Hit the Boss
Bart Maxen.
When he heard my plan for the Rumble match, he burst out laughing.
"BWAHAHAHA! You lunatic!"
That's you, pal.
"You seriously want me to appear in the Rumble match? Why on earth would I?"
"Because JBL's a nouveau riche heel."
I laid out the plan in front of Bart Maxen, who was now listening with genuine interest.
Everyone was gathered in the conference room.
The people who'd seen the Rumble match that Heagen and I had cooked up couldn't take their eyes off it.
The ring producers and the creative team alike began naturally imagining the drama from that one pitch alone.
Bart, too, seemed intrigued as he listened, and the meeting carried on in a not-bad atmosphere.
"JBL goes to you, boss, and makes his plea. He says, 'Take care of Cena for me, and I'll repay you with unwavering loyalty.'"
"So the entrant at number thirty—that's me—goes out to drop Cena?"
"God, no. First, he grabs a mic at ringside and throws a tantrum—'Get out of my ring right now!'"
"...And then?"
"The final four left in the match close ranks around Cena."
"So when that doesn't add up, an enraged me climbs into the ring?"
"And you get your ass beat."
I shrugged.
Bart laughed like the whole thing was absurd.
For a chairman who'd spent decades clawing his way through the wrestling business, he caught on fast.
But the other staff, who'd been sitting quietly through my pitch, were squirming in their seats.
The atmosphere cooled rapidly, and Bart spent a long while in silence, poring over the script I'd handed him.
Then he opened his mouth.
"Everyone out."
"Yes, sir."
"Not you, idiot."
Bart bared his teeth.
At that menacing reaction, everyone tucked their tails and filed out.
Only Heagen lingered, giving my shoulder a couple of pats that said, you're on your own from here, before following them out.
And so the vast conference room held just the two of us.
"Sit, first of all."
I took the chair across from him.
"This Final Four."
"Yes."
"It's so transparently your own self-serving scheme it's practically unusable."
"..."
I just smiled instead of answering.
The Final Four.
That's what they called the last four competitors left standing in a Rumble match.
Naturally, the winner came from among those four, and they received special treatment within the match.
And those four were—
"Russell Hart."
"Great guy."
"Shawn Cena."
"Well, obviously."
"Sin."
"Can't argue with that one."
"And Lance Orton?"
"Nothing wrong with him, is there?"
"Why don't you just write up a script where the Undertaker dies in the ring of old age while you're at it?"
"The Main Eventers don't need to stay on the Final Four list, do they? None of them are going to win the thing anyway."
"And who exactly is going to coordinate the match once only those four are left?"
"Me, I told you. Have you lost your mind, old man?"
Bart ground his teeth.
But this wasn't the time to play nice. I had to see my idea through, whatever it took.
"They're all your people, aren't they."
"No. They're the company's future."
I said it flatly.
Greg Hart.
Triple H.
The Undertaker.
They were all magnificent performers, too.
But they were the past.
Right now, we were living in the present, walking toward the future.
Which was why I believed it was about time they started doing the honors of laying down.
Because when that didn't happen in my past life, the WWF paid for it, badly.
Passing the baton at the right moment was always the crucial thing.
But the company had grown lazy about making that choice. To be precise, it had settled into the status quo and simply stopped trying.
About four years down the road of my previous life.
Orton was still perpetually losing to Triple H, and my friend Adam—Edge—was forever portrayed as the man who couldn't get past the Undertaker.
Through all of it, only Cena stood drawn as the immovable tower—but precisely because of that, there was no one who could match him.
So when Hunter and the Undertaker finally retired, the quality of the entire show cratered.
Cena had built an era, but the caliber of the men fighting alongside him in that era had dropped.
And not just a little.
Or rather, that's not how it actually was—that's how people came to perceive it.
'Wait, these guys couldn't even beat Hunter or the Undertaker, and now we're supposed to watch them?'
The Main Eventers who never managed to conquer the legends never got their coronation either.
It was the exact opposite of the Attitude Era.
Rock Cold had knocked out John Michaels single-handedly on his climb to the top.
And then, together with The Pock, Triple H, the Undertaker, Mick Foley—men whose stature matched his own—he had forged his era.
We had to do the same.
Strictly speaking, Hunter and the Undertaker were performers of the previous era.
Which meant toppling them was our homework.
In my past life, tragically, it never happened. In this one, I intended to make it happen.
To protect professional wrestling.
So that I could stand tall beside Cena and build my own era.
"Cena winning the King's Rumble would be a truly wonderful thing. Because it's the dawn of a new era."
"Hm. Even so, Cena ushering in a new era sounds like pure fantasy to me."
"No, sir. It's going to happen."
I said it with conviction.
Bart narrowed his eyes and studied me.
"And where do you fit in?"
"I intend to tear down Cena's era entirely."
"Heh. Doesn't compute."
Bart shook his head.
There can only be one era.
That was Bart's logic—he was trying to catch me flat-footed in that instant.
Of course, it didn't compute.
"Fascinating, really."
He continued in a calm tone, as if telling me that all his earlier rage had been an act.
"Everything you've said is true. We do intend to start pushing Cena as our top guy, little by little, looking toward the future."
"I agree with that part."
"And the way of pro wrestling is for the veterans to step up and help build that top guy."
"Unfortunately, I don't really need that kind of help."
"...It's unpleasant precisely because it's not an incorrect statement. Truly unpleasant."
