This Is My Yard

It was a dark night.

The wrestlers, trainees, and staff of GCW had all gathered, taking their seats to watch a single "video." The massive iron door leading out of the training facility swung open, and I stood at the back of the crowd with a faint smile on my lips.

This was the moment the work Wyatt and I had created would be unveiled to the world. I was looking forward to the reactions.

Thinking that, I stepped closer and gave a light tap to the shoulder of Wyatt, who stood beside me visibly tense.

"You okay?"

"Y-yes. Whew. ...Hmm, actually—no. I'm rather nervous."

"It's not like you're going out there to wrestle. Besides, everyone's going to love it."

"That may be true, but... hm, it's a strange feeling all the same."

"You're just introducing people to something you love. That's all tonight is."

"...Right. You're quite right. I never imagined I'd feel something like this doing professional wrestling."

Wyatt stroked the bridge of his nose for a moment, as if to quiet the tangle of emotions inside him. His nerves, after all, were proof of how earnestly he had prepared—which is to say, Wyatt was no man entirely without interest or aptitude for pro wrestling.

If he'd had no heart for this business at all, he would have dragged his feet even over crafting a gimmick out of his own beloved tastes. He had simply never been able to throw himself into it wholeheartedly, thanks to his falling-out with his father. In truth, in the future he would go on to work in this industry for a long, long time. Properly guided, he was a wrestler more than capable of leaving his own footprints on the business—and the fact that he hadn't let a single drop of alcohol pass his lips in all the time we'd spent building the gimmick together said as much.

Still sunk in his thoughts, Wyatt soon reached out a hand to me.

"Thank you, Sin."

"Don't mention it."

"No—it really was fun. If there's ever a horror film you want to watch, just say the word. I have them all."

"...Th-thank you."

Not that I actually liked them. I watched them for the job. And having lived through something genuinely supernatural called "regression," lately I'd developed an uncomfortable fear that the sort of things in those movies might actually happen for real.

"I have plenty of Japanese horror as well. The Ring, Ju-on—that sort of thing."

"I'm Korean, remember?"

"Ah, from there? I believe I have one called Boys' High Ghost Story."

He really did have everything. A nerd of truly terrifying proportions—and this was an era when the internet wasn't even all that developed yet. I was still feeling something close to awe at the sheer scope of his collection when a staff member fiddling with the equipment looked up.

"Sin, we're all set."

"Then let's get started."

I nodded and made my way over to the crowd seated in and around the ring. Harley, right at the center of them, asked:

"Kid, when do we start?"

"Ah—yes, setup just finished. Shall we begin?"

"Go ahead. So what have you cooked up to surprise us this time?"

He knew perfectly well, and he was asking anyway. Might as well play along.

"A new gimmick."

"Changing gimmicks already?"

"Not mine, actually..."

I turned toward Wyatt, standing behind me. His expression frozen stiff, he stepped out before the crowd.

"It's mine."

"Husky, hm. So it's you."

Harley broke into a grin.

"You've hardly set foot outside the office lately—had me wondering what you were up to. Well, fine. Roll it."

His face brimmed with anticipation. This was hardly standard procedure—up on the main WWF roster, a "gimmick" was something that passed through the hands of producers and every high-ranking suit imaginable before it was locked in. But this was a developmental territory. Harley trusted his wrestlers.

The projector threw the video onto the concrete wall opposite, and everyone settled into their seats to watch. The old machine whirred as it turned; then, through a thick wash of static, the picture began slowly to play.

A bleak stretch of countryside. A log cabin. Crickets droning—and, in a single flash, the fly-swarmed carcass of a horse. It looked like a scene torn straight out of a conspiracy-theory documentary. The imagery, dreamlike yet grounded in something brutally real, pulled the crowd under almost at once.

And right about here...

The creak of a rocking chair. And with it, the grotesque figure of Broken Wyatt revealed himself—a beard grown out filthy, a short-brimmed fedora, a Hawaiian shirt. He began to speak.

Everyone sat marveling at the figure of Broken Wyatt—at his strange, uncanny persuasiveness and his towering charisma.

He rose from his seat and came right up to the screen. Then he took hold of the camera himself and leaned his face in close.

Click—and the screen went dead.

Glancing around, I realized everyone was still staring blankly at the projector wall.

