The Playboy Script
The pre-taped backstage segments rolled out one after another, and the Playboy script began to unfold exactly as written.
The reactions came precisely as I'd predicted.
The video that aired after the opening match showed the Divas flipping through a copy of Macjin Women's — the photobook issue I'd shot for.
They made a show of flashing the cover at the camera, swallowed hard, and pored over the pages one by one, savoring every single spread.
And then, naturally, they answered the curiosity burning in the audience.
[Sin was packing THIS?!]
[Oh my God, look at this.]
[Those crisp, defined chocolate abs... How did I not know this stallion existed?]
[I knew ages ago. The moment he tore his shirt off at Ring Survival, you could see the man underneath.]
[Excuse me, Stacey? Weren't you and Orton getting cozy just a while ago?]
[I can't stand a man who's all talk. Sin doesn't seem like that. Hmm... actually, does he talk a lot?]
[Does he?]
[Oh, he talks. Those thick, broad shoulders never shut up. I'd love to hear what they have to say.]
Stacey delivered her last line with a sultry smile and sauntered off-screen.
Every viewer who imagined the rest of that story smirked darkly to themselves.
Meanwhile, the real-life Stacey watched the footage and burst out laughing.
"God, that's hilarious! I know I acted it, but it was so awkward! Real women are nothing like that!"
"Men eat it up, though."
Stacey mulled over Orton's words for a moment, then tilted her head.
"When you put it that way, doesn't that make Sin the enemy of every man alive?"
"Or, you could look at it as an opportunity for them to immerse themselves."
"Immerse themselves?"
"Every guy wants to be the man all the women swoon over. But in real life, that never happens."
"So it's vicarious satisfaction."
"Exactly."
"The man embodies their desire to be sexy, capable, and coveted by every woman on earth?"
"...Yeah."
I felt my face flush crimson as I answered.
And going a step further, any Asian man like me out there would have been feeling that vicarious thrill tenfold. That aside, the truth was it still embarrassed me — because it was my work. A sensual photoshoot of my bare upper body had blown up this big. If my father ever sees this, I won't be setting foot at home for a while.
Not that it was unnecessary, or shameful in a bad way. It just made me want to curl up and break out in hives.
Still, the reaction was far from bad.
In fact, a few women in the crowd had brought their copies of Macjin Women's to the arena and were thrusting them into the air for all to see.
[SIIIIIN~~~~!!]
The camera caught that scene on purpose, lending the script an extra layer of realism.
After a few more matches and rivalries played out, the show reached its midpoint.
And once again, our pre-taped backstage segment hit the air.
Stacey, draped in a sexy dress, was hunting all over the arena for Sin. Blocking her path appeared Lance Orton — freshly stripped of his title, drifting aimlessly, hitting on anything in a skirt.
[There you are, Stacey.]
[Oh. Hey, Lance.]
[Found a great bar. Why don't you come with me after the show wraps?]
[Sorry, Lance. I'm kind of tired tonight. Some other time.]
[Sure. ...By the way, what's that?]
Orton noticed the magazine in Stacey's hand and snatched it away, half by force.
[Ah—!]
[What's this? It's Sin? He did a photoshoot? Whoa. What the hell is this?]
[G-give it back!]
[Why are you even looking at this stuff? If you wanted him, you should've gotten a little closer.]
Holding the magazine high overhead, Orton leaned his upper body back, luring Stacey into falling against his chest.
Watching this, the real-life Stacey offered a commentary of her own.
"One solid kick right in the b●lls and he'd shut up real fast!"
Orton's face drained of color, and I, standing beside him, nodded solemnly.
"That wouldn't be a bad script, actually."
"...Sin?"
"I wasn't thinking anything."
"Yes, you literally just said it."
The script rolled on.
It was the moment Stacey, helpless against Orton's taunting, was about to be cornered —
when I appeared from off-screen and plucked the magazine right out of his hand.
[...What do you think you're doing?]
The crowd roared their approval.
I handed the magazine back to Stacey, whose cheeks were burning red.
[Th-thank you.]
