 arrived.
With Tiffany on my arm, I attended the WWF Year-End Awards—the gala celebrating everything the year had been.
[The 2004 WWF Rookie of the Year. The winner is...... Sin!]
And so I took home the honor of Rookie of the Year.
The award was meant for wrestlers in their first three years on the main roster. For a first-year greenhorn to beat out a field of superstar-caliber nominees was, frankly, the stuff of anomaly.
Yet not a single soul disputed it. I'd proven everything with results.
In my past life, it went to Cena.
The following year, it went to Orton. But both of them would be in their third year by next season—only one of us could win it in this lifetime.
At the party that followed, my fellow wrestlers showered me with congratulations.
"Knew you'd take it, Sin."
"GWAHAHA, you little punk! When the booker told me you were a funny guy, I kept wondering what the hell kind of kid you were!"
Starting with Booker and Simmons, wrestlers from both Burning Kong and Rakedown came up to me without distinction. Veterans like Taker and Greg, the members of Revolution, even the workers who'd looked after me in all sorts of ways back during my Kung-Fury days.
My success owed a great deal to their help, too.
After working the room, I saved one man for last: Cena himself.
The future Icon.
By the original course of history, he should have been accepting Rookie of the Year tonight. The moment he saw me, his face split into a brilliant grin.
"Ah, damn. Should've figured. You really are something else. I worked my tail off this year too, but there was no beating you."
I felt a swelling in my chest I couldn't quite put into words.
In my past life, I'd thought 2004's Cena was genuinely extraordinary. He'd seemed untouchable—like something no one could ever hope to imitate.
But he wasn't.
I had worked as hard as I could with the weapons I carried, and I'd produced better results than he had.
Granted, the Cena of later years would go on to grow at a pace tens of times faster than this. Even so, I was confident.
I intended to keep fighting Cena and every other wrestler on this roster, marshaling every scrap of knowledge and ability I possessed.
Though to do that, of course, I'd first have to survive the test Bart Maxen had laid before me.
The second week of January. Burning Kong.
The opening video showed a female staff member grunting and straining as she tried to hoist an enormous box onto a shelf. She heaved it up again and again, and failed every time. The male employees around her drifted past without a glance.
And then—right on cue—someone appeared from off-screen and lifted the box clean over her head in one motion.
Then he asked:
[You okay?]
[Ah, Sin......]
With that, the camera panned up to reveal my face.
[Yeeeeeeeeeeeaaaaahh!!]
The crowd roared its approval. It was a bit of a corny bit of showmanship—but this was still 2004, an era when angles like this actually worked.
In my soot-streaked jacket and sunglasses, I wiped the smudge of grime off the woman's cheek and walked away. The camera stayed behind, lingering on her as she gazed after me like she'd just witnessed something divine.
[Looks like that boy's about to break some hearts.]
With that breezy line from the commentator, the opening sequence rolled.
Feeling my face burn scarlet, I muttered under my breath.
"God, that's cringe."
"What? I thought it looked awesome!"
"Have some self-respect."
Stacey and Orton thumped my shoulders from either side, as if to console me.
And so, my Playboy gimmick began.