Then Go Ahead and Try
The head scriptwriter had no rebuttal to my words. All he could manage was this:
So I told him I would.
Together with Paul Hagan and the assigned writer, I commandeered a conference room on the spot and got to work building the script.
The writer, suddenly burdened with the company's most critical booking of the year, looked visibly rattled as he pulled up a document for me.
"Here's the entrant list."
"Let's take a look."
Hagan was watching me with barely contained excitement as I immediately began combing through the roster, sorted by the front office's beloved internal hierarchy.
First, the main eventers: Greg Hart, Booker-Lee, Casket Taker, Kane, Gert Angel. Five men.
Second, the upper mid-carders: Sin, Shawn Cena, Big Joe, Rockbandam, Ray Mysterius. Five again.
Then the mid-carders: Lance Orton, Nick Flair, Gabe Batista, Jack Hardy, Chris Jenco. Five.
And finally the low carders: Taburi, J-Train, Mack Hardy, Hampton Benjamin, Charles Harley, Maino, Niko, Bubba Rack Dudsley, Deacon Dudsley, Orlando Joson, Scott 2 Hearty, Hardcore Mally. Twelve in all.
Huh?
"Why are three slots empty?"
"Apparently they haven't been decided yet."
"Unbelievable……"
I let out a sigh. And what lay just below that was an even greater disaster. For a moment, I could only manage a hollow laugh.
"What kind of lunatic ordered the entrance sequence this way?"
"That would be Bart."
"Fantastic."
I paused. Then started over.
"Fantastically terrible, I mean. Hagan."
"Why do you say that?"
Hagan waddled over to me, looking intrigued.
"Well — isn't it just guys coming out in order of status?"
That was the shape of Bart's construction. I and Chris Jenco open the match, then Taburi enters at number three to pile into it.
"He's riding the heat with me — an upper mid-carder and the Lead Boy — and Jenco, Burning Kong's technician, then tossing in Taburi, a low carder, as filler. That's all it is."
And it was precisely that kind of complacent thinking that ruins shows. Bart had been incapable of constructing the King's Rumble as anything more than a sorting exercise by wrestler status.
But here's the thing.
"Look closer — Rico and Scott 2 Hearty are positioned right next to each other again."
"Why them?"
"I'm about to say something unkind."
I furrowed my brow. The structure was obviously there in the booking, but it was a grossly disrespectful thing to say about the performers themselves.
The proper term, of course, would be workers. Children, do remember this the next time you run across a wrestler like Kung-Fury.
"They're jobbers, plain and simple. And right after them, Bart's pet pick, Casket Taker, comes out."
Which was to say: he intended to feed Rico and Scott into the wood chipper just to build a pop for Taker.
"Does that even make sense? They're both perfectly capable performers. Scott 2 Hearty has a genuinely great move in 'The Worm,' for crying out loud."
"That's exactly what I've been saying!"
Hagan shouted.
"The King's Rumble! In front of a hundred and fifty thousand people! The Worm chant roaring through the stands! Calling this match without it is insanity!"
"Exactly. It's an element the crowd would absolutely eat up."
I agreed wholeheartedly. A hundred and fifty thousand spectators. No other professional sport on earth could pull a number like that with any ease. And the tickets hadn't come cheap, either.
Which meant the audience expected a show worth that kind of money.
A mass chorus of one hundred and fifty thousand voices — everyone, of one heart and one mind, becoming part of the show itself through their reactions. Orchestrating that was exactly what this company existed to do.
"Let's settle those three empty slots first."
"Do you have names in mind?"
"Of course. Other than these three, frankly, nothing else even occurs to me."
"Go on, then."
Hagan's eyes were dead serious. But the moment he heard the three names, he answered as if he couldn't believe his ears:
"Are you out of your mind?"
"I like to keep things interesting."
I threw his question back with a famous line from a character in an old movie I'd seen once.
The first name I'd chosen was none other than Russell Hart.
