The Verdict of Twenty Thousand

Orton's gaze locked onto Stacey as she strutted out down the entrance ramp.

At the same moment, I felt his grip loosen, and I kicked out before the count could settle.

A suggestive cheer erupted from the crowd, the men leading the charge for Stacey — a flawless blonde beauty in a dress that left her thighs teasingly on display.

And the funny thing is, she's the one who keeps cackling about how no woman on earth actually looks like that.

Truly masterful acting. In any case, I'd bought myself time.

By the time I'd recovered and made it to my feet, I was already rebounding off the ropes behind him. Orton snapped back to his senses and turned — but it was far too late.

CRACK—!

With a thunderous impact, my knee grazed past his jaw and carried on through. I collapsed onto his fallen body, hooked the leg, and the three count followed like a formality.

One, two, three!!

DING DING DING!!

The crowd roared. I scrambled up to my feet, more than a little unsteady, took the belt from the referee, and rolled out of the ring.

Stacey, who'd gotten me out of that jam, stood there wearing a smile of pure self-satisfaction.

"So? How was it?"

At her breezy little question, I walked straight past without so much as a glance.

The camera caught it, and Stacey would no doubt whirl around after me, utterly dumbfounded. That was the beating heart of the script — a playboy, yes, but one who never let a woman tie him down. That was the line ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠the character had to ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠hold as a babyface.

And the reaction? Fantastic.

"Sin, come on, give her a kiss at least!"

"Stacey's gonna cry, man!"

"Sin! I love you!!"

The fans behind the barricade hurled their lines at me one by one. Among them I spotted a little kid, and I casually raised a fist his way. He cackled and bounced up on his toes, pressing his tiny fist against mine.

Went off without a hitch.

With a grin, I headed straight into Gorilla Position. The staff erupted into applause — Bart in particular threw a thumbs-up my way, which I took to mean tonight's numbers had been more than passable.

But this wasn't the end. It was only the beginning.

From there on, with the company's full backing, the feud between Orton and me rolled on without pause. It broke briefly for Ring Survival, then picked right back up, and it struck a serious chord with the fans — largely because the Divas, with Stacey and Lily written into the storyline, kept the rivalry feeling fresh.

Whenever one of the Divas found herself in "trouble," I would step in, smooth and unbidden, to lend a hand — and little by little, they accepted me. But because I never once revealed any other motive behind it, their affection ran deep.

I rescued Lily from a precarious spot while she was conducting an interview with Revolution in the ring. And to Stacey, I made it crystal clear: she was not to interfere in my matches.

The Sin character would do absolutely anything for a win — but he would never, ever accept someone else's help getting there. Drawing that line firmly, and refusing to cross it, was something the audience understood and respected. Sin had fought alone his entire career. That consistency was the very soul of the character, and it was why they cheered.

What's more, after the photoshoot, word had gotten around that I was actually a decent guy — that I genuinely helped the women around me while never once wavering from my own path. Showing the company's Divas vouching for that side of me taught the fans to see me the same way.

Honestly, it was a little embarrassing, but that was roughly how the story unfolded.

"I had lunch with Sin last week. You will not believe how funny that man is."

"Wait, how did you even manage that? He never crosses the line with anyone."

"You just have to act a little helpless. That man is a master craftsman when it comes to solving a woman's problems."

"God, that's exactly the kind of man I need. The kind who comes in and fixes the broken plumbing!"

"Mmm, I wouldn't mind him giving my pipes a tightening. With that big wrench of his."

"Wait, how do you know about that?"

"Caught a peek of him in the shower last time~. There was a giant penguin hanging down between his legs!"

The Divas cackled and gossiped. Truly, magnificent actresses, every one of them.

Inside the show, they were sex symbols tailored to the male audience's appetites. In real life, they were closer to cowgirls — iron-willed women who could ride down a steer, seize it by the horns, and wrestle it to the ground.

Actually, no — without that level of toughness, you simply couldn't last long working for a company called the WWF in the first place.

