Broken Wyatt
When I got back, I did a little digging.
Mike Rotunda was his real name, and his ring name back in his WWF days had been Ernie K. Schyster.
Even within a WWF dominated by cartoonish characters, his gimmick had stood out as something unique.
There was a video of him barking at the crowd to pay their taxes if they wanted to watch the match — and I was certain that footage still existed somewhere in GCW's archive.
I turned back with a smile and extended my hand toward him.
"It's an honor to meet you, Mr. Schyster."
"Well, well. Didn't think there was a young fella left who remembered my name."
A pro wrestler's life is, for the most part, defined by their ring name.
So much so that some wrestlers eventually just change their legal name to match the gimmick. That's how much their in-ring identity matters.
True to that, Schyster was visibly delighted that I recognized him, and he shook my hand warmly.
"These days I'm just an old man tagging along with my boy, killin' time backstage."
"It's a great honor to have a legendary senior come watch the show."
"Haha. Truth be told, I only came to see how my good-for-nothing son is doing."
"Do you come often?"
"Nearly every week."
His eyes lit up as he laughed.
"But that boy's a lost cause. One look at him in the ring and you can tell."
With that, he heaved a deep sigh at the sight of his son wrestling on the TV screen.
Even from my perspective, it was pretty brutal.
It's a library in there.
Compared to the other matches, the crowd's reaction was practically nonexistent.
The only reason he was booked to win tonight was because his opponent drew even less of a reaction than Husky did.
And a wrestler's gear that consisted of nothing but a pair of trunks on that thick frame — that was definitely not a charisma project.
"He's doing what he can. I think you're being a little harsh on him, sir."
"Harsh? Son, in this business, results are everything. When a man flops in front of a live crowd like that, it just makes all his effort look pathetic."
"Is that so?"
"Yes sir. It's the same as admitting he's got no talent. Wrestle like that, and he'll wind up a jobber same as anybody."
I didn't need to ask which somebody he meant.
A father who wants his son to fulfill the dream he couldn't finish himself.
It was genuinely a sad thing to see.
But I had a pretty good idea how that felt. I, too, had spent an entire career grinding through the jobber ranks, just like Schyster had.
Wanting your son to succeed in your stead isn't an unreasonable thing.
Besides, Husky talked a big game about hating wrestling, but he didn't seem to actually dislike it all that much.
Climbing all the way to the main event and sustaining a career for decades isn't possible on sheer stubbornness alone.
Pro wrestling is a business that wears down even the toughest men alive.
In other words, nobody lasts long in this line of work unless they genuinely love it — or are desperately hungry for success.
Right. I have to change his gimmick somehow in this tournament.
That was how I benefited, too.
Simply becoming champion wasn't enough. Only with a stature befitting a champion could you finally command the audience's respect.
Which meant it was still too early for me to take the title. That said, I had no intention of lying down for just anyone, either.
I only protect my worth if I lose to someone who deserves the win.
The tournament matches were scheduled four per week, so my semifinal clash with Husky would land at a show roughly a month out.
The feud with Russel already has its groundwork laid, so there's no problem there...
All right. Let's give this a shot.
When I pitched the new gimmick, Husky gave me an odd look.
Once again, he'd finished training in under an hour and was parked in the corner, killing time for no particular reason.
"What are you even talking about?"
"After what you said last time, I figured — this is it."
I plopped down beside him.
My daily quota was done, and the sun was lazily bleeding out toward the horizon.
At my words, Husky tilted his head.
"What do you... mean?"
"You know, all those horror movies set out in the woods? Backwoods stuff. Or take Jonestown."
"Jonestown... you mean that mass suicide thing from way back?"
"Right. You're a great talker, and you've got deep knowledge of the subject. I think we could build a genuinely fun gimmick out of it."
"...I don't know."
Husky looked lost in thought.
I had a rough idea what was going through his head.
He'd never even considered fusing the wrestling he'd started because of his father with the cryptid knowledge he actually loved.
But as in my past life, I believed it was a genuinely good approach.
If it's packaged with real polish, it's a spectacular gimmick.
A cult leader — a villain scheming to bend the audience to his will.
And yet, so many fans fall under that dark charisma that they literally follow him.
Husky once told me that America's landscape of twisted religions exists because of the people raised in those environments.
And out of that soil, faiths like cryptid worship had sprouted in turn.
"What's your favorite cryptid right now?"
"...The one-eyed eagle."
"Then we slam a one-eyed eagle emblem straight onto the screen."
"...And he carries a lantern."
"Y-yeah, exactly."
"Yes! He shows up wrapped head to toe in a massive robe!"
"That might be a bit..."
"What, no good?"
"Well, nobody really runs weird cults like that in the modern day, right?"
"Then a suit?"
"Not that either, honestly. Doesn't feel like a religious leader."
"Then what about..."
Husky mulled it over with genuine seriousness, then at last turned quietly back to me.
"Go wait in the video team's office."
"Sorry?"
"I've got a stack of horror tapes I've collected over the years. Let's watch them together and figure this out."
"Sounds fun."
I grinned and stood up.
He's hooked already. Good.
With how well-versed Husky was in cryptids, the ideas would come pouring out. And the finer details of him performing the gimmick himself would rise along with them.
