Clash of Eras
[Boooooooooooooo!!]
It was a wall of pure, unfiltered booing.
The two commentators broadcasting Burning Kong found themselves struck speechless for a moment. In all their decades in the business, they had never experienced anything like this — not just their own loss for words, but the sight of Greg Hart being buried under such a thunderous wave of jeers. Every last bit of it was a first for them.
And then, strangely enough, the moment a man appeared at the top of the entrance ramp, the booing cut off as if someone had flipped a switch.
"Ahh — it appears that is not Greg Hart."
"Then there's only one man it could be!"
Even as they spoke, chills ran down their spines. On a WWF broadcast, nothing mattered more than the crowd's reaction. Drawing the response you wanted — and drawing it loud — was the yardstick that separated good writing and good performers from great ones.
"It's Sin!"
The wheelchair began to move. The boos stopped dead, and in their place the audience fixed their curious eyes on the man sitting in it — on Sin, made up in a ludicrous mashup of Greg and John.
The commentators did their best to explain the spectacle to the viewers.
"What on earth is that?!"
"It seems Sin intends to mock Greg! Haha! What an absolutely hilarious getup!"
The crew member behind him pushed the wheelchair a few steps forward, then promptly toppled over in an exaggerated stumble. Sent rolling ahead, the wheelchair trundled slowly down the sloped ramp. A few fans screamed out in alarm — "Whoa?!" — but the man in the wheelchair didn't so much as flinch.
When the chair finally reached the bottom of the ramp, it tipped over and spilled onto the floor. Sin sprawled out like a corpse, limbs splayed in grotesque fashion, and the commentators could hardly contain their admiration. What tremendous acting.
The script portrayed Greg Hart as nothing more than a senile old fool, and the crowd, fully buying in, burst into laughter.
"Sin is turning Greg into a complete buffoon! If the plan is to get under his skin, it's working like a charm!"
"BWAHAHAHA! Look at that! He tried to push himself up by the small of his back and fell right over again! Incredible, just incredible!"
"When it comes to ridiculing somebody, there isn't a performer alive who can touch Sin!"
They were genuinely laughing out loud at what they were watching. Pushing himself up by his aching back, Sin staggered toward the ring, tried to step over the ropes, caught his leg, and went tumbling across the canvas in a graceless roll — coming to rest flat on his back right in front of the ring announcer, Lily Garcia.
Craning his head for a peek up her skirt. The cheapest, ugliest gag imaginable.
Lily, in her skirt, giggled at his antics and then settled herself down gently right on top of his face. Sin flailed his arms and legs, apparently suffocating, and the crowd laughed until they could barely breathe.
By the time Lily stood back up, Sin's face was smeared in an enormous bloodstain. Overstimulated, he clutched at his chest in apparent agony — then gave a little sqwk and died (on stage, anyway).
"BWAHAHAHAHA! A friend of mine had an uncle who went just like that — heart attack, right in the middle of it all!"
"Ahh, I can already picture the look on Greg's face watching this!"
The camera panned across the crowd as they howled with laughter — a few of them laughing so hard they actually lost their balance and toppled sideways in their seats.
Then the dead man wiped the blood from his face and sprang to his feet. And the instant those eyes went dead serious, the entire atmosphere in the arena flipped on its head.
"Sin appears to have something to say — to the audience... no, to Greg."
"Every soul in this arena is hanging on his next word. What a truly remarkable performer!"
"He's certainly sharpening his fighting spirit! You can feel the audacity of youth!"
"And look at Lily's eyes! No matter how grotesque the getup, she's gazing at Sin like he's dessert!"
[Sorry for the misunderstanding, Oakland. I look remarkably similar, but I am not Greg Hart.]
The crowd erupted into laughter all over again at the deadpan delivery.
[But then again, am I really so different? A pathetic old man, rotting with age, drooling over his own desires.]
[SIN! SIN! SIN! SIN! SIN! SIN! SIN! SIN! SIN! SIN! SIN!]
[No doubt about it — they were magnificent. But that was then. Now? Michaels' cowboy hat has a hole punched clean through it, and Greg Hart's jacket looks like this.]"