They refused to deliver a single one of those lines until they'd personally verified the wrench, and it took everything I had to talk them around.

But once the jokes were done, they backed my script with flawless performances like these.

In any case, the fans watching the show enjoyed it from two very different angles. The men were drawn to the image of me winning the love of beautiful women while refusing to abandon my own road. The women, on the other hand, latched onto the appealing ideal of manhood I presented.

There were two reasons the storyline worked. The first was that we tried to expand the character without ever compromising his consistency. The second was that, long before any of this, I had already put in the grueling, daily discipline to keep my body and appearance at their absolute best.

The WWF audience felt no wall of race when they looked at me. To them, I was their champion — and their ideal. And yet, there were those who could not bring themselves to accept it, who pushed back against it with every fiber of their being.

Lance Orton. He and I kept trading barbs, escalating the feud further and further — until it burned hotter than it ever had before.

Third week of January. Burning Kong.

During the opening segment, an enraged Orton proposed a phone-in vote.

Then, at the tail end of the three-hour broadcast, we opened a ring segment built around the results.

The crowd chanted my name over and over with anticipation. My mood, however, was not great — because I couldn't help thinking that some things really shouldn't need to be decided by a phone vote.

...Of course, it was all scripted anyway, and knowing that an enormous number of votes had actually poured in for it made me genuinely happy. All of us felt the same. We'd prepared the script together, laughing and having a grand time — and then on stage, we wore completely different faces.

"Okay, good, good! Let's see what the people had to say, shall we?"

Where I looked exasperated, Orton was electric, pacing the ring like it was his personal kingdom.

"Not that there was ever any doubt I'd win! But look at this! Look at these smooth, glorious muscles of mine!"

If anyone was playing the narcissist villain in this particular script, it was clearly Orton. Under Hunter and Flair's influence, the man was strutting around in nothing but a pair of trunks, flaunting his physique for all it was worth.

"What about you, Sin? ...Lily, come here a moment and take this mic."

He even dragged out Lily, the ring announcer, milking the crowd's attention shamelessly. Every time he struck a bodybuilder's pose, the fans laughed and showered him with boos. For them, this was the kind of script you could just sit back and enjoy.

"Well...? Lily!"

"Yes, it was... very informative."

At Lily's deadpan reply, laughter rolled through the arena. Then she let out a meaningful little smile and started toward me, standing off in the corner.

"Shall we move on to the next contestant, then?"

The women in the crowd erupted.

"Sin, would you do us the honor of a pose?"

she asked, with a sly curl of the lips.

Her help meant more than most people realized. She was a company veteran by now, but she'd never once taken part in an angle before — her entire job was announcing the competitors and making introductions in the ring. Yet because of her connection to Sin, she was showing real emotion for practically the first time in her career.

The crowd couldn't help but cheer. Everyone was dying to know where the story of Sin and Lily would go next.

But I took the microphone and utterly wrecked the whole thing.

"...Do I really have to?"

"Shy, are we?"

"No... I just figure a wrestler's job is wrestling. Why do we need to stand around comparing bodies..."

"The people are curious."

Lily slipped her hand into the front of my shirt, her smile dripping honey.

"Everyone is simply desperate to know — what kind of man you really are. The parts the cameras never show..."

The air in the arena turned thick and dangerous. The fans watched Lily press close to me, gulping hard. She'd never once revealed a private, unscripted side of herself before, and that made her utterly, devastatingly alluring to the crowd and the viewers at home alike.

But I, standing there like a man turned to stone, dodged the attack Orton launched at us a beat later.

The crowd showered him with boos for shattering the moment. What's more, with Lily — a non-wrestler — caught between us, the situation only painted him deeper into the villain's corner. I gathered Lily into my arms, shielding her shoulders, and carried us both clear of his attack.

Once again, with a gesture that melted the female heart (the Divas' phrasing, not mine), I drew a roar of approval from the crowd — and then turned a cold glare on Orton.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?"

