The Sharpshooter
Russell and I collided at the center of the ring with a resounding thud.
In the same instant, I stretched out my arm and snaked it around the back of his neck, while he brought his opposite hand up to grip my own in a classic collar-and-elbow tie-up.
Lock up.
The appetizer — a demonstration meant to show the audience, right off the bat, just how good we were and how intense this rivalry would be.
And here it was, finally underway.
Thud! Th-thud!
Stomping our feet hard against the canvas, we tangled together and locked in a test of strength.
Not that the effort was fake, of course. I could feel Russell's arm bearing down on my neck, cinching tight with real force.
I was the taller of us two, but Russell was broader through the torso — and on top of that, he held the edge in technical exchanges.
Our very appearance demanded it, which was precisely why we'd built the dynamic that way.
And it was convincing.
"Ngh...!"
I began to give ground, slowly at first, then all at once as he powered me back into a corner and unloaded his fury on me there.
The referee hurried in and pried him off before things got worse.
"That's a foul. Watch yourself!"
A warning followed. Russell conceded the mistake, and I pounced on the opening, charging straight at him.
I leapt with everything I had.
The referee, startled by the sound, scrambled back. With both legs drawn up and tucked together, I drove a kick square into Russell's chest.
Dropkick.
With a crash, Russell went sprawling backward. I landed clean, closed the distance in an instant, seized him by the hair, and hauled him back to his feet.
Then I locked up with him again.
Russell obligingly met it — and I drove my elbow straight into his wide-open stomach.
"Ugh?!"
"Too trusting."
I hammered him with a few more blows for good measure.
Russell staggered backward, his face clouded with shock. I herded him all the way into the corner and unleashed a prepared knife-hand chop at his chest.
WHAAACK!
"Gwah?!"
Russell writhed in agony.
Chop after chop rained down on him as I pressed the assault.
He tried to fight back, but he was utterly outmatched. I toyed with him, ruthlessly.
I grabbed his head and rammed it into the turnbuckle of the ring post, hammered him with rapid-fire blows until his eyes glazed over — and for a finisher, even a vertical suplex.
SLAM!
I sprang to my feet and turned a haughty face to the crowd.
By the looks of it, nobody much cared for my arrogant back-alley thug of a character.
Baku especially wore the expression of a man promising himself a beating for me once this was over...
I should run the second this ends.
Still, it was a relief that it was landing. If the message was getting through to industry veterans like them, it meant the performance was as perfect as it could possibly be.
So I acted even more vile.
I chased Russell back into the ring post and stomped at his stomach. He couldn't take it and crumpled to the mat.
I didn't stop. I stomped him down, merciless, again and again — until the referee finally stepped in to pull me off.
"Break it up! Break it up! One! Two...!"
The count began, and I backed away, raised a hand to signal I was fine, then charged at Russell once more.
But in that instant —
He'd slipped out beneath the ring apron and yanked my legs out from under me. I hit the canvas with a crash.
Still under the ring, Russell pulled on my leg and whipped it full force into the steel ring post.
"GWAAH!"
I screamed, clutching my knee in agony — but Russell showed no mercy, slamming the same knee into the post again and again.
"Ugh...!"
Gritting my teeth, I managed to kick him in the face and shake him loose.
Free at last.
I climbed back onto the apron and turned away, limping on the battered leg.
Russell swarmed up into the ring after me, hungry for that knee.
His elbow came crashing down behind my injured kneecap — a flying strike, launched through the air with the blow timed to land the instant he arrived.
My body floated up off the mat, then dropped straight back down to the canvas.
Yes! the crowd roared.
The momentum had turned.
The knee against the ring post had been the spot. Now Russell hunted it with relentless focus.
"Gwah!"
Knee drop.
A fist to the skull; the moment I struggled up, a kick sent me sprawling again. Groaning, I was dragged around the ring at his whim.
For the handful of moves that required both of us in sync, we whispered quietly to each other — a small warning that a move was coming.
DDT.
I'd murmur it, duck my head under his arm, and fall backward with him in perfect unison.
Built on his uncle's repertoire, yet stamped with a flair all his own.
Unlike Greg Hart the honest good guy, Russell knew exactly how to exploit an opponent's weakness — even playing the hero.
And that meant two things.
First, to shut down my finisher — the knee kick.
And second, to build the justification for his own finisher, the Sharpshooter, a hold that punished the legs and lower back.
Sharpshooter.
And the moment had arrived.
As I staggered upright, I deliberately scraped at Russell's eyes — a foul.
He staggered back, wracked with pain. Seizing my chance, I launched myself up, powering into a knee kick.
But the motion came too slow.
Because of the knee.
Russell blocked it clean and shoved me down to the mat.
In the blink of an eye, my legs were twisted together. He threaded one foot between my scissored legs, clamped both my ankles in his grip — and turned over backward.
My body turned with his.
The Sharpshooter.
The finisher of the Hart Family.
A submission — a joint lock designed to tear a surrender out of an opponent.
Crushing pressure flooded through my spine and knees. I couldn't hold it in; I screamed with everything left in me.
"GRAAAHH!!"
Russell stood braced in a squat, dead set on making me quit.
Face-down on the mat, I could see the crowd rising to their feet.
T tap out?
Or endure?
The harder Russell rocked his weight back and wrenched the Sharpshooter in, the more it tore me apart. The referee hovered right beside my face asking if I wanted to quit — I shook my head.
Then I dragged myself across the canvas, crawling inch by inch toward the ropes.