He held up the torn fabric, piece by piece, explaining the meaning behind each item of clothing, and the crowd fell into his palm completely.
[How's that feel, Greg? Enraged? You should be. Because the rookie you dismissed back in the GCW days was the real deal all along — the man who's going to retire you.]
He threw down the gauntlet.
[Want to say I'm wrong? Then come out here! Come out and fight me! I'm begging you!!]
Right on cue, as if he'd been waiting for exactly that moment, Greg Hart's music hit again.
This time, the real thing walked out.
Greg Hart and John Michaels. Seeing them with their own eyes, the crowd finally felt free to let the boos fly at full volume.
[Booooooooooooo!!]
Greg grabbed a microphone at the top of the ramp and tried to speak over it. But the jeers wouldn't die down — and it was Sin who cut in with impeccable timing to bail him out.
It was Sin's first line that finally bulldozed through the wall of noise.
[How do I look to you, Greg?]
[Losing on merit, then mocking the man who beat you — is that your specialty?]
The boos came crashing down again.
[I'm not that kind of man. And neither is anyone here—]
[Fight Again! Fight Again! Fight Again! Fight Again!]
It was a beautiful picture.
The commentators, completely swept up in the story the performers were weaving, drank in every detail of the scene inside the arena. The entire crowd had become one voice, one heartbeat, chanting in unison — standing behind Sin, demanding that Greg fight him one more time.
Stunned, Greg pulled the microphone away from his lips and looked out over the sea of people. This time Sin deliberately did not cut in, letting the man carry his own mic work. Which could only mean one thing: every beat of this was playing out exactly as they intended.
The commentators, and everyone watching from Gorilla Position, could hardly decide between awe and disbelief. Among them, one and only one man was trembling — Bart Maxen, shaking with fury.
After the ring segment ended, the camera found Greg Hart backstage. He slammed his fist into a steel locker, then, unable to contain his rage, went on a rampage through the locker room itself.
Most of the audience watched his outburst with wide, startled eyes.
Meanwhile, I had made my way to a spot with a clear view of the stands during the commercial break, and what I saw confirmed the reaction I'd counted on. During the ring segment just now, Greg had been flustered, sure — but he'd maintained his poise right to the end. This sudden explosion was something else entirely.
Of course he's shocked.
Everything was unfolding exactly as planned.
At that very moment, Michaels grabbed the rampaging Greg from behind.
[Greg, that's enough.]
[That little punk, what he just did to us—!]
[I know. I know.]
Only then did the crowd's jeers erupt in earnest. Greg exhaled a long breath and sank onto the bench. Michaels stood beside him, quietly offering what comfort he could.
The two men drifted into memory.
[Your era and mine — it was a hell of a thing. Though I suppose nobody remembers it anymore.]
[No, they do remember. But the next era rises to cover it, and that's why it feels that way.]
Greg Hart's eyes went round with surprise.
[Me?]
[Yes, Greg.]
Michaels answered calmly.
[That's exactly how it felt when I handed the belt over to Rockcold. Laid up with a bad back, still bitter — hating that kid's guts.]
[He was something special, that boy.]
[Yes. And aren't you feeling the same thing when you look at Sin?]
...You're right. I look at Sin and I see you. It terrified me — the fact that he might already be better than I am now.].
[But that's simply how eras work, isn't it? We old guard step aside, and the ones who remain push forward.]
[John...]
[It's a shame. A lonely thing.]
At those words, Greg reached up and touched the belt resting on his shoulder. A glorious past. But the two men standing here now were nothing more than old lions in denial of reality.
The audience fell silent. What Greg had shown mere moments ago was suddenly laid bare as nothing but bravado — a mask worn to keep from admitting the truth.
This is the spot.
The mood reversed in a heartbeat. I spotted a middle-aged man in the front rows gritting his teeth.
The people were immersed. Those who remembered that era. Those who didn't. Each and every one of them felt the ache of watching a legend fade.
Two weeks until Wrestle Imperium.
Once again, the Burning Kong opening was built around my feud with Greg. When Greg climbed into the ring first this time, the boos never came. He raised the microphone with the face of a man who had finally made up his mind about something, and he called me out.
