No Chance in Hell
No chance in hell.
It was the perfect theme song to describe Bart Maxen's character exactly.
The final entrant of the Rumble.
The man who came out after Stacey was none other than the chairman of this very company. We four watched him strut out with his trademark arrogant gait, our eyes betraying our bewilderment.
[Yeeeeaaaahhh!!]
The crowd's reaction wasn't bad. And no wonder — Bart Maxen was a pioneer of professional wrestling. On nights when he showed up on every show to play the evil authority figure, they showered him with the scripted boos. But when he made a rare appearance like this, the cheers poured out of them whether they wanted it or not.
Because as a villain, he was the only man in the industry you could legitimately call an Icon.
Bart grabbed the microphone.
"Shawn Cena!!"
Bart began tearing through his lines in that overblown tone of his. Standing in the ring, I caught sight of him and felt a flicker of genuine admiration. He wasn't a man who had studied acting professionally the way we had. But decades of industry experience, married to a character drawn straight from real life, had combined into something that fit Bart perfectly.
"Get down from that ring right now! You don't deserve to be the Rumble winner!"
[Boooooooooooooooo!!]
"This is an order from the chairman of this company! Refuse, and you're fired!"
The boos from the crowd were heavy enough to shake the entire arena. It was a dramatic situation — the Final Four, every one of them a company rookie. And Bart's act of throwing cold water over that contest was, without question, sickening.
"None of you move either! The match is suspended until Cena is eliminated!"
[Booooooooooooooo!!]
"Russell...! Orton! Unless you want to pack your bags and get thrown out right now—"
Huh?
My eyes went wide.
"What are you waiting for? Get down here!"
Bart hit his next line. For an instant, Russell and Orton glanced over at us, reading the room.
'That son of a bitch...'
How could a human being be this petty?
Just now, Bart Maxen had deliberately omitted my name from his lines. The proper line was Sin, Russell, Orton — all three of us together. But he'd chosen not to say it, and I could feel the contempt in that choice. He didn't want the crowd giving Sin any more attention than they already had. So he'd named only the other two.
By the original script, after Bart cut his promo, Russell and Orton and I were supposed to move in and protect Cena. But his off-script lines — and my body, suddenly frozen — had for a moment rooted Orton and Russell to the spot.
Time crawled.
I narrowed my eyes.
'So this is how it's going to be, huh.'
I could have just let it slide and played the script as written. But why should I? Bart was the one who'd flubbed his own lines. Deliberately, sure — but he would never, ever admit it. So wasn't the more rational solution to screw him over thoroughly, in my own way, right here and now?
As much as I loved pro wrestling, I was going to show him. I was going to show him that I had thrown myself into this script so desperately that I'd taken Bart Maxen's words at face value.
And so, here and now...
Unlike Russell and Orton, I would not move to protect Cena.
'That actually fits better anyway.'
Because Bart had pointedly left me unmentioned — which meant, by his own logic, I hadn't shown a single suspicious move up there in the ring.
"Hah."
I let out a light breath, walked past Russell and Orton, and started forward. Relieved, the two of them followed slowly behind me. The crowd cheered.
Right — this was clearly the script we'd woven together. We were supposed to protect Cena here — the Cena glaring murderously at Bart, who had crept right up to ringside.
And my next move sent the four performers executing that script into a moment of absolute horror. Haygun monitoring backstage, Tiffany watching the live broadcast — they were probably both gaping at their screens right about now.
I took Bart's side.
"Come on up, sir."
In reality, it was an act designed to gouge out his heart and twist the knife deep.
I plopped down onto the second rope, propped up the third with my shoulder, and held it open for him — a courteous little gesture to make it easy for Bart to step inside. Easy for Bart, at least, the man who still believed he was in his prime.
But oh well. It was the only way the fans all the way up in the second deck would catch what my gesture actually meant.
[Booooooooo!]
In an instant, the boos rained down. My action was, for a babyface, as cowardly and treacherous a thing as you could possibly do. But it fit my character. And because it fit, the script didn't shatter — it kept rolling across the stage like a glass marble, smooth and glistening.