[Sin...!]
[A grown man tormenting a woman. Have you no shame?]
[What's it to you?!!]
[It disgusts me, that's what. If you were half the man you claim to be, you wouldn't do it.]
[And what makes you an authority on being a man?]
[The fact that I'm champion?]
[Then let's settle it right now!]
[Fine. How about right here?]
And so the match was made, and the crowd erupted in cheers.
Even through the commercial break that followed the segment, they were chanting my name at the top of their lungs, stoking the anticipation even higher.
[SIN! SIN! SIN! SIN! SIN!]
The reaction landed exactly as I'd calculated. I smiled faintly and rose from my seat.
"Orton. It's time."
"...What the hell was all that."
Orton stood, his face frozen in shock.
The three of us — Stacey, Orton, and I — made our way to Gorilla Position.
"Seriously, why is the reaction this hot? It's kind of overwhelming..."
"Because we showed them a drama."
"A drama?"
"Think about it. From the top of tonight's Burning Kong until now — what has the show looked like?"
"Uh, well..."
"Match, ring segment, match, ring segment, on repeat. ...Is there a problem with that?"
Stacey tilted her head.
"Our segment was structured like a drama. It broke the pattern, so of course they couldn't look away."
I'd glanced at the rundown right before the show started and confirmed it would flow well for exactly that reason — the card was a straight repetition of matches and ring segments.
So it lands.
It propped my character up in a big way, and a storyline between a young man and woman earned bonus points all on its own.
Confident the rest of the night would go smoothly, I stepped into Gorilla Position.
Bart, running the show from the very back of the room, greeted me warmly.
"Playboy! Solid reaction out there tonight. Keep it up."
"All thanks to you, sir."
Bart let out a hearty laugh, clearly pleased by the unexpectedly good response.
I loosened up through the commercial break and finished preparing for my entrance.
Orton, playing the heel, swaggered out to the ring first.
[Booooooooooooo!]
A torrent of boos rained down.
But this wasn't the kind of loathing that used to chase him — the kind born of genuine hate. When a crowd truly despises a performer, the abuse turns vicious and the whole show falls apart.
Orton had earned his heat the honest way, through the thumbtack bump.
Bastard's good.
Maybe confidence was seeping back into him, because his heat-drawing was sharper than ever.
"Sin, you ready?"
I nodded at the stagehand, then glanced back at Stacey for a beat.
"Nail the timing for me."
"Of course! Good luck out there!"
She was slated to appear at the match's climax, seduce Orton, and save me from the brief moment of peril. By the end of the night, the crowd would be genuinely desperate to see where our story went next week.
My music hit.
[Yeeeeeeeeeaaaahhhhh!!]
I strode down the entrance ramp through a wall of cheers, ignored the crowd entirely, and climbed into the ring.
Then I walked straight up to Orton, who'd been waiting, furrowed my brow, and began snarling words at him.
Orton snarled right back, meeting me nose to nose.
To anyone watching from the outside, we looked like two men unleashing pure fury at each other.
The reality was a little different.
"Crowd's pretty good tonight, huh?"
"You think? Their boos were so loud I was honestly getting nervous."
"You're fine. It was good heat."
"Thanks. That helps me relax."
"Let's kill it."
Fired up, we locked up in the ring before long.
It was a weekly show, so we planned to modulate the pace, layer in performance, and give the people a good time.
The match opened with a lock-up and spilled into chain wrestling.
As we traded wristlocks and twisted each other around the mat, I realized Orton's fundamentals were decent — really decent.
He was no living legend like Greg or Flair, no prodigy like Russell.
But he was better than Shina. A good guy to work with.
Because you could carry him somewhere.
Shall we raise the bar a little?
I clicked my tongue lightly to focus Orton, then swung a big haymaker.
"Ugh...?!"
Orton reeled from the hammering blow, and I pressed the advantage with a chain of moves.
[SIN! SIN! SIN! SIN! SIN!]
"That's what a champion looks like!"
During the breather that followed, I worked the crowd, reading their energy and checking my plan for what came next.
