A Poisoned Grail
"You saved my life."
"...I'm sorry?"
"I'm saying thank you."
Sheamus, having said his piece, scratched the back of his head awkwardly.
"From now on, if anyone gives you trouble, tell me. I'll take care of it for good."
Standing before him, I couldn't help but feel a little bewildered.
Why is this guy being so candid all of a sudden?
Behind the dormitory building. When he'd summoned me out here, I'd braced myself for a lecture — something along the lines of "don't get cocky with me, rookie."
Was it saving his hide that did it? Or covering for him in front of Baku?
That question was partly answered by what Sheamus said next.
"And what you did yesterday? That was damn impressive."
"Ah... thank you, sir."
So Sheamus, too, had been impressed by the wave of boos I'd drawn out yesterday. More than that, he seemed to have started thinking of me as someone he could trust.
That was the unique thing about pro wrestling — a business where you had to take your opponent's offense. The seniors testing me so relentlessly all came down to that same reason, I supposed.
His expression softened into a grin, and he leaned back against the wall.
"Thanks to you, I'm completely finished. Won't be able to show my face as a heel anywhere."
"You have your own strengths too, sir. You'll be fine."
"Huh? Wait — have you been watching our show since before you even signed here?"
"Yes, more or less."
"It was damn near impossible to watch from outside Georgia. That's impressive as hell."
"Well, it's the company I wanted to join, so it was only natural."
I gave an awkward laugh. It was only half the truth.
The honest truth was that I hadn't really watched GCW much in my past life. It was a developmental territory, after all, and the quality of the shows swung wildly from one night to the next. Most of what I knew about the roster now came from what Adam had told me back then.
That bastard used to call me every single day just to brag. And yet, life has a funny way of working out. Who could have guessed that the knowledge I'd wearily sat through back then would only prove useful now?
I wonder what he's up to these days.
I smiled bitterly, picturing Adam's long-jawed face. At that, Sheamus glanced around and threw out a question.
"So what's your take, then?"
"On what?"
"My gimmick. The one you said had its own strengths."
"Well, certainly—"
That was the exact moment it happened.
"Sheamus, you little punk! Are you cornering another poor kid and giving him hell again?"
"B-Baku! It's not what it looks like!"
When Baku appeared around the edge of the wall, Sheamus panicked. I tilted my head and spoke up.
“What brings you here, sir?”
"Contracts."
"Ah."
"Follow me. And Sheamus — stop hassling innocent kids. If you've got nothing to do, go work out or something."
Under Baku's withering glare, Sheamus wilted like a deflating balloon.
It's really not like that.
I laughed bitterly at the poor misunderstanding, then moved to follow Baku.
A quiet office. Seated across from me were Baku and a white man I didn't recognize.
At first I'd assumed he was from the finance department, but judging by the thick laptop he'd pulled out, that didn't seem to be the case. The man broke into a warm smile directed at me.
"Sorry about this, Sin. There was something I really wanted to ask you, so we brought you here."
"And the contract...?"
"That comes after this business."
Baku cut in crisply.
"Oh, right — I'm the head of the writing team. Just call me Puckey. It's easier."
"Puckey... sir?"
"It's short for hockey puck. Using the full name would just be an insult."
"Were you a player, then?"
"Nope — I just got hit with a lot of hockey pucks back in high school."
"..."
Just how thick-skinned did a man have to be to adopt that as his nickname?
"Anyway — you pitched us the tournament idea, so we figured you might have other thoughts as well."
"Uh... you're asking a current wrestler for his input on the booking?"
"W-well, yes?"
"Don't take it the wrong way."
Baku interjected.
"It doesn't mean we're adopting it as-is. We just want to hear the thinking behind the idea you came up with."
"No, Baku. This is a little uncomfortable for me."
My eyes narrowed. A wrestler getting involved in the booking was not a good look. I fell silent, studying the two men across from me.
A wrestler who meddled in the scripts was bound to sour his relationships with the rest of the roster. It was only natural. Who would be happy to learn that a guy they shared the ring with was personally involved in deciding their wins, losses, and storylines?
For that reason, a wrestler touching the booking was effectively a declaration that he intended to play faction politics. The pro wrestling world ran on vicious backstage warfare. I had, of course, made my peace with that reality — but diving in right now came with problems on every front.
For one thing, I lacked allies.
Besides, in a place this small, there was nothing in it for me anyway.
One advantage of GCW being a developmental territory was that this kind of infighting among the wrestlers was comparatively rare.
Seeing the resolute look on my face, the head of the creative team broke out in a cold sweat and tried again.
"C-come on, don't be like that."
"We'll keep it just between us."
"Hmm..."
But honestly? The offer was tempting, and there was no denying it.
If I wanted to drive my market value up when I finally made it to the main show, I had to make the show itself a hit. And for that, the entire show needed to develop organically as one connected story.
And with my memories of the future — surely, I could...
Yes. I could do it.
I had ideas to spare. Brilliant scripts from the future — legendary rivalries not just from pro wrestling but from MMA, boxing, all of it. Or, more simply, gimmicks that could get the current roster over.
If only I could keep feeding them ideas on a stable basis. That would be something.
Another poisoned grail, in other words. Could I really drink it down and still wake up stretching the next morning?