[Sin. I have words for you. Get out here — let's talk about our match.]
I answered immediately, riding a wave of cheers up onto the ring apron. The crowd roared my name without pause.
[SIN! SIN! SIN! SIN! SIN! SIN! SIN! SIN! SIN! SIN! SIN! SIN!]
And the instant Greg raised the microphone to his lips, the arena went dead quiet. That was when I understood: Greg Hart was no longer the boo-magnet he'd once been.
"You want this belt, don't you?"
"Want it? No. I want it back."
"Because I teamed with Michaels and took it from you?"
"Not at all. Truthfully, if you weren't Greg Hart, I'd have congratulated you for playing me so well."
"So it's a problem because you're Greg Hart?"
"Exactly. After what you pulled, you stopped being Greg Hart. You became a pathetic old man."
"..."
"Ooh, that stung, didn't it? Can't help it though. And that reconciliation with Michaels? Didn't that happen only because you needed someone on your side?"
Furious, Greg took a single step toward me. A hair-trigger standoff. The crowd didn't even dare breathe as they watched us go face to face.
I kept twisting the knife.
"Honestly, it's hilarious when you think about it. The only reason you made peace with the man you hated more than anyone is that you finally swallowed your pathetic little pride at the tail end of your career."
The reality we were living had stepped neatly into the script. It was absolutely true that Greg had set his pride aside to reconcile with Michaels — we had simply bent the reason a little and turned it into story. The inferiority and rage Greg had felt. And the realization that followed. Right now, little by little, Greg was remembering who he used to be.
"Why do you think people loved you for twenty years?"
"..."
"Because you had conviction. And now you've lost it. Now you're just a wretched old man."
I didn't hold back.
"That's why they're booing you now. Though I doubt you even notice anymore."
Pointing out at the thousands upon thousands who had come to see us, I pressed on.
"Without these people, we're nothing! And you refused to speak to them!"
[Yes! Yes! Yes! Yes! Yes! Yes! Yes! Yes! Yes! Yes!]
"You think they really abandoned you and chose me? Wrong! They chose me because you stopped being Greg Hart!"
A story laced with metaphor for reality. Tens of thousands of fans rose from their seats, keeping the chant alive. Greg was performing the man he'd been only weeks ago — and he knew it. Biting his lip, he turned to look out at the crowd now cheering for him again.
At last, he put the final words into the mic.
"Wrestle Imperium."
"Yeah."
"You and me."
"Good."
"One on one."
[Yes! Yes! Yes! Yes! Yes! Yes! Yes! Yes! Yes! Yes!]
"The contract signing is next week."
The crowd gave Greg a far bigger ovation than they had the week before — because at long last, Greg Hart had heard their voices and let go of his stubbornness. As the entire arena thundered with chants, I turned to look out at them and flashed a grin.
Not bad at all.
In a way, the people filling this arena were family to the pro wrestling character named Greg Hart.
One week until Wrestle Imperium.
This week's Burning Kong would be the final show before the event itself. With every feud reaching its boiling point, the ratings had exploded and the intensity of every rivalry had sharpened dramatically. The GCW crew watched the last episode too, determined to squeeze every lesson out of it that they could.
And what everyone anticipated most, of course, was the Intercontinental Championship contract signing between Sin and Greg Hart. Because of that, the other feuds got only a light, casual viewing — beer in hand.
Sipping hers, Tiffany watched Chris Jenco prepare to face Silverback and thought: He's completely done for.
The levels didn't match at all. Maybe it was because Hunter was out injured, but there was simply nobody left who could stop Silverback. Nobody cared much about the feud itself. A plucky face chasing the dastardly heel out of the ring — the stalest ending imaginable. That was the shape of it. Most final showdowns got built as "A drives out B," a classic technique. But it wasn't fun.
It was becoming obvious that the various scripts weren't being coordinated with each other at all. Standing beside Sin, Tiffany could see the overall state of the show more and more clearly with each passing week. How to fix it — that, she was still turning over in her mind.
And then, the main event. Perhaps because this would be Greg Hart's final run, the main event slot went to the contract signing for Sin versus Greg.
Thank you, Father.
