Reality Is the Fork and Knife of Dreams

In a way, the script and reality had become linked once again.

I would retire Greg.

Because I respected him. Because I truly thought of him as a friend.

Greg was the first legend in this life to recognize my talent. On top of that, he'd taken unpaid leave to come to GCW and help us find our footing on the climb up.

But no wrestler, not even a legend like Greg Hart, could outrun the toll of age. Sooner or later, a career always comes to an end.

That was simply the natural order of things.

Whether he could admit it or not, Greg's life as a wrestler was over. He was old. His hairline had retreated, the lines between his brows had deepened, and the weight had crept on. His stamina was gone; any match that ran long left him heaving for breath.

Of course, not every wrestler gets to walk away at the perfect moment. Far more than a few had missed their window, dragged their careers on, and ended up broken in body and spirit alike.

I didn't want to stand by and watch Greg's brilliant legacy get chipped away like that.

As the newsletter had said, a man of Greg's ironclad professionalism carrying on from here would be a contradiction in itself. Imagine climbing into the ring and lecturing the crowd about honor and integrity while squatting on the spot that should belong to the next generation, clinging to your own selfishness. The backlash would be merciless.

That would be a genuinely pathetic way to go.

And so Greg had to retire at this Wrestle Imperium and return to the arms of his family.

And I was going to help him do it.

That was the brotherhood of pro wrestling I had spoken of on the weekend show.

With my mind made up, the first person I went to see was Bart Maxen.

He was the only human being on earth with final say over everything that happened in this company. Which meant that outside of Greg himself, this man was the only one who could stop Greg's contract from being renewed.

Honestly, though, I never imagined Bart would reverse his decision.

He would no doubt spend this meeting spewing some revolting speech at me — about how delightful it was to buy people with money.

Late that night, the moment we were seated across from each ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠other in his office, Bart spoke first.

"Displeased about losing the belt, are we?"

"No, sir."

"Then what proposal are you dragging in here today?"

"I was curious about the terms of Greg's contract renewal. Would you care to share them?"

"No."

Bart smiled thinly, wearing the look of a man who'd just landed a clean blow. Triumphant — he'd found the perfect excuse to take the belt off me, using Greg as the lever.

Strangely enough, Bart seemed to regard our relationship as a kind of duel, and so he never actually unleashed the full extent of his power. He left me a measure of creative freedom, and that, in its own way, worked in my favor.

He went on. "Sorry, but I don't disclose that sort of thing to people who aren't a party to the contract. Isn't that only reasonable?"

"Fair enough."

"I understand you're sour about being stripped of the title. But if Greg is renewing, he goes back into the title picture. Simple as that."

"If that's the plan, shouldn't he be competing in the main event scene instead?"

"Hmm. Stay active long enough, and that could well happen."

"Could it, now."

I gave a bitter laugh. "You really think Greg can survive that kind of schedule?"

A champion's calendar was far more brutal than an ordinary wrestler's.

"I do. Where there's a will, there's a way."

"I ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠can see it now — him drowning in painkillers and worse, his body falling apart."

"That's Greg's burden to bear."

"……Do you actually love pro wrestling?"

"Of course. Why else would I keep paying the man ten million dollars a year?"

"If you truly loved pro wrestling, you'd let him go."

This was the disease of a man who saw wrestlers as interchangeable parts. He delighted in watching them step out and spin magnificent stories for his shows — and the instant the story ended, he lost all interest. Simply put: he cared about SIN, the god, but had no use for Kim Junho, the man.

Break a part? Just throw it away.

"You've got some misunderstanding there."

Bart's smile widened. "Let me ask you something. Say the doctors tell you tomorrow that a neck injury means you can never wrestle again. Would you retire?"

"……"

"No, you wouldn't. Your lover could weep and beg and it wouldn't matter — you'd climb into that ring anyway. Because you're addicted to it."

The roar of the crowd. The sight of a hundred thousand people losing their minds over what you do.

"You see retired celebrities falling into drugs now and then, don't you? Why do you think that is? Because an ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠arena of a hundred and fifty thousand cheering your name is a bigger high than anything you can smoke."

"Well, well. First coherent thing you've said all night."

"You'll never give that up. That's why you'll die in a ring somewhere, fighting long after you should have walked away."

"Maybe I will."

"And yet you're the one telling Greg to retire? Greg is a man. And a man lives on his dreams."

On and on he went, a speech of impressive length. I simply stood there and let him talk, my mouth shut. Go ahead, old man. Run that mouth.

"The cruel one here is actually you. All I'm doing is keeping a place open where Greg can keep chasing his dream."

"……You're not wrong that a man lives on his dreams. I've got my own childish dream, after all."

The Icon of an era. The main eventer of Wrestle Imperium. The WWF World Champion. Ever since I regressed, I had been chasing exactly such fictions.

But thanks to a fact Bart knew nothing about, I was more than equipped to answer that nonsense properly.

"When you eat your dreams, do you know what utensils you use?"

"Now you're being poetic."

You started it.

"Reality. Without the fork and knife called reality, you can't eat a dream at all."

"And if you eat with your hands?"

"If this were India, who knows. Do it in America and they'll call you a savage, same difference."

There were, admittedly, people willing to chase their dreams even like that — bare-handed, bleeding. I was one of them.

But let me be perfectly clear about one thing.

This wasn't about me. This was about Greg. Which was exactly why I intended to convince him.

