The Four Riders
Inside the camping bus, I was lying there drowning in aches and fatigue when a radio crackled to life somewhere behind me.
Someone had turned it on. I lifted my head and looked over at the idiots sprawled across from me.
"Who turned that on?"
"Not me."
"Mmhhh... wasn't me either..."
"Some of us are trying to sleep here."
"Cena."
"There are actual beds, you know. Why'd you all pile in here?"
"It's cramped over there."
"Fine, then I'll drop you off in the desert. Go sleep with the vultures."
"Then I'd die."
Orton grumbled the words face-down into his bunk without so much as lifting his head.
Apart from Cena, already dead to the world, Russell was listening to the radio intently.
Once the Rumble ended, our travel routes had happened to line up, which was why I'd taken these three onto my bus. Honestly — what a bunch of characters.
The bed was large, but for four professional wrestlers it was infuriatingly cramped. Still, we'd managed to squeeze in together; the fold-out cot outside was definitely worse.
And truthfully, it didn't feel bad at all. All four of us had scrubbed ourselves clean, and the high of putting on a hell of a show in front of a hundred and fifty thousand fans still hadn't worn off. With these three idiots at my side, it felt like we could do anything. Pro wrestling isn't a one-man sport — so I accepted the arrangement without complaint.
Which meant a foot draped over sleeping Cena's stomach, and me pressed close enough to Russell to smell the soap on his skin.
I cracked a grin and asked, "So, how is it?"
"Listening."
"What do you think so far?"
"Same as always." Russell smiled over at me. "They're saying you killed it out there."
He wasn't wrong.
With the low hum of the bus engine underneath it, I focused a little, and the broadcast began to come through clearly.
Host A: "I think today goes down as an important day in WWF history."
Host B: "What do you mean?"
Host A: "The Final Four out there were, without question, the men who will become the WWF's future. And one of them might just be an Icon who defines an entire era."
A beat of silence fell over the bunk. I glanced sideways and met Russell's eyes. Into the awkward hush, Orton tossed in his two cents.
"Long as the paycheck keeps coming, who cares……."
Hard to believe that in his past life, this guy had once stood far above both me and Russell.
"Oof—!"
I "accidentally" drove a kick into Orton's ribs and turned my attention back to the broadcast.
Host A: "So who do you think it'll be?"
Host B: "Purely on skill? Sin. ...Though I do worry whether the company will simply sit back and allow it."
Host A: "I'll admit Sin's popularity took even me by surprise. Honestly, most of the people watching tonight were probably the same? They never imagined they'd genuinely end up liking the guy."
Host B: "Right. Truthfully, back when he debuted in GCW, nobody could have predicted he'd be runner-up in the King's Rumble in such a short span."
Host A: "But he did it."
Host B: "Word is his evaluation inside the company is excellent. Apparently Cena himself has been going to Sin for advice."
Host A: "Cena could stand to learn a thing or two, sure."
Host B: "Exactly. Honestly, today's winner — Cena's actual wrestling skills... let's not even go there. It just makes me sad."
Host A: "Still, there's no denying he's a star the company can push after Brock. Handsome, hardworking, strong as an ox. And on top of all that, a phenomenal talker."
Host B: "It reminds me of Captain Logan back in the day. Not that Logan couldn't wrestle — he just never bothered to."
Host A: "He'd come out, flex those muscles, wave the American flag, and the crowd would lose their minds. I'd have phoned in every match and collected my paycheck too, honestly."
Host B: "Cena's cut from the same cloth. He's simply a genius born of his era."
Host A: "By that logic, what does that make Sin?"
Host B: "Sin? Where's this coming from all of a sudden?"
Host A: "No reason. I was just wondering which wrestler Sin resembles most."
Host B: "Rockcold?"
Host A: "Seems like a shallow read to me. They're both revolutionaries, sure — but that's where the similarity ends."
Host B: "Then who's left?"
Host A: "...John Michaels?"
Host B: "As heels, the two of them do share a real gift for drawing heat."
Why is the conversation suddenly going there? I thought, dumbfounded.
The two reporters spent a good while bickering back and forth over which wrestler I most resembled. The names of the greats rolled out one after another, and listening to it, I couldn't help a bemused chuckle. The very fact that they were debating it at all meant I had already become someone who couldn't be pinned down as any single wrestler.
