The Talk Show Gambit
Tiffany went one step further. She'd even landed us an appearance on a TV show, paving the way for me to push forward toward my big goal for next year. NBG, America's public broadcasting network. The weekend show that aired there. Sin, Cena, Russell, and Orton — the four of us had been invited on as the stars of a special pro wrestling feature. Jimmy Falcon, the host, had come to find us a few hours before filming to talk things over. "Sin! And Cena, Russell, Orton." There was no denying that my name carried more weight outside the ring than the other three, who'd done nothing but wrestle their whole careers. Ever since that society party, the weekly tabloids had been tracking my every move. But I'd turned down most of the appearance offers and interviews, waiting for my stock to rise. It was a deliberate hold-out — a way of making people all the more curious about who I was. So it was almost natural that we'd get the call for something as mainstream as the Weekend Show. 'They're using me as bait to sell the other guys along with me. Classic strategy.' And it had worked beautifully. The problem was how this Weekend Show chose to treat the four of us. The attitude Jimmy had shown when he greeted us earlier gave it away. So did the questions. On shows like this, beyond the broadcast script, the producers came armed with a massive list of questions for the guests. Anything the host didn't like got filtered out, and the rest he'd ask off the cuff as the show went along. I'd gotten far more questions than the other three, and they ran roughly along these lines. I read through them, roughly deciding on my answers in my head. The secret to that handsome face? 'Genetics.' How do you stay in shape? 'Drink beer and stay up late.' That was a joke, of course. After that, something along the lines of 'shock and agony' would go over well. When was your first time? 'Delete that one.' What kind of woman do you find attractive? 'A blonde. Big eyes, big smile, bright and innocent.' I smiled as I pictured her. Your thoughts on being credited with shattering prejudices against Asian men? 'That one's...' I paused. What would be the right answer? No — should I even answer it at all? Prejudice against Asian men certainly existed. But whether I'd actually shattered it yet, I couldn't say. I crossed out the questions below it too — the ones that probed as if I were the second coming of Martin Luther King. I wasn't an Asian civil rights activist. I was just a man clawing and fighting his way up for his own sake. Of course, if anyone drew courage from watching me, that would be an honor. But that aside, I didn't consider myself part of that company. So I deleted them all. As I worked through the questions under the pro wrestling section, I confirmed that the green room held only the four of us. "Everyone, gather round." At my words, the three men who'd been reviewing their own question lists came over. We sat in a circle and slowly began our little conspiracy(?). "I want to focus the show on our story today." "...I knew there was an agenda here." Russell narrowed his eyes. "Otherwise there's no way you'd have dragged us somewhere like this." "Hey, I do genuinely want our name value as a four-man rookie class to go up. That part's true." With a wry smile at Russell's words, I laid out the situation. "But honestly? The only one they're interested in right now is me." "Looking at the sheer volume of questions, I'd say that's obvious." Orton chuckled sourly too. Unlike the others, my question sheet ran to nearly ten pages. From that, I understood something with total clarity. "So if we want what we want, we're going to have to get clever." "How?" "You mean talking about where the four of us stand in the WWF?" "Close enough. The question is how. It's a talk show, which means they'll be the ones asking the questions." When Jimmy Falcon asks me something, I take that package and quietly pass it sideways. "We met at GCW and all that — you know the gist. We steer things so people see us as friends and equals." "Which we actually are." "The key point is that we're letting the public in on it." "Uh, but that's not me." "Huh?" "Not me." Oh. Right. Orton had debuted straight into the main show. "...Then squeeze out some sob story or other. Like, you got the runs on tryout day and got cut on the spot." "What kind of idiot would that make me?" He's right here, this idiot. "What does a story like that have to do with how people see us?" "Listen carefully, Orton." I said it with full gravity. "People are obsessed with storytelling. Right now, they see us as the four men who'll become the future of the WWF." "So?" "So we cement that image. It'll pay off big down the line." "Ah — that's why you're not keeping kayfabe on the show today." Cena nodded. "Exactly right. Tonight we're not appearing as scripted characters. We're showing up as real pro wrestlers who happen to go by stage names." "That... actually sounds pretty appealing." "What are you talking about?" When Orton tilted his head, Russell explained. "The idea is to carry over exactly the image people already have of us." "How is that breaking kayfabe at all?" "Because if we use those images as-is, they clash with our character setups." "Then wouldn't it be better to just leave them out? They don't really have anything to do with our story..." "Here's an example." I gave them one. The Casket-Taker had pushed the gimmick of 'a mortician who came back from death' from the earliest days of his career to now. Still does. Even running the biker gimmick these days, Taker kept the persona of 'a man who died once and rose again' fully intact. A cartoonish gimmick straight out of the eighties. "But nobody actually believes Taker is like that, right?" "True enough." "People remember the Casket-Taker as 'a devoted legend who's been with the company so long he can still carry a gimmick from that distant, murky era.'" That was his character. Which meant the Casket-Taker had one inherent flaw: no matter what he did, he could never draw boos. "Unless, say, he took a child hostage on live TV and demanded they bring him adult diapers." "..." "Sin, where in God's name do you come up with this stuff?" "What, I'm just saying—" "You just turned the Casket-Taker into a whiny, diaper-obsessed hostage-taker in one second." Russell clicked his tongue. "A-anyway, that's the point. This whole 'rookies of the future' angle will naturally make people project huge expectations onto the four of us." From then on, whatever storyline we ran, people would see us as the future of the WWF. And if they did, the company would book us accordingly. "That's a genuinely brilliant idea." Cena smiled. In the end, this 'rookie' element was a protective shield — one that would guard our standing in the company.