My partner, my most trusted enemy, and my longtime nemesis. The King's Rumble was going to be the perfect stage for his call-up.
In a rumble match, a ten-second countdown runs before each entrant arrives. During that count, the crowd chants the numbers together, swelling with anticipation over who might come through the curtain.
And if, out of that countdown, came Russell Hart — the man who had turned in such a performance at Ring Survival — there could be no grander main-roster debut imaginable.
It was a device that would be used again and again in the years to come, though at this point in time, I was the first to propose it.
Paul Hagan, for his part, showered the idea with praise, calling it truly brilliant.
His eye for it never missed. He had seen, with perfect clarity, what the future held.
I dialed Tiffany right away and laid out the proposal. She, over in GCW, reacted positively, saying she'd raise it as a formal agenda item at their meeting.
And so I was passing the time over a Chinese lunch with Hagan and the staff writer when my phone rang.
"Oh, Sin. The meeting's over."
"How'd it go?"
"……Yes. The conclusion was that we should send Russell up to the main roster."
"You don't sound happy about it."
"Can you blame me? He was a talent we could've milked for another two years, easily."
"But as long as that kid keeps holding his ground, no one else is ever going to rise up as the next great babyface main eventer."
"……That's fair."
"Right? So now you just build up a different wrestler instead. You can do it. I know you can."
"……You're not about to tell me I have to play the heel boss again, are you?"
"That could be fun, actually."
I smiled. For the time that remained, GCW was about to get busy all over again — they'd have to wring out a script for Russell to pass the belt along.
But the people there were capable. Together, they'd produce something wonderful.
I'm a little jealous of that, honestly.
The envy was real. But then, a man who lingers in paradise can never grow stronger.
With Russell's entry settled, I turned to Hagan, who was tearing into his kung pao chicken beside me. He brightened at once.
"Oh-ho, so that leaves two!"
"The rest goes without saying, really."
"Well, my only worry is whether the company will actually sign off."
"They will. Wasn't our whole directive 'whatever it takes to draw a pop'?"
"Fair enough."
"In that spirit — the second name will be the wrestler who draws a bigger pop from the men in that crowd than anyone else alive."
Stacey Chigler.
I'd had one of the last two slots locked in for her from the very start. Her role was simple.
"I'm going out at number one."
"As the Lead Boy, of course you are. You're the ring general, the mastermind. Everyone in that match will move exactly as you plan it."
"……The undisputed king of mic-work, everyone."
I clicked my tongue. When it came to dressing up an ordinary idea in dazzling language, no man alive could touch Hagan. And yet — he wasn't wrong.
I intended to be involved in every single element of the King's Rumble, from the opening bell to the final elimination.
"Before your entrance, Stacey fusses over you at Gorilla Position."
"Magnificent. Like a woman seeing her man off as he marches off to war?"
"Exactly. But — Stacey is a pro wrestler herself, you know. In name if nothing else."
"So?"
"So she comes down to help me."
"And at that point?"
"We'll build the story around watching for that exact moment."
Armed with the list of every entrant, I began constructing the entrance sequence — so that every single wrestler would get to shine in at least one moment of their own.
Comedy has its place, too. Going out in ridiculous fashion and winning the crowd's pity is its own kind of great story.
"Number two goes to Russell."
"He comes out early, doesn't he?"
"Yes — Russell and I have always had that slightly unpleasant sort of partnership."
"Come again?"
"You know how it is. When two men get too close, it starts to grate on you — and yet you can't help drifting closer anyway. That kind of thing."
"Ah, I know it well. Every man's got one of those damned relationships somewhere in his life."
"Right. Anyway—"
I laid out the plan.
"While Stacey's fussing over me, I say my line: 'Whoever walks out that curtain — I'm ready to tear him apart.'"
"And out comes Russell?"
"The one moment nobody could have predicted. The one man I never managed to destroy — walking out to face me."
"Is that the read?"
"Yes. Our one-on-one in GCW ended with me losing, after all."