The reporters eventually reached much the same conclusion.
Host B: "...True, I suppose. But his character runs so deep and so consistent for a rookie that I must have been imagining the resemblance."
Well, they weren't wrong. Ring gear, entrance theme, move set and style, all the way down to the finisher — none of it was truly original. Anyone seeing me for the first time would inevitably think I resembled someone they already knew.
But that had been entirely deliberate. And as I peeled back the layers to reveal more and more of my own identity, I had carved out a place among them as something special.
A technique worth keeping in the back pocket.
Mix in the familiar so the audience accepts you at a glance, then gradually unveil your own individuality to build differentiation and character. The limits of my race were something I understood better than anyone. When I was constructing my gimmick and stacking the scripts that would carry me up the card, I had built this strategy around that exact problem from the very beginning.
Host A: "Anyway, tonight's Rumble was a genuine all-timer. Deep historical significance, and the detailed booking was masterful."
Host B: "Sin's playboy character was fun to watch, too. Beyond that, every single competitor in that match shone. A great bout."
Host A: "The share of female voices cheering for Sin has been climbing lately, hasn't it."
Host B: "That's the photoshoot, isn't it?"
Host A: "Either way, locking down a brand-new demographic is encouraging."
Host B: "You know what my favorite stretch was? The Final Four. Even Orton — the Orton — didn't look half bad out there. He looked damn good, actually."
"If I ever get released from this company, I'm shooting every last one of those bastards……."
Orton growled something distinctly sinister into his pillow.
Host A: "And the way Sin actually welcomed Bart at the end made it all the better. Considering who won the Rumble, it felt a little strange, I'll admit."
Host B: "Exactly. In that one moment, Sin stole the spotlight from Cena himself."
Host A: "Eliminating Greg and Casket-Taker, on top of everything else. For all intents and purposes, he was the star of tonight's show."
Host B: "Entered at number one and finished runner-up. A performance that almost made Cena's win feel a shade dimmed."
Host A: "No kidding. If it were me, when Bart came out I'd have centered the whole finish on Cena and—"
The radio cut off mid-sentence. I lifted my head to see what was going on, and there was Cena, thumb resting on the power switch.
When did he wake up?
"Cena?"
"There's something I want to say."
"What's got you looking so serious?" Orton cocked his head.
Cena's eyes were dead earnest.
"Some people might have plenty to say about what Sin did out there tonight. I'm the exact opposite."
"What do you mean?"
"I stand with Sin."
At Cena's abrupt declaration, I felt heat creep up my cheeks.
Yes — what I had done today was, by any measure, crossing a line. Breaking from the script and acting on your own was a pro wrestler's cardinal taboo.
Granted, Bart had crossed it first, and I could always defend myself with the claim that I'd only adjusted the details to cover for him. Which was exactly why nobody backstage had breathed a word about it when I returned. But everyone knew the truth all the same — that Bart's disrespect had provoked me, and I had made him eat it on purpose.
As for Bart himself, now that things had played out this way, he would no doubt claim his moral victory: I did it deliberately, to drag out Sin's real fire.
Either way — Cena knew exactly what I'd intended, and he was telling me it didn't matter.
"If something like this happens again down the road, and you slam into a wall you can't get past no matter what you do, I'm more than willing to be the sacrifice. That's all I wanted to say."
"You make it sound so grand, Cena." Russell snorted. "But that's the point, isn't it? That we can pay back what this guy's given us — as much as he's chosen to trust us."
Russell turned to Orton. "What about you?"
"...I just want to keep my job until retirement without getting fired. And keep getting raises. Big ones. Every year."
Ever the realist.
"Still — watching him fire back at Bart's garbage like that? Honestly? It felt pretty damn satisfying."
"God, you're all embarrassing."
I laughed at the sheer absurdity of it. But I felt it, clear as anything: these three would be on my side until the very last day of their careers.
Just like today. I had a feeling that if I could keep traveling the circuit and putting on shows with these idiots for years to come, it would be a hell of a lot of fun.
And with that, the King's Rumble came to an end.