Jimmy Falcon had been hosting the Weekend Show for over a decade. But this, frankly, was a first for him. "Me and Russell were super close back in the GCW days, right?" "To be precise, Sin was a wrestler's wrestler. Less than three months after joining, he'd become the guy every other wrestler wanted to be." "You're overselling it again." "No, really. Honestly, your skill makes me jealous." "You guys aren't so bad yourselves." "Cena definitely wasn't." "Can't help that. I was clearly the one who should've been learning." It wasn't actually the first time Jimmy had invited pro wrestlers onto the show. A few years earlier, he'd filmed with Rockcold Stevie Steen, back when he was rising fast as a WWF Icon. The atmosphere had been warm and convivial. But on one subject and one subject only, Rockcold had gone silent — so cold it was as if his name had come to life in the room. The way pro wrestling worked. The things that happened behind the curtain. He refused to answer a single question about it. How the scripts got made. How things actually proceeded during a show. The four men before him now were the same. But they walked a cunning tightrope right along that boundary line. The reason wasn't hard for Jimmy to figure out. They were cleverly broadcasting their relationships to the audience. A show broadcast live. Jimmy held his silence until the viewers would almost find it strange. Because their stories alone were fascinating enough. Four handsome pro wrestlers, the bonds they'd forged while plying their strange trade, and the explanations behind them. There were certainly embellished anecdotes along the way. 'But seriously — you stapled a thumbtack into your own hand as a demonstration?' Still, it was plenty dramatic. Though the idea of, say, actually punching your own company chairman felt like pure fantasy. No — seriously, how could there ever be a case where a contracted wrestler threw a punch just because the company owner told him to? Jimmy was a quick judge of situations. That was the secret to keeping him anchored to the Weekend Show for ten years. And so, ignoring the question sheet in his hand, he carried on. "Shall we move to the next question?" "Please do." "I've heard there's a tight brotherhood among pro wrestlers." "I suppose you could say that." "Would it be fair to say your friendship here is something especially special?" "We're the kind of friends who want to kill each other." Sin smiled. A few female audience members flushed at the sight of that charming face. Talking to him, it became obvious. This was a man who knew exactly how to make himself look good. Seated at the center of the wrestlers, he radiated an aura entirely his own. Where the others still carried that raw greenness unique to athletes, Sin was quite the opposite. He performed like a seasoned Hollywood actor, polished by years in the crucible. Jimmy, of course, had no way of knowing that this mature charm was born from the great failure of a past life — and so he simply couldn't understand how a man could possibly be like that. That was why, on a personal level, he found himself drawn to this man named Sin. "We always make time to talk together. Sometimes we consult the veterans too." "Like the Casket-Taker?" "Yes. He's the leader of the locker room — the spiritual pillar for all of us." Sin spoke with effortless fluency. All while carrying himself as if being at the center of the conversation were the most natural thing in the world. Jimmy felt something strange stir in him. Granted, the Weekend Show had featured guests of every race and gender. 'The comedian Ken Cho, for one.' Or assorted businessmen, or Akira Shirosawa, the film director from Japan. But among all those Asian guests, never once a sports star. Pro wrestling above all. With no clear, objective measure of skill, the business had no choice but to stay rigid. The prevailing expert prediction was that as globalization advanced, the industry would either decline or be forced into sweeping change. But for some reason, Jimmy couldn't shake the feeling that the prediction was about to be proven wrong. It was because of the man in front of him. Was it just his imagination, or did it feel like this man might lead some paradigm shift on a scale no one had seen? And what if he was the one to shatter the prejudice against Asians that every American carried somewhere in their heart? A prejudice, moreover, that Asians themselves held. And so, thanks to Sin's gift for talk and the other wrestlers playing their parts, the show wrapped up without a hitch. It had drifted far from the original plan — yet as filming ended, Jimmy Falcon felt a strange, deep satisfaction. So he rose from his seat and offered his thanks first to the wrestlers who had made the show such a pleasure. "Thank you. All of you." "No, thank you." "And I owe you an apology. Frankly, my intention was to use Sin as the ratings hook." He shook hands with the wrestlers, being honest in a way he rarely allowed himself. "It turned out this was the better show. Genuinely fascinating television. And I'd bet the ratings will be through the roof." "Then I'm glad." Sin smiled, effortlessly charming. Standing before him, Jimmy felt a surge of curiosity and let a question slip out. "You know, Sin — may I ask you just one more thing?" "Of course." "Was there any particular reason you chose pro wrestling as your profession?" "Because it's fun." Sin answered without a moment's hesitation. And in that instant, Jimmy understood. Many pro wrestlers had a strong urge to escape this brutal, body-breaking business as fast as they could. Chase Hollywood, where wealth and fame were lavishly guaranteed. Or move into MMA, where they'd fight under strict management and protection. At most, pro wrestling was treated as a stepping stone toward fame elsewhere. But the man before him was different. If anything, it felt like the reverse — as if Sin were chasing outside fame for the sake of pro wrestling itself.