The Third Generation
When Sheamus finished talking to him, Husky snorted a laugh, peeled himself away from the crowd, and came strolling over to me.
“Rookie. Do I look easy to you?”
“Not at all.”
“Then why'd you pick me?”
“Because I judged there were things I could see and learn from you, senior.”
“……Hm.”
Husky looked away for a moment. I read the psychology instantly and had to fight back a wry smile.
He's pleased.
Husky had never gotten much credit for his in-ring work. So having a red-hot rookie like me acknowledge him outright must have felt good—even if he couldn't bring himself to show it honestly.
Not bad, though.
It seemed saving Sheamus's neck during that match had earned me some grudging respect from the senior wrestlers. The only problem was that every last one of them was a hyper-macho meathead, and guys like that were constitutionally incapable of being sincere.
“Alright then. Let's see what you've got.”
He turned his back to me, baring a body slathered in slab after slab of muscle. Following him up onto the ring, I fell into thought.
How should I put it.
When we'd faced off a few days ago, he hadn't used many moves, but what he did show felt decent enough. Then a question nagged at me.
Husky makes it to the main event around this time next year, doesn't he?
And from that point all the way to his retirement, he'd been thoroughly mediocre. No matter how many times I turned it over in my head, it didn't add up.
Because even a man with zero talent, if he kept grinding, would eventually find his own path. And roughly thirty minutes later, my question was answered in full.
So he just never tried.
I let out a sigh and glanced across the pub at Husky, who was snickering away with his new audience. It was a small, run-down place downtown.
“So you know what that bastard said? ‘Uhh, Jenny, my shotgun's got no bullets in it!'”
“Ohohohoho!! What on earth!”
“So Jenny goes absolutely pale and says, ‘Bullets or not, it can still hit a man!'”
“Gwahahaha! With no bullets in it? How's it gonna hit anyone! And hold on—a shotgun? If it were really a shotgun, wouldn't the wife have run off with the gardener?!”
Women crowded thick around the bearded Husky. He'd hooked every one of them within five minutes of walking through the door. Beside that circus, I nursed a ginger ale and sank into my thoughts.
But seriously, why?
We weren't the only ones who'd slipped out of GCW to come here, either. A few of the other seniors were scattered around playing darts and pool.
And that was the strange part.
Of everyone here, the only ones who'll ever make the main event are Husky and me.
I had at least worked hard. I hadn't been great, but I'd tried—though I knew by now that effort alone was no excuse. But Husky… how had he clawed his way into the main event?
Every main-eventer needed one distinctive gift, something that set them apart. And the man sitting across from me right now radiated nothing of the sort.
So his big breakout comes after he makes the main event.
Why? What hidden talent had carried him there? In the end, I couldn't hold it in any longer.
“Senior.”
“Yeah, rookie?”
“How long have you been here?”
“Hm. Five years or so?”
……That's a long time.
“It's about time you made the main card, isn't it?”
“Who knows.”
“Doesn't it wear on you, staying stuck in a developmental territory this long?”
“Couldn't tell you about that. Wrestling itself is just getting a little stale, honestly.”
“Wrestling… is?”
“Yep. Only reason I'm still here is it pays better than delivering pizza.”
Chuckling, he tipped his head back and chugged his beer.
“Studying's way easier here too. I've got all the time in the world for it.”
“Studying?”
“Yeah. Cryptids.”
“……Huh.”
“Tracks from a Sasquatch turned up in the Blue Ridge Mountains recently. I'm planning to burn some vacation days and go check it out.”
“Do those things actually exist?”
“No idea.”
“…Pardon?”
“That's why you go look, isn't it? I've got my reasons, you know.”
“I… I see.”
“Here, let me show you something good.”
Husky dug around in his jacket and pulled out a photograph: a forest trail dominated by one enormous footprint. The explanation that followed was genuinely entertaining—and, more than that, erudite. Extremist religious sects scattered across the American backwoods, and a strange form of faith they had built for themselves.
“But there's got to be some kind of basis for what they believe, right?”
“Is that what a cryptid is?”
“They fear nature, and they worship it. There's bound to be something in there we don't know about.”
“You're surprisingly well-read, senior.”
“I've done the research. Someday I'd like to write a book on the subject.”
Listening to him talk, I couldn't for the life of me figure out why the man had ever thrown himself into pro wrestling.
“Say, senior. What brought you into this business in the first place?”
“Huh? Why do you ask?”
“You're articulate, and you know so much about so many things. You'd have made a hell of a stand-up comedian. Or a college professor.”
“Kid, quit blowing smoke up my ass. Studying was never my calling.”
“What about athletics?”
“Same shit here, if I'm honest. But I didn't exactly have a choice—I'm a third-generation guy.”
“……Pardon?”
“Mike Rowanda. Ring a bell? Blackjack Morrigan?”
“Uh, um. Well…”
“Figures you wouldn't. My old man wrestled a short run with a tax-auditor gimmick, and my maternal grandfather was a pro wrestler back in the seventies.”
“……”
I genuinely hadn't known. But that one admission settled everything.
So he made the main event because he was third-generation.
My guess was that his father and grandfather had leaned on their old connections. Baku and Harley had been active in that same era—they couldn't very well just toss aside the son of a colleague, could they?
That explains it.
I smiled and asked, “Was your interest in cryptids your father's influence too?”
“Ha! That old coot was a pro-wrestling zealot through and through. When I was a kid, if he caught me with one of those books, he'd burn it and chuck the ashes out with the trash.”