Grab the ropes, and it counted as a rope break — an escape from this hellish submission.
But Russell endured it too.
A match that had been one-sided slaughter.
The electric instant when the underdog stands a hair's breadth from toppling the champion.
I grabbed Russell's foot as he was knocked backward and yanked it toward me with all my strength.
"...?!"
He lost his grip on my legs and crashed to the mat. Tangled together, we rolled in the same direction — and rose to our feet at the same time.
But I was already a step ahead, my next move loaded and waiting.
CRACK!
Russell's head snapped violently to the side.
I planted the knee kick flush on his jaw, dropped with my body to the canvas, and rolled him over for the cover.
"One! Two! Three!"
The three count.
Dong-dong-dong!
The ring bell tolled once more.
A clean, decisive victory.
Even after the match, I didn't forget to sell.
Which is to say: I came back through the entrance ramp to Gorilla Position still limping on that leg.
Details like this were the line separating the first-rate from the second-rate. Right up to the very end, I never stopped telling the story to the audience.
The handful of staff on hand applauded as they welcomed me back.
"Great work out there!"
"Ah, thank you."
"Russell too!"
Russell came through right behind me. I turned, sweat-drenched, and shared a hug with him.
"Good work."
"You too. I really enjoyed it."
As Russell flashed a grin, one of the staff spoke up behind us.
"So it was all kayfabe after all?"
"Of course. Junho and I have no bad blood — if anything, I owe him one."
"What a relief. Baku's been worried sick, so make sure you apologize to him properly."
"Why would I need to, when it's obvious..."
"That man's more delicate than he looks. I saw the camera feed from the stands — he was already on his feet by the end of the match."
The staffer snickered at my sigh, then stretched out a hand toward the back.
"He'll be here any second."
"You bastards...!"
He was right.
"You crazy sons of bitches! You haven't even signed the contract yet and you pull a stunt like this — what the hell am I supposed to do with you?!"
Baku came thundering in and swept both Russell and me up in a crushing bear hug.
"I taught you two well! KWAHAHA!"
"...It's hot, Baku."
"Now THAT was a proper match! Top dog, underdog, ring psychology! A hundred points out of a hundred! WAHAHAHA! It's been ages since I've been this excited for tomorrow's show!"
"There is no next show."
I twisted and squirmed, trying anything to escape his embrace.
But all the same, I felt good.
Because it was a great match.
I was still savoring the thought when the curtain at the entrance ramp lifted and a man stepped inside.
"Excuse me... oh — Baku?"
"Oh, Henry. What is it?"
"Harley says if the two of you are in decent shape after the match, he wants you out there to take a bow."
"HAHA! Old Harley may be gray, but his eye for a match hasn't rusted one bit!"
Clamping a hand on each of our shoulders, Baku marched us out through the entranceway.
"Go on. This is what you two earned."
And the applause came pouring down.
"Hey, rookie! You were damn good out there!"
"Great match! I'll be looking forward to seeing you on the roster!"
"But for the love of God, change your ring gear! What are we supposed to do if you keep flying around like that?!"
"..."
No — let me correct myself.
It wasn't that I 'felt good, all things considered.' I was happy enough to burst.
In my past life, I'd never tasted a scene like this — never even dreamed it.
I had been a loser everywhere, in GCW, in WWF, everywhere.
But right now, I'd won.
In every sense of the word.
Russell, too, seemed satisfied with the match he'd delivered, smiling and waving at the crowd. And so, having turned every single person working here into our fan, we headed back toward the ring.
The legendary pro wrestler Harley Racy smiled and extended his hand.
"Junho. And Russell Hart."
"Thank you, Harley."
"We'll keep working hard."
Once the handshake was done, Harley Racy turned to me — not Russell — and gave my cheek a couple of firm pats.
"You damn irritating son of a bitch. I'm going to watch every last inch of what you become."
It was the highest praise there was.
As I grinned impishly at my own satisfaction, a man in a suit — a jarring sight in a place like this — stepped forward after him.
Yet against all expectations, his expression was grim, out of step with the celebratory air.
"Did you enjoy the match?"
"Ah — yes. Yes, very much."
Connor turned to Russell.
"How's your jaw?"
"Perfectly fine. We train constantly, so we can take a hit."
"It's the first time I've seen anything like this since Captain and Gigant fought."
He smiled — a faint, wistful smile.
Was that why?
Something told me he hadn't watched this match merely for the spectacle.
Two words shadow pro wrestling like tags nailed to its back.
Violence. Danger.
And through our match, that seemed to be exactly what had caught his attention.
But that day in the parking lot, it had been the wrestlers who saved him.
After a long moment of thought, he asked:
"If I were to bring my children here to watch a match like this... what lesson would they walk away with?"
Russell answered first.
"Pride and honor."
Hearing that, I smiled wryly.
"Then let me put it simply."
"Yes?"
"Pro wrestling always — always — ends with good triumphing over evil."
Robin Connor's eyes went wide.
"I won today, but this is far from over. The crowd is surely rooting for tomorrow, not today — waiting for the day when Russell Hart, the man who reveres the classical virtues, finally casts out the villain."
"...I see."
"Of course, I understand your concern. Pro wrestling is dangerous — there's no denying it."
I pointed at Russell's chest, mottled purple with the bruises my chops had left behind.
"But that's a man's world for you."
Eras turned, paradises shifted — and that truth never once changed.
We were, and would always be, the ones who spoke of the old virtues.