"But there is one veteran who's going to help us out here."
"Who?"
"You, boss."
"... "
"When the crowd watches you climb into the ring and get beaten down and thrown out, they are going to lose their minds."
Three of the four were new blood.
And Orton was young blood too.
"A pack of hot-blooded young men banding together to beat down Bart Maxen's arrogant tyranny."
"So in the end, it's me putting over the four of you."
"And after a magnificent blood feud, Cena wins it all at the end."
"...One condition."
Bart rose from his seat.
He stalked close, chin held stiff and high, and looked me dead in the face.
"Hit me."
I laughed at the absurdity of it.
And then I swung my fist with everything I had and cracked him across the face.
CRACK—!
With a dull, sickening thud, Bart took it on the nose and dropped to one knee.
I had hit him for real.
"Ugh..."
"I pulled the punch, since going full power would've broken bone."
"Th-that's..."
"Let's get you up."
I helped steady Bart for a moment as he swayed, unable to find his footing.
That was just the kind of man he was.
Partly old-school, and partly because he considered himself a macho badass, he demanded that opponents hit him 'for real' during matches.
And ordinary wrestlers were terrified to touch him, knowing he was the chairman.
But Bart would tear into those men instead, roaring, 'What kind of wrestler flinches from hitting a man?! No guts at all!'
Having known that in advance, I hadn't hesitated to swing.
"Yep. You're the real deal."
And that was how he acknowledged me.
"Don't hold back on me in the ring. Hit me. Then I'll give you my recognition."
"You'd die."
"I said show me your guts."
"... "
"Russell Hart, Shawn Cena, Lance Orton. Come find me within three days and each put one on my face."
"I'm telling you, you'll die."
"Shut it. Or the script doesn't get approved."
It seemed to be his final stand of pride, in its own way—Bart wasn't about to cave easily.
Is this really going to be okay?
After a moment's deliberation, I set up meetings with the three of them.
* * *
It wasn't as if no one had ever laid hands on our chairman in my past life.
Cena and Orton had each attacked Bart on-air at least once, and Orton's, in particular, had been brutal.
The man had actually kicked Bart with a soccer kick—a genuine mixed martial arts technique.
Bart, diagnosed with a concussion, was rushed to the hospital, and Orton—who had been ordered to kick him for real—carried on in absolute hysterics, sobbing and wailing.
'Right, that happened.'
So this reaction wasn't the least bit surprising.
"How the hell am I supposed to hit him?!"
Orton whined.
"With your fist? Got it."
Cena nodded.
"...Haah."
Russell let out a long sigh.
Sitting in front of the three of them, I opened the fridge, pulled out a stack of vitamin drinks, and tossed one to each of them.
Inside my camping bus.
When I'd gathered the three of them on the evening of a show and demanded, 'Go crack Bart across the face,' this was the situation that followed.
"First off. Russell."
"What?"
"Can you do it, or can't you?"
"Well, I'll do it. If that's what the chairman wants. It's just such a ridiculous request that I needed a sigh first."
"Right?"
"What? Isn't the point that Bart can't take a bump, so we should hit him properly?"
"... "
Russell stared at Cena with bewildered eyes—clearly that angle hadn't occurred to him.
I drew a line there.
"No, it's just that Bart's kind of a lunatic. That's all this is."
"I can't do it."
At that exact moment, Orton, having chugged his vitamin drink, planted his flag firmly.
"The guy's a corporate CEO, right? Who knows what kind of fallout I'd be dealing with if I decked him!"
"Isn't that exactly why it's good, though? You get to vent all that pent-up resentment right here and now."
Orton gaped at Cena's answer all over again.
I cut in once more.
The conversation was settling into a loop.
"Actually, NOT hitting him is what would set Bart off, Orton. It's a 'prove you're a real man' kind of thing with him."
"Ghhhhk...!"
"But hey, Sin."
Cena spoke up.
"We're not ending it with just punches in the match, right? I was thinking it'd paint a better picture if we each hit him with our finisher."
"Yeah, that's the plan."
Russell's Sharpshooter.
Orton's R.K.O.
Cena's F.U.
And my Flying Knee Strike.
"The order goes F.U. last."
"So we throw Bart clean over the top rope?"
Cena said it with disturbing relish.
To suggest such a vicious idea with such an innocent face. Terrifying.
Russell, who'd followed the whole picture, added a suggestion of his own.
"...Then someone would need to catch the old man safely from below, wouldn't they?"
"When the third move—the Sharpshooter—hits, that's when JBL and his crew charge out to rescue Bart."
The two of them pictured it, and understanding dawned quickly.
So, to summarize:
Bart climbs into the ring, and first I hit him with the Flying Knee Strike.
Then, as he staggers and starts to collapse, Orton catches him with the R.K.O.
The R.K.O. was a 'cutter'—you grab the opponent's head and throw your own body forward, driving them down with you as you fall.
That would look great on camera.
"Russell grabs the fallen Bart's legs and locks in the Sharpshooter."
"Haha! And that's when we all taunt him while he's writhing in agony!"
"And when JBL and his buddies finally run out, Cena throws Bart over the top."
And that was how the plan came together.
Me, Russell, and Cena all felt the click of a good fit and grinned at each other.
And at that point, Orton—whose face had gone deathly pale somewhere along the way—raised his hand.
"I can't do it."
But the boy's willpower had never been part of the equation.
We were going to do this, no matter what.
Because it was going to be super awesome.