The Script and the Hitman's Decision
After the King's Rumble wrapped up in late January, some ten major rivalries were running in parallel on Burning Kong.
Silverback versus Kane, in a feud over the World Championship.
Sin versus Greg Hart, contesting the Intercontinental Championship.
Revolution versus the Hardy Boyz, over the Tag Team Championships.
Russell Hart against Lance Orton.
Beyond those, countless other performers spent the season building their stories toward the pay-per-view — stacking them brick by brick, patiently, toward Cold Blood at the end of February.
But just as the wrestlers' standings weren't all equal, neither was every rivalry guaranteed airtime on the broadcast itself. The lower-priority feuds ran on a biweekly schedule, or were relegated to dark matches that never made television.
The writing staff spent every week shaping the show alongside Bart Maxen, the chairman himself, hashing out its structure with him. This feud is getting great reactions, let's give it more space — or, That one's a stinker, let's pivot the direction and try to get it over — conversations like that, week after week.
And a year ago, that job had been easy. You simply suggested pushing whichever wrestler the boss happened to like, planned some flashy production to go with him, and called it a day. Sprinkle in a bit of the slapstick comedy that had been feeling stale lately, and frankly, that was icing on the cake.
Not anymore.
In the year since Sin's debut, the head writer's hairline had receded a full five centimeters. Like thinning hair, the stress he'd been carrying was substantial.
It was all Sin's influence.
Before that kid came along, you could throw together any scenario that suited Bart's tastes and end up with something perfectly serviceable. Bart himself wasn't without an eye for this stuff — he'd sign off on a decent-enough show without much fuss. So the head writer had simply churned out safe, unremarkable scripts and collected his paycheck.
Sin had changed all of that.
Which made things uncomfortable.
"For the main event, we're planning to run Silverback and Kane into each other."
"Not bad. Walk me through exactly how it plays out."
"Silverback calls out anyone in the back who wants a fight, and then—"
"What if we bring Maino out? Spear versus Gore. Silverback wins clean in one move."
"Ah, yep. Sure."
And so the script was rewritten.
The original plan had been for Batista to make his entrance here, put up a valiant fight, and earn Silverback's respect. Then, as Silverback made his exit, Kane would appear out of nowhere and demolish Batista, enraging the champion.
Instead, it had mutated into yet another pointless attempt to elevate Silverback that would land with no one.
That was how it went, these days. Bart kept trying to make every story easier than it needed to be — simpler than even his own instincts suggested — and lately the head writer had started to feel the weight of it.
Once again, the reason was Sin's behavior.
The kid threw everything he had into steering the script, and the result was always something spectacular. At the King's Rumble he'd eliminated Greg Hart, ignited their rivalry, and in the blink of an eye conjured up a genuinely beautiful drama from nothing.
The legend versus the challenger.
Except the current champion was Sin.
The truth was, Greg hadn't had a proper, meaty rivalry in his twilight years. The peerless technician was no longer what Bart thought of as 'the guy' — the name that moved the needle.
But Greg had always been beloved by the fans, and the head writer genuinely regretted not being able to use him the way he deserved. That regret came second to a more urgent desire — keeping the chairman happy and stretching out his employment at this company for as long as possible — so he wiped it from his mind as quickly as it arrived.
Still, a writer was a writer.
Watching Sin spin his gorgeous drama week after week, the man couldn't help tumbling into a spiral of thoughts. God, I wish I could do that.
There was no question that the right call was to spotlight Sin's rivalry instead of this dead-on-arrival Silverback–Kain garbage. And so Sin, ever since his arrival on the main show, kept demonstrating exactly that — flaunting his ability at every turn, tormenting the head writer without even trying.
And with each passing day, the man's hair kept falling out.
The script meeting ground onward. Bart, reading down the page before him, reached the Intercontinental Championship segment positioned in the back half of the show and turned to his writers.
"This feud. We ought to steer it in a direction that plays up the American, right?"
"You mean... Sin?"
Greg Hart was a professional wrestler from Canada. So what Bart was getting at was, presumably—
"No, no. I mean someone who looks American, on sight."
"..."
"Let's hand the title over to Greg this time. That's what the people will enjoy more anyway."
"Um... Mr. Chairman?"
"Yes?"
"If you're set on doing that, wouldn't Russell — the kid who just got called up to the main show — be a better choice than Greg? He's tremendously talented."
"No, see, Greg's decided to rescind his retirement."
"I'm sorry — what?"
The head writer's eyes went round as saucers.
Greg Hart was supposed to hang it up at this year's Wrestle Imperium. That was the arrangement, wasn't it? The situation was very hard to accept. The company's hottest star was being ordered to lose the title in a booking that handed it to Greg. And it certainly wasn't as though Sin, stripped of the belt, would be shifted into the World Championship picture to compensate.
Repulsive.
What Bart said next left the entire room stunned.
"Until the ink's dry on his new contract, we'll need to keep him in the middle of the card, won't we."
"Boss..."
"Of course, even after that, Greg will still be competing on the main event scene."
That was an obvious lie. It read as nothing more than insurance — a story stashed away in case this conversation ever leaked back to Greg. If that was true, then why on earth would you lock up a wrestler you had no intention of using?
Especially when Greg Hart's salary was main-eventer grade — ten million dollars, light.
The real reason, in fact, was simple. Bart Maxen spent that kind of money for one purpose: his own satisfaction. He could shelve Greg indefinitely, and then, whenever he found some fresh young talent he felt like pushing, dust him off and insert him into a rivalry.
The Canadian villain versus the American hero.