It might have been recklessness, but looking at Baku's and Puckey's faces, they seemed to place considerable hope in what I was thinking.
"...These are just my ideas, of course."
I only answered after glancing around and confirming no one else was nearby.
"First — judging by the guys' skill level, and by that I mean their popularity — Bobby Ashley is the right call to win the tournament."
"Go on."
"Another heel champion, though? People would get sick of it."
"He needs to turn face."
"...Bobby?"
"Yes. And it wouldn't be hard."
I began to explain.
Yesterday's tournament quarterfinals had already become a clear talking point among the viewers. Who would win next week? How good had those matches been? Word spread, and the audience grew by leaps and bounds.
"Here's the key point: every single wrestler out there — except me — made the crowd enjoy themselves."
"Why does that matter?"
"Because when the respect builds up, a turn face is the natural next step."
Besides, Bobby was currently a colorless, flavorless heel. A gimmick with nothing to gain from it. But what if you gave him a relentless, desperate fight toward the championship?
"People would love it."
It had always been true: the guy who just wins never resonates with people the way the guy who fights like his life depends on winning does.
"Ooooh... Sin! Then how should the tournament results play out?"
"Like I said — it has to go by merit. Based on the crowd reactions in yesterday's matches, what do you think happened?"
"Something like this, I'd bet."
Baku grabbed the printed bracket off the desk.
My match and Russell's had drawn bigger reactions than our opponents', so we'd both advance past the round of sixteen. And then we'd collide in the quarterfinals.
"Bobby's on the opposite side of the bracket."
"Bobby will get a solid reaction no matter who he's up against."
"Let's workshop an ambush angle too. If you want a face turn, the point is overcoming some underhanded scheme."
Once I gave them the spark, the two of them began building on it immediately, fleshing the idea out layer by layer.
"At this rate, going by the reactions we're getting, it'd probably shape up like this—"
But there was one thing on that bracket I didn't like.
The part where I made it all the way to the finals to face Bobby.
"I'd rather lose in the semifinals."
"Why? You think Husky's going to draw a bigger reaction than you?"
"Either way, I think it's better for me to build my standing slowly, step by step, through a feud with Russell."
And for that to work, Husky's stock had to rise first. It seemed I'd need to elevate Husky Harris's standing to keep the original plan on track.
"We'll see. Husky's a guy who delivers when it counts."
But I grinned and said it with total confidence.
Because if I'm the one building him, he will.
From the next day on, the wrestlers all returned to their respective routines — conditioning their bodies for next week's show, drilling their techniques, and resuming the practice matches that kept their timing sharp.
Perhaps because Sheamus had put the word out, the seniors' hazing of me stopped dead. Thanks to that, I was able to train comfortably with the trainers.
Sinna and Russell were a different story.
"Sinna! You garbage piece of trash! Nothing but a muscle scumbag!!"
"Guhk... hff... m-my name is Muscle Scumbag..."
Some truly vicious English profanity was flying.
"Russell, that's all you've got? Already gassed and collapsing?"
"No, sir!"
Pushed to his mental limit, Russell kept taking his bumps in the ring, over and over.
Everyone's working hard.
I sipped my water and watched them from across the gym like a spectator at a river crossing.
The wrestlers' private training facility was even bigger than the venue we'd used for tryouts. Around thirty wrestlers, the women's division included, were each honing their craft.
Amid it all, having finished my own modest routine, I turned my gaze toward a small group taking a breather.
"So you know what that redneck said? He goes, 'My shotgun's got no bullets in it'!"
"BWAAAHAHAHA! So he was shooting blanks? What'd his wife say about that?"
"In this scorched-up little voice, she goes, 'Maybe there's one round left...' — God, it was pitiful!"
"KHAHAHAHA! BWAHAHAHA!!"
The wrestlers had gathered and were roaring with laughter.
Standing at the center of the scene — a picture of GCW's free-wheeling culture — was Husky Harris.
Watching him, I thought to myself:
Still a gifted talker, as always.
A flabby body that people considered hopeless for true main-event stardom as a pro wrestler. A boyish, unassuming face with no presence. And yet he would rise to the main roster, strap on a brand-new gimmick, and get over — completely, spectacularly over.
He'd go on to lead a stable of his own, eventually claiming even the main-event spot for himself.
So what was the new gimmick he'd debut with once he reached WWF's main stage?
A cult leader.
The name he'd wear then was Broken Wyatt — a mystical, back-to-nature character — and it would hit like an absolute phenomenon.
And honestly, parts of the American South still believed in that sort of thing even now. Something supernatural. Cryptids. Conspiracy theories.
Husky himself included, come to think of it.
If I remembered right, he'd seriously argued for the flat earth theory. He'd also insisted that Sasquatch was real.
The remarkable thing was how persuasive he was when he talked about it. A few of the wrestlers here genuinely believed his flat-earth claims. The man was a natural-born cult leader if ever there was one.
So let's make it happen.
Like I said — if Husky got over, my own situation would fall neatly into place.
I deliberately made my way over to Sheamus, who happened to be working out nearby.
"Sheamus."
"Yeah, Sin? What's up?"
"Could you help set something up so I can train with Husky?"
"Husky? Not a hard ask, but... working out with that guy isn't exactly a good idea."
"I'll make it worth your while."
I smiled.
Step one: get close to Husky Harris myself.