Husky laughed bitterly—then his expression dimmed.
“Happens all the time, doesn't it? A father who mocks his kid's dreams and shoves his own ideals down his throat. My house was no different.”
“The way you talk about it, senior, it doesn't sound like something worth mocking.”
“R-right? See? Cryptids are real, I'm telling you!”
“You're certainly no crackpot, that much is clear.”
I played along, feeding his enthusiasm, and enjoyed the conversation for what it was. It wasn't wasted time.
Crack!
Sheamus's body folded backward from the snap of a sharp knee kick. A thousand-odd spectators jolted out of their seats in shock. I dropped at once, hooked Sheamus's leg as he sprawled on the canvas, and went for the cover. The referee dove into position at his shoulder and hammered his hand against the mat.
“One, two…! Three!”
Clang clang clang!
Sin's victory.
“RRAAAGH!!”
I surged to my feet with a clenched fist, and the moment my arm went up, my entrance theme blasted through the arena.
“BOOOOOOOOO!!”
A downpour of jeers came crashing over it. I ignored every decibel, stalked to the corner, stepped onto the turnbuckle, and climbed. Taking the jacket the referee handed me, I spread it wide—and the inverted cross stared back at the crowd.
The audience, swollen to nearly double its usual size, hurled their boos with everything they had. But not everyone in that crowd hated me.
Right below me, in the seats closest to the ring… unbelievably, sat a handful of young Asian men like myself. Not many of them. Five or so, maybe.
“SIN!! WHOO! HE WON!!”
“WAAAAAAAH!!”
They cheered their hearts out—and beyond any scripted angle, they were purely, unshakably on my side.
I don't know how to react to them.
In my past life, these were the people who never spared me a glance when I lost. The moment I won, they made me a vessel for their vicarious triumph. People like this were what made me such a complicated villain. The more controversy I stirred, the more my star power grew.
After soaking in the victory for a while, I flashed a crooked smirk and made my exit. The staff waiting behind the curtain swarmed me at once.
“Sin! That was incredible!”
“You were the best thing out there tonight!”
Baku was no different.
“Good work out there, kid.”
“I only survived because everyone carried me.”
I deflected the credit to the men who'd gathered around, then turned back toward the curtain and settled in to watch. A magnificent show was unfolding. I'd won my first-round match exactly as scripted, and amid a chorus of jeers, I'd been booked as the bastard everyone loved to hate—and couldn't deny was strong.
Everyone had done their part. But the man who'd sacrificed the most, of course, was Sheamus.
“Senior.”
“Ah, Sin.”
The man who'd walked through the curtain had already patched himself up and was grinning at me. On his way down the entrance ramp, he'd been staggering through his sell, the damage refusing to fade—but now he looked brand new.
A true professional.
The kind of dedication that satisfied the audience even in the places they couldn't see.
“Good work out there.”
“Thank you.”
“As long as it was a hell of a match, that's all I need.”
Even though I'd shaved a notch off his standing, he laughed it off without a flicker of resentment. Thanking the man who'd just jobbed you out was one of pro wrestling's most basic courtesies.
And the show? An unqualified smash hit.
Exactly as I predicted.
Letting the live crowd decide winners and losers had lit a fire under every wrestler on the card. It wasn't a method you could ever use in a giant like the WWF—too much politics, too many knives—but here it worked beautifully. Because it was a developmental territory, and that meant the brotherhood was still tight-knit.
Not wanting to get in the staff's way, I stepped outside and kept monitoring the matches on a TV set up in the corridor. Sheamus had groaned about needing a shower and wandered off, but I didn't want to miss a single second of the show. What part of a wrestler's performance made people erupt in cheers, and what part drew boos—I intended to study it all, piece by piece, without letting anything slip past.
The currents of this era are clearly different from when I was working as a producer.
I had to learn to read those subtle differences. What a brutal industry. And precisely because of that, the Icon-caliber superstars never let up on their research.
Even Cena kept watching the show long after his own match was over, tracking every reaction in the crowd.
I was thinking exactly that, eyes fixed on Husky's match that followed mine, when someone tapped me on the shoulder. I turned around—and there stood the future Icon I'd been thinking about mere seconds ago.
With an utterly moved look on his face.
“That was amazing.”
“……Was it?”
I took the bottle of sports drink he offered and took a long swig.
“Seriously, Sin. You can really act. Where'd you learn that?”
“Eh. It just kind of happened.”
“That was the most believable trash-heel acting I've ever seen! The way you clenched that fist—I was cussing you out before I even realized it!”
“……You do realize you're supposed to be my friend.”
“That's the point!”
I knew he meant it as a compliment, but a distinctly complicated feeling crept in.
Well. Better than being told I have no charisma at all, I suppose.
I'd take it as praise. Probably.
“He certainly did.”
“See? Ahh, that's my master for you—true craftsmanship!”
“Oh-ho. You're barely more than a boy, and already taking on disciples?”
“Sin is the god of professional wrestling, after all!”
……Those words did not come from me.
Mid-swallow, I turned around and found a bespectacled middle-aged man standing there. Beside Cena, he cut an imposing, powerfully built figure.
“And yet that boy over there has been at it for five years, and he hasn't improved an inch.”
His cold eyes were fixed on Husky flickering across the TV screen.
Don't tell me—his father?
So I was meeting him sooner than I'd thought.