For a fleeting moment, Tiffany felt grateful to Bart — for swallowing his pride and showing Greg the respect he was owed.
"Alright, everybody — eyes front!"
The moment Baku barked that out, the noisy room went dead silent. The trainees began watching Sin and Greg step out onto the ring with dead-serious eyes.
So how will they close it out?
Last week's segment, engineered so Greg would finally receive the crowd's cheers, had been a masterpiece.
[It's as if Lucifer himself is ascending back into heaven! Greg Hart's eyes have never looked so clear, so clean!]
[Haha! Then that makes Sin the messenger of God, doesn't it? He's the one who opened Greg's eyes!]
What's more, the segment had been written so that Sin would never be outdrawn by Greg in crowd reaction — which meant, in effect, that the love for the legendary Greg Hart and the love for Sin carried exactly the same weight.
When the two men took their seats at the table in the center of the ring, an absolutely deafening dueling chant broke out.
[SIN! SIN! SIN! SIN! SIN! SIN! SIN! SIN! SIN! SIN! SIN! SIN!]
[Greg Hart! Greg Hart! Greg Hart! Greg Hart! Greg Hart!]
The crowd didn't split. Both names rang out together, equal and thunderous.
And in the middle of it all, the first to open his mouth was Greg Hart himself.
[You said I'm not Greg Hart anymore.]
[Was I wrong?]
...No. I'll admit it. I'd lost all objective view of myself.].
The camera cut to Sin. Tiffany felt her heart hammering as she waited for his reply.
This is the most important part.
Only by cementing Greg Hart's return to his rightful place as a hero would the feud truly be complete. Sin fights the hero, beats him, and inherits his standing — becomes the man. And the hero wasn't just one man. No — the heroes were countless. John Michaels included, what Greg Hart symbolized was the glorious old era itself. Which meant Sin, by natural extension, took on the image of the standard-bearer of the new generation. Sin had to win. Knowing full well that he would, Tiffany swallowed hard. As someone building this dream alongside him, she was simply a little more invested in the feud than everyone else.
[So you've got it back now?]
[Honestly, that's the only reason I came out here... to tell you I never lost it in the first place.]
[What?]
[I was a pathetic old man. But even that, somehow, was still Greg Hart.]
Greg said it with his head held high.
[There aren't many performers who can accept retirement gracefully. Least of all a man like me — 'the best there was, the best there is, and the best there ever will be.']
Greg Hart delivered his signature line as naturally as breathing. Twenty years of a career built on pride in one's craft and an unbending commitment to fighting fair.
"Greg..."
Baku, who knew exactly what that meant, felt the end drawing near — and felt grateful, deeply grateful, that the man standing across the ring from Greg at the finish was Sin.
[That's who I am. But at the same time, I came to understand something. Dragging my career out like this would be an insult to the era when I shone brightest.]
[So you're retiring?]
[No.]
Greg, who had been laying his feelings out with plain honesty, suddenly broke into a grin.
[The Greg Hart you all know doesn't go down that easy.]
[Now that's the man I've been waiting to see.]
[Then let me prove it! Come on — let's fight this thing fair and square, just like everyone here is hoping for!]
Greg Hart was back. Springing from his chair, he signed the contract first. Watching him refuse to dodge his challenger's challenge, the entire arena chanted his name over and over.
[Greg Hart! Greg Hart! Greg Hart! Greg Hart! Greg Hart!]
[It's a bit corny, but how's this sound?]
Just then, Sin slipped in with a mischievous little smile, lightening the mood.
[The era versus the era. That's the subtitle our match deserves.]
...Try it, if you think you can, you green rookie who hasn't even set foot in the doorway of an era yet.].
[Maybe so — if I knock your era down first. Wouldn't you say?]
The chants for both men's names rolled on and on, throats straining. Once Sin finished signing as well, the two of them cleared the table away and stood face to face, glaring at each other for a long beat.
A magnificent face-to-face. Layered on top of it came the crowd's explosive reaction, and Tiffany felt a shiver run down her whole body. A second-year rookie standing toe to toe with a living legend — and the people accepted it as the most natural thing in the world.
And so, Wrestle Imperium arrived at the doorstep.