And there, the story explodes. People watching me and Russell will inevitably remember everything — even beyond our rivalry, there's the whole Ring Survival chapter to draw on. That pop would prove contagious, and Russell would make a spectacular debut.
"And number three?"
"Here's where we throw a curveball and send out Scott 2 Hearty."
"Oho. And then?"
"He comes at me and Russell, and gets absolutely smashed for his trouble."
"Mm?"
"And then the next man out is Maino — Scott 2 Hearty's old tag team partner."
"Ha—!"
Hagan slapped his knee.
"Tag team versus tag team!"
"The old guard against the new blood, no less."
"Brilliant! It's pure drama!"
"And it holds up logically. Two veterans who've spent years honing their craft schooling the two rookies — you can sell it exactly like that."
"Well said."
Hagan nodded. And so I kept grinding through the list, dredging up the drama each wrestler carried with him.
"Jack Hardy has a perfectly clear reason to challenge Casket Taker again."
"You're talking about the ladder match those two had?"
"Yes. Of course, Jack Hardy won't be able to handle Taker."
"And if Mack Hardy comes in right there, you've bought yourself a pop."
"That's the idea."
I nodded. Mack Hardy. Jack Hardy's older brother, his tag partner of many long years. When Jack challenged Taker, Mack had been at his side helping him every step of the way.
On his own, Mack isn't exactly a guy who draws pops. But as Jack's brother? That changes everything.
Mack, appearing as Jack's brother, would receive a far bigger reaction than he ever could alone. Truthfully, it was a rather sad state of affairs for Mack himself —
but that, in itself, can become the drama Mack owns.
Which meant we had to use it.
Hagan and I put our heads together and kept stitching the sequence together. Anyone who knew anything about wrestling would read this order and understand everything. The wrestlers would too — precisely what kind of performance they'd need to deliver once they climbed onto that apron.
And if we pinned down the order of eliminations as well, the rumble match would finish itself, no further explanation required.
Hagan marveled.
"That's another virtue of it, you know."
"Yes. People ultimately love a story they already understand. Every time a new entrant comes out, they'll size him up against whoever's in the ring and start anticipating the drama."
"Magnificent! Simply magnificent!"
Hagan's cheeks had gone red.
"Each drama unfolds, the wrestlers drop one by one, and it all builds to the finish! It's beautiful!"
"How about we even let the audience see the next rivalry coming, beyond the finish itself?"
"Hm?"
"In that spirit — I want to put Stacey's entrance right here."
"Seventeen?"
"Yes. And Greg Hart's elimination lands at exactly that same point."
"Right after seventeen comes out?"
"What do you suppose that symbolizes?"
"……You can't be serious."
"That 'you can't be serious' is dead serious."
Stacey, having entered the rumble, would contribute enormously to Greg Hart's elimination.
"And then the arrow swings back around to me. Simple, really."
"Then up to that point you're working over Greg, and—"
"No — I need to be getting the absolute hell beaten out of me by Greg."
"And then Stacey takes down Greg? I'm not quite following."
"Of course. Stacey flipping Greg over with wrestling skill alone would strain all credibility."
"Then how do you play it?"
"While she's drawing Greg's eyes, I roll him over the top rope myself."
"How's this, then — you tell Stacey it's dangerous here, and tenderly lift her over the ropes to safety."
"Which puts her right in Greg's path."
"And yet Stacey's gaze never leaves you — the Playboy himself! PWAHAHA! That's damned good?!"
Hagan had reconstructed the entire story from a few lines of conversation, and he roared with laughter.
"Well — with this, the order's more or less sketched out all the way to twenty-nine."
"Which leaves just the last one."
"Right. This man."
Hagan pointed at the name of the fellow I'd saved for last.
"Not a soul in that building will see this man coming."
"But his entrance alone will tell them exactly what kind of drama to expect."
"And will the man himself actually agree to step into a rumble, do you think?"
"I'll walk him through the plan and win him over, one step at a time."
I answered with total confidence.