The other wrestlers had all washed up and headed off to rest before dinner, but Husky and I got moving on a different schedule.
First, I headed to the video team's office, just as Husky had suggested.
When I opened the door, a staffer glanced over at me and cocked his head.
"Oh — hey, Shin. What brings you here?"
"Hello. Mind if I borrow the video player for a bit?"
"Sure, that's fine, but... what's this about?"
"Gimmick research."
I smiled and took a seat in front of the television with the player built into it.
Takes me back.
Astonishingly, this was the only such machine in the entire GCW.
Not because the company was poor — simply because nobody had much use for one.
Before long, Husky came strolling into the office.
"Which one should we start with?"
"This one."
The title read The Devil's Preacher.
Wow. That's... a lot of movie.
The content matched. A textbook B-grade direct-to-video picture about a blood-mad cult leader butchering his congregation one by one.
The Black guy died first, and the sole survivor was the female lead.
But there was exactly one thing in it that caught my interest.
The preacher's outfit.
"What about this one?"
An unbuttoned Hawaiian shirt and a small fedora. It was practically the exact outfit Husky had worn in the main event.
"Then we just grow the beard out long. You've got a good beard coming in, Senior."
"S-shall we try it?"
Just like that, I kept dangling the carrot, fattening Husky up (?) with one morsel at a time.
From the next film, I pulled an idea for the 'divine entity' his new gimmick would preach about.
"Sister Zibril..."
"Great name."
"Imagery: insects, fire, the one-eyed eagle, a rocking chair... a lantern."
Without my even prompting him, Husky was assembling the gimmick piece by piece.
"An ambush after the lights cut. Forcing my faith on them. Followers who worship me..."
"Might even be worth forming a stable."
All that remained was the name.
And that much, not even the movies Husky brought could give us.
I watched him, wondering how I was going to slip him the name.
But before I could, Husky — still deep in his own brooding — spoke up.
"Broken..."
"Broken?"
Did he actually come up with that one on his own?
"The name is Wyatt."
"That's a great name."
It matched, exactly, the name he'd carried to the main event in my past life.
I just hadn't expected him to arrive at it this easily. For once, I asked out of genuine curiosity.
"Where'd that come from?"
"..."
"Senior?"
"Ah, well..."
He hesitated, scratching his cheek for a moment, before finally forcing the words out.
"It's a name my dad always said he wanted to use back when he was active. Completely different gimmick, though."
"Hmm."
"You think he'd even allow it? If not, I can think of another..."
"He'll allow it. Just from the pitch alone, I can tell it'd be spectacular."
I nodded.
No words were necessary.
I already knew the future. I knew, with absolute certainty, that this gimmick was going to land like a thunderclap.
We set about preparing everything to present to the front office.
We went to the costume department and ordered gear fitted to Husky's measurements, and once it was finished, we shot his profile photos.
All the while, Husky showed not the slightest urge to leave — after training ended, he kept pushing to refine his gimmick even further.
My role was mostly to listen and watch him perform it, and honestly, he was so good it gave me chills.
The head of the video team even stepped in, saying he wanted to shoot a proper promo.
"Listen close. This is a memory from my childhood."
Seated in the rocking chair, he spoke straight into the camera, low and funereal.
Beside him sat a large lantern, its flame lit.
"I forgot it for a while. No — maybe I buried it. But here's the problem... it's back now."
The chair creaked as it rocked.
"Man yearns for rest. But not all of us get it. They say humanity has progressed... and yet, in all that progress, rest is the one thing we've always lost."
This is genuinely incredible.
It was a magnificent gimmick. A fanatic preacher demanding his congregation — his audience — follow him, all in the name of showing man his true face.
"The hypocrites. The fornicators. They are all the same as this vast wilderness. An unknown fear. Unknowable."
Husky rose to his feet — no. Broken Wyatt rose to his feet and took hold of the lantern.
He struck an oversized match and fed the flame. In the dim light, the bearded face emerged.
Grotesque — and yet unmistakably the kind of thing that could exist in the real world.
A terrifying villain.
Broken Wyatt.
"Follow the flock of the one-eyed eagle."
With that, Wyatt blew out a sharp breath — whoosh! — and snuffed the lantern dead.
That's it. That's the take.
"Cut!"
The head of the video team — who'd come in on his day off to help with the shoot — shouted the moment my smile broke across my face.
Applause erupted with it. When the lights came back up, I walked over to Wyatt and stuck out my fist.
"That was seriously incredible."
"All thanks to you, kid."
"Me? Please. This whole thing is your work, Senior."
After trading compliments back and forth, we turned toward the camera.
Reviewing the footage after the shoot wrapped, the video team chief looked up.
"This really is fantastic, but... one thing's bugging me."
"What's that?"
"How exactly are you planning to roll this out? If we debut it next week as-is, the whiplash from 'Husky Harris' is going to be way too jarring."
"Ah, that? Don't worry about that one."
I smirked.
This was one of those truths only the people actually running in the ring ever learned.
"Honestly? If the crowd thinks you look really damn cool, they don't sweat the details."
And that was the honest truth.
And this 'Broken Wyatt' gimmick had more than enough power to pull it off.
I could hardly stand the wait, itching to see the reaction that was going to erupt at the show.