Still smiling, I beckoned to Bart down at ringside. The marble was now in Bart Maxen's hand. Depending on how he moved, everything would split from here.
And Bart's face flushed a genuine, blazing red. Fair enough — I had, in his own words of welcome, stolen the entire show. Everyone was booing me, and Russell and Orton guarding Cena behind him might as well have been invisible.
A crack spidered through the glass marble.
What now, Bart Maxen?
Smiling, I urged him to make his choice. And Bart, at long last, followed my script — slowly.
"Sin! You... you're a man who understands!"
Beautiful acting.
"Didn't you say you'd do anything for success? An admirable attitude, truly."
Once he stepped into the ring, Bart showered me with improvised praise and picked the script back up. "I told you to get down, Cena! Now!"
I slipped low behind Bart Maxen and began moving — slowly, deliberately, like a cowboy a heartbeat away from drawing his gun.
"......"
The first to understand what I was doing was Russell. He and Orton moved, and in a flash we had Bart surrounded. The boos flipped into a thunderclap of elated cheers in a single breath.
Bart, finally grasping the situation, spun around to face us with panicked eyes.
"Boss, I'll take this one."
"...What?"
Bart turned in confusion — and I launched myself straight at the old man's face with everything I had.
Crack—!
A gorgeous Flying Knee Kick.
[Yeeeeeeeeaaaaaahhhhh!!]
With the crowd's roar, Bart's body went tumbling backward. But that was only the beginning. Orton hauled the groggy chairman back up to his feet and gifted him his finisher — the R.K.O.
A 'Cutter'-class move: leap up behind your victim, snatch his head, and drop.
BANG!
The impact was beyond imagination. Bart lay sprawled on the mat, unmoving, and the crowd howled with delight. Right on cue, Russell — perched on the top turnbuckle — capped it off with a clean Shooting Star Press.
THUD-CRASH—!
And so the chairman of an entire corporation was pounded into paste.
The finish, of course, belonged to Cena. By the time JBL's goons came sprinting down the aisle, it was far, far too late.
[Cena! Cena! Cena! Cena! Cena! Cena! Cena! Cena!]
Cena slung Bart across his shoulders and simply hurled him out of the ring, where JBL's henchmen caught the chairman safely.
[Yeeeeeeeaaaaaaahhh!!]
The crowd's cheers grew even louder. Cena shook the ropes, bellowing out his fighting spirit, then turned around.
Four men remained.
Shawn Cena. Russell Hart. Lance Orton.
And me. Sin.
Watching us eye each other warily, the crowd's anticipation swelled even further. Amid the deafening roar, I tossed a word to each of the three.
"About ten minutes left."
Our eyes smoldered, but we were all dead desperate to bring this match to a magnificent close. I was no different. We had shoved aside legends — men like bright stars in the firmament — and the four of us stood here now. Which meant we had to prove to everyone that we deserved the spot.
"Russell, take Orton."
I thought analytically. Russell's skill was top-tier. Orton's was middle-tier, and Cena's, for this, the lowest. So the natural flow was Russell leading Orton while I led Cena.
"Keep the pace fast."
I delivered my specific instructions short and clean, then charged straight at the man in front of me.
My stamina had long since blown past its limits. The match had run past the hour mark, and the accumulated fatigue made even keeping my grip on consciousness a struggle. But I endured. Because I had a goal.
One hundred fifty thousand fans in the building. And tens of millions of pro wrestling viewers around the world. Every one of them cheering for their favorite, every one of them hoping for a finish that approached perfection. So I kept fighting beyond my limits, again and again. Every time I teetered over the top rope on the edge of elimination, the crowd's gasps filled the arena to bursting.
But we were not easy prey. If anything, we wanted victory more than anyone else in that building.
Beyond the script — whoever won this match would earn the right to fight at Wrestle Imperium, the greatest stage in the history of professional wrestling.
World Champion.