As the silence stretched on, Harley clicked his tongue, light and thoughtful.

"...When's the next episode?"

Clearly, it had landed on him completely.

Husky's new gimmick, "Broken Wyatt," cleared review without a hitch, and preparations to introduce it on the show began in earnest.

Ordinarily, the proper order was to debut a new gimmick in "dark matches"—untelevised bouts run before the cameras—to test audience reaction first. These, however, were special circumstances: his grasp of the character was already exceptional, and with the ratings rebounding, feeding the show an element that could catch the eyes of new viewers was essential.

With the plan settled, another week of hard grind began.

Baku, utterly delighted with the Broken Wyatt gimmick we had presented, crowed as though it were his own achievement, declaring yet again that when I set my mind to something, I delivered.

"KWAHAHA! Thanks to you, everyone's in for another stretch of suffering, you little brat!"

"...That's a good thing, right?"

"Of course it is! Having work to do is a damn fine thing! HAHAHA!"

As the general team head in charge of talent management, Baku now had to sit down and walk through the Broken Wyatt gimmick, deciding exactly which techniques would be used in the ring.

Pro wrestling was a "show," and a show had to give its audience something flashy and unforgettable. That was why every wrestler performed moves tailored to his own character. To show the crowd what a man's gimmick was through his in-ring style—and for a dozen other reasons besides—the general rule was to keep one's moveset from overlapping with anyone else's wherever possible.

For now, I'd leave that side of things to them. Each team would dress Broken Wyatt up in their own way, just as they had helped complete my gimmick for me.

What needed my attention now was the show looming right in front of me.

When the daily all-hands training wrapped up, not a single wrestler went home; everyone stayed behind in the training hall to wait. Before long, Harley and the head writer came in from their script meeting, and the wrestlers turned toward the two men with faces taut with nerves. Harley began.

"First off—starting with this show, the quarterfinals go out two matches at a time."

"Match one, Bobby and Moose. Match two, Tika against 'Husky.' You'll hear the finishes through your team captains."

After those came a women's division match and a tag team match, one each—all of them trial bouts staged ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠purely to take the crowd's pulse.

And then, last of all.

The main event.

"We run an in-ring segment with Sin and Russell. We show the audience those two are set to collide next week..."

And at that very moment, out would come Husky—the insufferable little villain—who, with all the tact of a wrecking ball, breaks up the Sin–Russell fight the crowd is dying to see.

"Russell heads to the back vowing he'll return next week in peak condition, Husky climbs into the ring—and Sin lays him out."

It was a layered segment, calculated with everything in mind: Sin's savage, overwhelming presence, anticipation for next week's match, and—finally—Husky's transformation into his new character.

"That's everything. The writing team is ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠grinding away on the details right now, so bear with us a little longer."

"Harley, I have a question."

"What is it, Bobby?"

"Did the ratings come in good?"

"You little punk, quit fussing over pointless things and go run your bump drills another hundred times."

"Aw, come on! Just tell us, Harley!"

A few of the wrestlers pushed back. All in all, the mood was warm and buzzing—the show's reception had matched the effort they'd put in, and everyone was riding the high. Perhaps unwilling to sour that mood, Baku smiled wryly.

"The final tally came out to one point two percent."

Every wrestler's eyes went wide with shock. Mine included. 1.2?

I'd have to hear ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠the detailed figures to know for certain, but it was far better than I'd expected. I'd assumed we'd fall just short of scraping together even a single percent.

At the sight of our faces, Harley let out a short laugh, then pressed on with exaggerated solemnity.

"Some of that's down to the PR team busting their tails. But here's what makes you kids truly impressive: the peak rating we hit thirty minutes into the broadcast never dropped until the show went off ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠the air."

Now that was genuinely remarkable. However viewers had found the show—spinning the dial, stumbling in by pure chance—they had watched to the very end. Which meant the odds were good they'd come flooding straight back next week.

"In any case, I trust every one of you will deliver as much as these people are expecting."

A great roar of assent answered Harley's closing encouragement. Looking around at them all, I felt it, sure as anything: the sense of truly belonging to a pro wrestling organization as one of its own. Every wrestler preparing for the show, with me working alongside them—assigned tasks of my own, and carrying them out.

Not bad. Not bad at all. The veterans' hazing had stopped dead in its tracks, and it felt as though I'd finally, completely settled into this place. In my past life I had cowered and fumbled, never once managing to show who I really was.