From here, Orton was supposed to go on the offensive. But the atmosphere still felt unripe somehow.
"Let's draw it out more."
And so we milked the crowd for every reaction they had, deceiving them into believing this was a main-event-caliber war.
The crowd's fervent cheers electrify the viewers at home, too. Knowing how to draw that reaction out — that's what separates a first-class wrestler from the rest.
We tumbled out to the floor.
"YEAAAHHH!! SIN!"
The fans standing right at the barricade roared even louder for us.
I whipped Orton into the barrier. He crashed spine-first into it, draped his arms over the rails, and sagged.
"Orton, come on, dig deeper!!"
"You're just gonna let him do this to you?!"
Astonishingly, the fans were even cheering Orton on — the guy they'd booed not five minutes ago.
Men, women, kids, everyone — they slapped him on the back and screamed encouragement at him, flushed with excitement.
The broad, exposed back of a pro wrestler is something you almost never see up close in everyday life. Standing that near to it gets a person far more worked up than you'd think. And there, I saw it —
a tiny kid nestled in his father's arms, eyes gone saucer-wide with astonishment.
And right beside them, a young woman in the crowd waving my magazine with everything she had.
An idea struck in that instant.
I grabbed the fallen Orton's arm, pulled him upright, and pressed in close, quickly relaying my intent to the guy still gulping for air.
"We go up, then we come back down."
"Huh...?"
Orton blinked, puzzled, but I was already back in the ring, murmuring quietly to the referee.
"Count the ten-slow, okay?"
In a standard match, if both wrestlers stay outside the ring past a ten-count, it ends in a draw. So once I re-entered, Orton shrewdly slipped back out to escape — and I chased him straight down again.
"Get back here, damn you!"
"Ugh?!"
We grappled and strained against each other, and I hurled him right back onto that same spot.
CRASH!
Orton slammed into the barricade with a sharp crack and crumpled.
"KYAAAAAH!! SIN!!"
That same woman from before thrust her Macjin magazine and a Sharpie high into the air.
I walked over, and, just as I'd imagined, started a performance with her on the spot.
Taking the pen, spreading open the Macjin Women's I'd graced, and signing it — a moment made to make the script shine.
"What's your name?"
"Jessie! Jessie!!"
[Yeeeeeaaaaahhhh!!]
There was something about the whole crowd loving this together that just felt... good.
Face flushed, eyes glistening with tears, Jessie stared up at me — then blurted out:
"I love you!! SIN!!"
"Love you too."
I flashed a grin, handed the pen back, and turned to the little kid beside her, who was staring at me, stunned.
I must have looked terrifying to him — ten times his size.
So I smiled as gently as I could and ruffled his hair.
"Eat your vegetables."
"Y-yes, sir...!"
This kind of fan service is an enormously important element in sports.
Children who walk away with memories like these keep watching wrestling, grow up, and someday bring their own kids to the shows — a virtuous cycle that feeds the business for generations.
That father who brought the boy tonight had probably been one of the little kids shaking Captain Logan's hand back in the eighties.
So I stepped slightly out of character to give them a keepsake — no great sacrifice, just a memory worth having.
"Sin...!"
At that moment, Orton rose to his feet.
We went at it in front of the kid like two titans warring over the earth.
Furious at my cavalier showboating, Orton started wringing his fighting spirit out from the very bottom of his soul.
The match resumed, and I ceded him control, absorbing his offense wave after wave.
"Damn it, did you SEE that?"
For all his furious, attacking facade, the words out of his mouth were pure admiration — tongue-clucking awe at the details I'd layered in.
The match rolled on like that, and in the closing stretch, Orton seized his opening.
"Hck—?!"
A low blow, landed while the referee wasn't looking. The crowd saw it and exploded into thunderous boos.
[Boooooooooooooo!!]
Orton wore a sneer as he covered me for the pin. The referee dropped and began the count.
ONE!!
[Boooooo......!!]
TWO!!
[Booooooooooooooo!!]
And in that very instant, Stacey's theme music shook the arena to its rafters.