A great pay-per-view accomplishes two things at once: it lifts the ratings, and it sends the company's merchandise sales soaring. By that measure, the numbers for the four men left standing in the Rumble's Final Four were nothing short of a jackpot.
And the hottest growth spurt of them all belonged, of course, to Russell.
The GCW superstar had finally arrived on Burning Kong, the flagship main show. Having pulled off a flawless debut, he was showered with attention almost overnight. True, Sin and I still commanded more of the spotlight — but we'd been stars from the start. Russell, as a rookie, had staged a breakout without precedent.
Afterward, with Cena staying behind on Rakedown, the three of us took to roaming the circuit in the camping bus together, and I got a front-row seat as the ad offers and restock-the-T-shirt calls poured into his phone in real time.
Dazed, he'd hang up, then toss me jokes that landed somewhere between funny and not.
"I just got offered a maple syrup commercial."
"...?"
"Kidding."
I noticed it from time to time — this guy's sense of humor operated on a frequency entirely its own.
Anyway, that was how things went. My merchandise, which had bobbed around the middle of the pack, shot straight up into the top tier. Orton's sluggish T-shirt sales climbed back to mid-tier, and Cena's numbers went without saying.
While the others basked in it, I was busy dissecting the cause. With Tiffany on the line.
Tiffany: "Orton's sales figures are actually the most noteworthy part of all this."
Me: "I think so too."
Tiffany: "He's not a rookie like Russell, and he never had a built-in fanbase like you or Cena, right?"
Tiffany: "And the only thing that spiked was his T-shirt sales. There has to be a reason behind that."
Over the line, Tiffany laid out her analysis piece by piece — and she had a point.
My sales, Cena's, and Russell's had risen evenly across the board — posters, signed memorabilia, alarm clocks stamped with our logos, toothbrushes, cups, you name it. But the only thing that had spiked for Orton was his T-shirts.
Why?
Me: "Orton's stuck in a feud with me right now, so his image isn't exactly shining."
Tiffany: "Meaning he hasn't managed to build himself into a heel with any real teeth or charisma?"
Me: "Right. The storyline he was running until recently was basically him seething over my success."
Tiffany: "Oh my. Now that you mention it, I quite enjoyed the King's Rumble."
Me: "...I thought business was business?"
Tiffany: "I do recall telling you to watch that tongue of yours."
Me: "That was their side of the—"
I felt a cold sweat break out. Tiffany went quiet for a moment, then finally giggled, letting me know it had all been a joke.
Tiffany: "So. Do you have a read on the cause?"
Me: "Roughly."
Tiffany: "And that is?"
Me: "But it needs verifying. At this stage it's nothing more than a hypothesis."
Tiffany: "How would you like to proceed?"
Me: "Could you line up a magazine interview, maybe? One featuring all four members of the Rumble's Final Four."
Tiffany: "I'll see what I can do."
Me: "The bigger the magazine, the better."
With that, the plan was in motion. What I wanted to confirm was whether people were already thinking of the four of us as a single, bundled entity.
Once upon a time, there had been a wrestling stable called the Four Riders.
A legendary group headed by Nick Flair — and its spiritual successor was Revolution. A heel unit that collected sports cars and luxury watches, strutted around in bespoke suits, and flaunted wealth and power at every turn. Banded together like that, the Four Riders dominated the shows and reeled in popularity by the truckload.
Up to that point, they were nothing more than a beloved stable of fond memory. What mattered came thirty years later.
The mid-to-late 2010s. Four women rose through the company as its most promising prospects — among them Nick Flair's own daughter, Ashley Flair. And so the fans began lumping the four of them together under one name: the Four Riders.
Even though the four had never once played up any friendship on-screen.
That image served all four careers for their entire runs — it was even worked into storylines in the end. An image generated entirely outside the script had wound up enriching the performers inside it.
And the four of us would probably be...
Exactly the same.
We had proven at the Rumble that we were the rising stars of this generation, and the feedback was already rolling in. Characters born outside the script, shaped by the overall state of the WWF itself: the rookies who had shoved aside veterans like Casket-Taker, Greg, Triple H, and JBL to inherit the company's future.
If I could put that to use...
It promised to be an enormous asset for everything our careers had left to come.