That goal was why none of us gave an inch. The fight split naturally into two-on-two, and Russell and I pressed Cena and Orton with our teamwork.
Crack—!
With Russell's help, I finally nailed Orton flush in the face with a flying kick. Then Russell caught the staggering man as he threatened to crumple, and flung him hard into the ropes.
But Orton squeezed out the last of his strength and clung to the ropes, refusing to fall.
"Haaah, haaah......"
Half-collapsed in the corner, I quietly watched the scene unfold.
And that was the moment. Cena sprang up from his spot, sprinted over, and threw both Russell — who was shoving at Orton — and Orton himself clean over the top rope.
The crowd rose as one when they saw both men eliminated at the same instant.
[Uoooooooooooohhhhhh!!]
Now only two remained: Shawn Cena and me.
Cena leaned against the ropes, gulping down air for a long moment, before finally straightening his shoulders and rising to his feet. Watching him, my eyes went wide.
Something about this felt... familiar.
It felt like the atmosphere of him and me squaring off one-on-one at Wrestle Imperium.
[SIN! SIN! SIN! SIN! SIN! SIN! SIN! SIN! SIN! SIN! SIN! SIN!]
[Cena! Cena! Cena! Cena! Cena! Cena! Cena! Cena!]
The people were losing their minds. Cena and I circled the wide expanse of the ring, readying ourselves for the final battle. And before I knew it, I was smiling.
I felt wonderful — even though the script had me losing here. My heart felt ready to burst, my whole body was drenched in sweat, and standing in front of me was a future Icon. A man who was making his history even now. Shawn Cena.
And I was the only man who could make him shine.
That alone was enough to transform my defeat from a simple loss into something of tremendous value. Surviving from #1 to this point. Leading the match as the Lead Boy. All of it had been worth something.
'Let's see what you've got.'
From here on, it was all script. Not an improvised spot, but a sequence we had agonized over, down to the finest detail.
It began.
Chain wrestling.
Locking arms, wrenching, slipping free — for a moment we let the atmosphere settle. But all of it was fake. I yanked Cena's arm the instant he tried to escape, soared upward with the momentum, and drove my knee straight into his face.
SMASH—!
Having entered at #1, I was too spent to finish it and rolled away. Cena sank to one knee, head hanging, struggling to collect himself.
A sudden reversal. The crowd started chanting our names in turn — as if either of us winning would be fine by them. It was the biggest reaction of the night in a show already past five hours.
Feeling goosebumps rise across my whole body, I sprinted forward.
The final moment, at last.
Having come out at #1, I was in far worse shape than Cena. Which is why he caught my charge, spun me to his side, and hoisted me up with tremendous force.
"Gkkahp—!!"
The fans leapt out of their seats. They roared with a fervor that nearly spilled them over the barricade and into the ring itself.
The fireman's carry position. Cena balanced me across both shoulders as if I weighed nothing at all — the sheer strength of the man was staggering.
And the next instant, draped over his shoulder and held fast, I felt my vision whirl. My body turned half a rotation forward and dropped, back first, to the mat.
THUD-CRASH—!!
A mind-scrambling impact. The F-U detonated — and with it, the crowd.
Pulled to my feet by Cena's hand, I executed the final move. My body went over the top rope and fell, past the ring apron, to the floor.
The roar of the fans who witnessed that moment flooded every corner of the arena.
Ding! Ding! Ding!
The match was over.
"UWAAAAAAAHHHH!!"
The instant the Rumble victory was sealed, Cena burst into tears of joy.
That was not acting. It was not fake. Cena — the man who had once stared down the very real threat of being cut from the company — had finally seen his utmost, desperate effort rewarded.
Sprawled on the floor, gasping, I smiled as the cameraman swung his lens toward Cena.
'Congratulations, Cena.'
I had gained a great deal too. The Lead Boy. The image of a man who had lasted more than an hour in the Rumble. The standing of four rookies who could rise alongside me, established beyond doubt. And simply... it felt good.
Because the fans were happy. They'd go home tonight and order my T-shirt off the internet.
Truly — what a magnificent night.