"What are you two doing playing house out here?! Quit stalling and let's check the results already — the part where I beat you!"

Visibly worked up, he jabbed a finger toward the jumbotron at the top of the entrance ramp. I let out a sigh, escorted Lily down and out of the ring, and gave him his answer.

"Fine. Have it your way."

Doom. Doom. Doom. Doom...

Drumbeats rolled through the arena, winding the tension tighter ahead of the reveal.

Ah, 2005. I can feel the nostalgia from here.

Wryly smiling, I turned to the screen as a triumphant fanfare blared out.

...

I knew it was rigged, but that result was downright brutal. Weren't we supposed to land it at around 85 to 15? I shrugged and glanced over at Orton.

The chants came crashing down on the frozen man.

"Shut up! Shut your mouths, you pieces of trash!"

"Orton..."

"You shut up too, Sin! This is a fix! Because there is no way I lose to a 'Twinkie' like you!!"

The boos that followed were deafening.

Twinkie. America's most iconic snack cake — golden yellow on the outside, white sugar cream on the inside. And at the same time, a slur for an Asian man who tried to pass himself off as white.

Which was exactly why the venom raining down on Orton momentarily transcended all imagination.

But I smiled. Because their outrage thundered a loud, unanimous no to what Orton had said. I didn't need to say a word — twenty thousand fans were screaming for me that I was no "Twinkie" at all.

So I let the moment breathe a beat longer than Orton expected — long enough that even he started to get flustered.

The boos refused to die. Unless I stepped in to calm them, this crowd was clearly prepared to jeer Orton until the end of time. He leaned in close and, disguising it as an insult, dropped his voice.

"Hey. Sorry about that. It's just the script, you know."

Apparently he'd genuinely bought that I was furious.

"No — I'm the one who's sorry. Making you say things you didn't mean."

With that, I gripped the microphone and let one line fly. A line that wasn't in the plan. But I knew, beyond any doubt, that this one would bring the house down.

"Doesn't look like the people in this building agree with you."

The crowd screamed their agreement loud enough to shake the rafters loose.

The show wrapped to a rousing finish. I changed, packed up in the locker room, exchanged goodnights with the boys, and was on my way out of the arena when my phone rang.

Bart Maxen.

What does he want?

Tilting my head at the mystery, I picked up. "Yes, boss?"

"On my way."

So much for clocking out. I doubled back the way I'd come and stepped into the office right beside the locker room. Bart, seated behind his desk, looked up and smiled at me.

"Heading home? My apologies."

"Not at all. If the boss calls, you come. What can I do for you?"

"First off — you were magnificent tonight."

"Thank you."

"You've exceeded every expectation I had. I never imagined the reaction would be this strong."

I gave a dry laugh. Whatever he said out loud, inwardly the man had to be seething. Bart Maxen was the kind of person who grew deeply uncomfortable unless every situation sat squarely under his control — and he absolutely never let his true feelings show, which made him a headache in a dozen different ways.

So what did he want from me this time?

"Did I pass the test, then?"

"You heard about it?"

"...Heard about what, exactly?"

"The ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠magazine featuring you is apparently the best-selling issue of Maxine Women's this year."

Bart gestured toward the magazine sitting on his desk.

"Frankly, I never saw it coming. And I still don't understand it — any of it. Everything that's happened so far."

An Asian man, invited by Maxine Women's for a photo spread. A Playboy-style storyline headlined by an Asian man — and it worked. An Asian man, beloved by women. Every last piece of it was incomprehensible to Bart, a self-made parvenu from the American East Coast.

But the times had changed. He simply refused to admit it. A man too stubborn to acknowledge that his own era had already slipped away — that was what Bart looked like to me now.

"By the way. Did you see the result that came up on the screen tonight?"

"I did. It came out subtly different from the original script, didn't it."

Bart smirked.

"There's a reason for that. The result was nothing like what we projected on our end."

The outcome of the phone vote. With a faint, unreadable smile, Bart Maxen began to tell me the truth behind those numbers.