I was still smiling at the fresh swell of gratitude when someone drew near.

"Sin? I'd like a quick word about next week's script."

It was the head writer.

"Of course. Lead the way."

I nodded and sprang up from my seat without a moment's delay. After all, by the decision of Harley and the writing team, the biggest role on this show belonged to none other than me. Honestly, I was only three weeks into my debut—part of me wondered whether this was really allowed. But hey, what can you do when you've got the talent?

My music began to play.

One after another, the people gathered at Gorilla Position tossed a word of encouragement my way.

"Sin! Go get 'em!"

"Blow the roof off out there again tonight!"

I traded a fist bump each with Russell and Husky, who would be following me out. Then I walked out, slow and unhurried.

The moment I passed the curtain, lighting blazed down so bright it stung my eyes. Music both sacred and sinister.

With my hands jammed into my pockets and a smirk in place, I ambled down the entrance ramp at a lazy stroll, exactly as I had planned it all in advance.

[Booooooooooooo!]

The crowd showered me with boos. A good sign. Frankly, for a rookie heel in only his third week after debut to draw heat like this was, truly, a tremendous thing. Most crowds don't spare so much as a peep for wrestlers they don't care about—and by that measure, I was doing superbly.

Even so, I had prepared a "mic work" routine airtight enough to shut down every situation that could possibly go wrong.

I climbed into the ring and, smacking my gum, turned a slow circle to take in the crowd. Easy, unhurried—the very picture of an arrogant rookie acting as though this ring were his own front yard and he'd just stopped by to collect what was owed him.

I stood there a moment, and then the music cut off dead and the house lights came back up.

[Booooooooooooooo!!]

The boos rolled in again. I smirked as though the noise were beneath my notice, accepted the microphone passed up from ringside, and wrapped my hand around it.

"You people—"

[You Suck! You Suck! You Suck! You Suck! You Suck!]

The instant I tried to speak, the crowd swelled their chant to drown me out. When it got like this, there was no talking over it. Plenty of guys simply bull through it and say their piece anyway, but that was the worst possible move. This was when a "great wrestler" had to exercise some brilliant wit. And I was more than capable of exactly that.

"Sounds like you're all hot and bothered over Nicky's ass!"

At that, the crowd cheered. The object of those cheers, of course, wasn't me—it was Nicky James, GCW's women's wrestling star. But with that, they had taken an interest in what I had to say. Bringing up sex out of nowhere was, as it happened, a remarkably effective way to seize people's attention. I smirked and rolled right on.

"I mean, your girlfriend's your right hand, so you might as well get an eyeful somewhere like this before you head home. Am I wrong?"

[BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!]

[F-ck You Sin! F-ck You Sin! F-ck You Sin! F-ck You Sin!]

The heat was colossal. I hadn't quite expected them to break out the word that starts with F. Well, that landed beautifully. Grinning wide as I drank in their reaction, I kept right on going.

"What? The only woman's hand you've ever held since the day you were born is your mother's?"

Wow—that one struck home, because the boos turned positively vicious.

"And you live in your mom's house! And you're here watching the show on her money!"

The crowd hurled profanity at me too filthy to repeat. For a moment I found myself genuinely curious how the broadcast would end up censoring all of it.

After one big, open laugh, I climbed up onto the ring post and perched myself there, where every eye in the building could find me. Then I let the humor drain out of my face.

The turn.

A technique for snapping the entire crowd's focus onto me in a single instant.

"Russell Hart's no different."

Before an audience gone suddenly silent, I let my words carry on, slow and deliberate.

"Call it a royal family all you want—the man's nothing but a freeloader who's lived under his parents' roof his entire life. And that freeloader is my next opponent. Honestly, it's a bitterly funny joke."

This was the mic work I had prepared. It fused Russell Hart with the fans themselves, hoisting him up as the babyface—while telling them exactly who I was, too.

"Me? I've been crisscrossing every corner of this country since the day I was born. Whatever son of a bitch stepped up, I dropped him with these two fists and took what I wanted."

And at that very moment, every word of it was broadcasting across the entire state of Georgia.

"And that's exactly how it's going to stay."

Anyone who watched tonight's segment would be lying awake all week, too wired with anticipation for next week to get a proper night's sleep.