It was the same psychology as a boy collecting action figures. Bart Maxen simply did it with real money, in the real world — a man who built his own puppet theater and staged it for the masses.
The head writer let out a small sigh and slowly jotted Bart's feedback down in the notebook beside him.
Sin... loses.
In a script this bizarre, there was only one thing left to believe in: that Greg Hart himself would refuse the championship-coronation booking. And the head writer was fairly confident that Greg — a man with his head screwed on straight — would do exactly that.
Yes. Surely he would.
The locker room was quiet.
Greg Hart heard the head writer out, then raised an eyebrow.
"Champion?"
"Yes, Greg. That's Bart's directive, for now at least."
"Then that's what we'll do."
"Excuse me?"
"I'll take it."
Greg answered easily, as if it were nothing. The head writer, blindsided, couldn't find his voice for a moment. He'd been so certain Greg would refuse. The Greg he knew was exactly that kind of man.
The peerless technician. A man of consummate professionalism, on good terms with everyone in the back — so honest in his convictions that his straight talk had, at times, won him more enemies than friends.
And that Greg—
"It's been a long time since I held a championship."
— was accepting this booking? It made no sense.
Sin, Russell Hart, Shawn Cena, Lance Orton — those were the future of the company, the talents to be nurtured and protected. The three of them, minus Cena, could carry a rivalry built around the Intercontinental Championship for over a year on its own.
"Is something the matter?"
"Ah — no, sir."
Greg was watching him with a puzzled look, so the head writer mumbled something evasive and left. But he still couldn't wrap his mind around what had just happened. Why, of all people, Greg?
He was deep in the throes of that question when he heard it — a familiar voice drifting from the far end of the corridor. "Yes, yes, understood..." He turned, and thought to himself that the timing couldn't have been better.
It was Sin.
Watching him mid-phone-call, the head writer found himself drifting closer like a man in a trance.
"...Then let's do it that way. Yes, I'll arrive on set without fail."
Recognizing the head writer, Sin promptly hung up. The conversation was finished anyway — and his expression had turned somewhere between cold and distant.
So this is what's going on after I wrapped up business at WWF headquarters. What the hell is this about?
He deliberated for a moment, then went ahead and shook hands with the head writer, who was gazing up at him as though he were some kind of savior.
"Sin. Thank you. Truly, you're a godsend."
"Something happen?"
"Well... it's, um. Let's move somewhere we can talk."
The head writer glanced around, then steered him toward an empty locker room.
Something's gone wrong with the booking, hasn't it.
And something very serious, by the look of it.
Having reached that conclusion, Sin listened as the head writer laid out everything that had happened — the meeting with Bart, the finalized script, Greg's response. The man watched Sin take it all in with complete seriousness.
Unexpectedly, even after learning he'd be losing the Intercontinental Championship, Sin showed no negative reaction whatsoever. Why, though? The moment that question formed, Sin spoke.
"Well, the belt's something I can always win back."
"Is... is that so?"
"Yes. If the story around it is one I'm satisfied with, there's nothing particularly strange about dropping a title."
Sin flashed a small smile.
"But judging by your face, this particular script doesn't have that going for it, does it."
A devilishly sharp catch. The head writer froze.
"Greg re-signed his contract recently, didn't he — and that's why Bart decided to put the belt on him for a little while?"
"I... no, wait. I never got as far as explaining that."
The head writer's face went white, as if he'd seen a ghost. Sin gave a wry grin and continued.
"The re-signing part, I heard straight from Greg himself."
"And you deduced Bart's reason for handing over the belt from that? That alone would be impressive."
"Well, you pick these things up once you've been in the business a while. Everyone does, eventually."
"You're only in your second year!"
The man had the insight of someone who'd spent two decades in the WWF.
"...Don't tell me you also know why Greg agreed to it?"
"I've got a rough idea. I even have my own reasoning behind it."
"Wh — what is it?"
By now the head writer had fully transformed into Watson at Holmes's side — seated, leaning in, hanging on Sin's every word.
"Do you remember what Greg's match was like at the King's Rumble?"
"He faced Batista, didn't he?"
"And he lost that match, right?"
"How did you—"
"And then he had a scuffle with Flair, I'd imagine?"
"No, hold on, what—"
He was answering everything, spot on. Sin laid the information out from memory, then let out a sigh.
"That old man has a monstrous ego when it comes to the technical side of things."
"Ego?"
"Stubbornness. His sense of self is so overpowering that it creates friction — dissonance. That's why he ends up clashing with people."
"Well... that, I can believe."
The head writer was convinced. He'd heard the rumors and gone to verify them in person, and back then Nick Flair had said it plainly, in no uncertain terms: "That son of a bitch thinks he's the best there is — then, now, always! I thought maybe he'd grown up a little, but he hasn't changed one damn bit! Absolute son of a bitch!"
"...So then — Greg agreeing so readily to take the title this time — it's an extension of the King's Rumble incident?"
"That match was carried one-sidedly. That's not how Greg usually works a bout at all."
"Now that you mention it — no, Greg was never the kind of wrestler to book a match just to make himself shine."
"But for some reason, the hunger showed up. So he re-signed and decided to keep wrestling."
"What do we do about it?"
"Well... first we find out why Greg suddenly changed like that. Though I hear men's bodies produce more estrogen as they age — maybe he's just gotten more in touch with his feelings."
"..."
"Either way, I'd say this is something we watch slowly, over time."
Sin said it with an easy grin, then rested a hand on the head writer's shoulder and offered him a few words of comfort.
"You've been working hard. Leave the rest to me."
Never in his life had the head writer imagined he'd be receiving emotional support from Sin — a man barely two years into the business.