"Time to come back to your senses, sir. To your family. To your fiancée—"

"If Tiffany told you to retire, would you do it?"

"I'm sorry?"

"Pure curiosity, that's all. Call it a father's question."

"A father's question, maybe. But not an appropriate one."

He knew nothing about Tiffany.

"She's not that kind of woman."

I answered flatly, cut the conversation off there, and rose from my seat. Nauseous with disgust, I offered a curt goodbye and walked out of the office.

Chewing over Bart's smug, self-satisfied face one more time, I sank into thought.

That's it, then. Let's play.

There was nothing to hesitate over anymore. I knew Bart had gripped Greg with his gutter-rat mentality — and I knew he thought he'd gotten one over on me with it.

He was dead wrong.

Greg had lost all objective sight right now, yes. But there were people whose whole purpose was to hand it back to him.

His family.

I slipped out of the arena and headed straight for the camper bus, where I sat down with the member of Greg's 'family' who had been waiting for me.

Russell, of course. The moment he laid eyes on me, he shot up out of his seat as if he'd been waiting all night.

"How'd it go?"

"Had myself a bit of a fight."

"……You're unbelievable, you know that?"

"Oh?"

"Bart's our boss, no matter how you slice it. And you just say whatever you want to his face."

"It's nothing special."

I smiled bitterly. More than exercising the authority of a corporate boss, Bart needed to win — every single exchange. Which meant that as long as I steered the fight in the right direction, there was nothing he could do to me.

Could an Asian really carry the championship? Bart had made it plain that he believed I couldn't, and so he needed to beat me at every turn. Firing me was something he couldn't even dream of.

Because that would mean he'd lost.

This whole affair ran on the same logic. Looked at one way, Bart and I had just gone head-to-head over Greg's future.

And I was about ready to put my plan into motion.

"How about on your end?"

"Told them everything. Naturally, everybody blew up — screaming at him to come home right now."

"What did Greg say?"

"Glared at me and said, 'I thought you'd be the one to understand me.'"

"Did he, now."

"Absolutely not happening."

Russell's brow furrowed. "If we leave him alone, Uncle will burn everything he has just to fight you. Ready to throw away everything he's built. ……I can't just stand by and watch that happen."

Russell felt exactly as I did.

"It'll be fine. Once Greg talks it through with his family, he'll remember he has somewhere to come back to. I'm sure of it."

I knew, because I'd been there myself.

In my past life, it was only after I'd finished a twenty-year WWF career that I realized how late I was. While I'd barely spared my parents a phone call, their illness had deepened past the point of return, and they passed without recovery. And at the funeral, I understood that the place I could go back to had vanished from the world for good.

Even now, the memory was bad enough to make me dizzy. That was how much family meant — in a way, it was the most universal form of reality there was, the thing that kept a dream from floating away entirely.

And Greg had a wife. Two little kids, cute as bunnies.

He'd figure it out. He had to.

Since both of them had to be back in time for the week-four taping of Burning Kong, Greg and Russell headed straight for Canada.

Meanwhile, I worked through my other commitments and waited for good news from the Hart family.

The film set. Today we were shooting the scene where Jigsaw appears on screen.

I'd changed into costume in the dressing room, everything laid out by James Kwan, and was stepping out when I noticed the screen of my phone on the vanity lighting up.

An incoming call. I walked over and checked — and saw, to my surprise, who was calling.

Greg?

I picked up, puzzled, and a deeply somber voice came through the line.

"Yes, Greg. It's me."

I checked the time. There was still a while before the shoot.

"I think so. What's going on?"

So things had gone well. Smiling, I decided to throw the man's pride a small lifeline.

"Don't be. If anything, I'm sorry I came at you so hard. That was always something we should have worked out by talking to each other."

"It's a sad thing, but I'm glad."

"I'm sorry?"

How did the conversation end up there?

"Who is it?"

"……"

I had a pretty good idea who he meant. Facing Greg's silence, I spoke carefully.

"John Michaels."

Greg let out a long, heavy sigh.

The two of them had been as close as senpai and kohai once, early in their careers. From what I'd heard, Greg — the senior man — had spotted the raw talent in the newly signed Michaels, mentored him, and the two had grown close. They'd both been undersized wrestlers back then, and that shared slight had bonded them all the tighter.

But as they each found their footing, the friendship slowly curdled into rivalry. John Michaels, who ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠built everything on flash and spectacle — and Greg Hart, who revered the classical craft. The war between them ended in Michaels's victory. And yet he never became the man of his era. A career-wrecking back injury saw to that; after dropping the title to Rockcold, he left the business quietly.

While I was turning all this over, Greg spoke again, as if he'd finally finished settling some great decision within himself.

"……To Canada?"

"Do you think he'll actually come?"

Had they really hated each other enough to deserve words that harsh?

"Understood. I'll be there."

The call ended with a click.

I stood there for a long moment, staring down at the dead phone.

So that's how it's going to be.

In my past life, John Michaels had returned to the company almost immediately after Greg Hart's retirement and wrestled for another decade. Which meant the two of them probably never made peace, not for the rest of their days. Without the change of heart Greg was showing now, they never even found common ground again.

And here I am — the one who brings two legends together, the men who held up an era when the company was at its lowest.

God, that felt good.

Besides, I'd been a Michaels fan in my own right.

I couldn't wait to meet the man in this life.