Major Copy
Off in the distance, I could see the father and son talking.
It had only been moments ago. When Wyatt left the ring and followed me backstage, his father's sudden visit had visibly startled him. The two of them hesitated awkwardly for a bit, then moved off somewhere private to talk — and now here I was, having trailed after them in secret.
'He did well today, though?'
Tilting my head, I watched to see how things would unfold. If this went badly — if his father's words shattered his composure and he laid an egg in next week's match — it would become my problem too.
'It'd better be good news.'
Or better yet, maybe an oil well would erupt in the front yard and he'd never have to wrestle again. As I stared at the two of them, entertaining such idle fancies, I felt my eyes go wide.
'Huh?'
Against all expectation, the mood was downright heartwarming. Shaxter was nodding along with a hand resting on his son's shoulder, and Wyatt's eyes had gone glassy with tears.
"A son, by nature, wants nothing more than to surpass his father and earn his acknowledgment."
"……?! B-Baku?!"
"Shh. You'll ruin it."
Baku had popped up out of nowhere behind me, finger pressed to his lips. Apparently he'd followed along out of concern for the two of them as well — and on top of that, he'd delivered a beautifully timed line.
"Wait, what did you just say…?"
"Same goes for you, doesn't it?"
"……Well. I suppose."
I gave a wry smile. He wasn't wrong.
I, too, dreamed of becoming a son my parents could be proud of — of returning home in glory and spoiling them rotten. Repaying them on top of everything they'd already given me. That was every child's dream, surely.
For Wyatt, it went deeper still. This was a 'family business' handed down through generations — the meaning of his father's acknowledgment went without saying. And beyond that, he'd built all of this out of a hobby everyone had scoffed at, which made it worth that much more. It was a result only possible because our line of work was professional wrestling.
Turning slightly, I glanced back at Baku, who stood behind me smiling contentedly to himself.
"May I ask you one thing?"
"What is it, kid?"
"Why did you sign him? Wyatt."
Right up until we built this gimmick, he'd shown zero interest in our side of the business.
"I saw talent."
"Talent…, sir?"
"That's right. The man can talk like nobody's business. And people can't help loving the things they're gifted at."
"That's an interesting take."
"Isn't it the same for you?"
"……Maybe."
I fell silent for a moment.
People can't help loving the things they're gifted at.
"…Yeah. Maybe it is."
In that case, I supposed I had outstanding talent as a pro wrestler. After all, I genuinely loved every single thing my ideas set in motion in this industry.
Two weeks passed.
Ratings and attendance climbed day after day. Every time the show went off the air, people couldn't bear to wait out the week — they picked up the phone and called in asking about the storyline. The professionals were no different; the newsletter publishers had spent the better part of two weeks gleefully dissecting everything that had happened on screen.
"……"
"Got chills?"
Russell, who'd been listening to the radio alongside me, grinned in my direction. Sheena, apparently missing the joke entirely, looked genuinely rattled.
"Huh. That's a fair critique, actually," the co-host had said. "It doesn't fit a babyface either. Russell's supposed to be the righteous one — the kind of character who doesn't exist in the world we live in, but whom we wish did."
"Failed babyface?"
Sheena tilted her head. "Sin, babyfaces can fail?"
"All the time."
I nodded. "No matter how hard the company pushes them, a babyface who can't win the crowd's empathy is guaranteed to fail."
"Then what's the point of being a babyface at all? Why do they keep putting out characters like that?"
"……"
Before answering, I looked at Sheena in silence for a moment. The truth was, the man sitting in front of me right now had very nearly failed in exactly that way — as one of those "same old babyfaces." He was a righteous, wholesome character who could never exist in reality, and the crowd simply couldn't relate to him.
And yet he'd weathered that hardship and risen to stand tall as an Icon.
Why did the industry keep pushing babyface gimmicks that were doomed to fail? The answer was simple.
"Because if the gimmick lands — if it truly succeeds — it produces a superstar capable of changing the entire industry."
"Oh ho. Is that so?"
"Remember when Captain Logan used to tell kids, 'Take your vitamins and say your prayers!'? For the entire run of that catchphrase, WWF was partnered with the pharmaceutical industry selling 'Captain Logan Vitamins' — and they made an absolute killing."
"There's a behind-the-scenes story like that…?"
"Kids hate taking their vitamins. But if the pills have Captain Logan's face on them, they'll gobble them down."
"Where did you even hear that?"
Russell asked.
"…Hmm. Baku told me."
I offered some vague excuse and shut my mouth. Right on cue, the radio carried on.
'Worried, are we?'
I smiled.
And then, the following week.
Standing in the ring with a microphone in hand, I was holding court at full throttle.
"You all know who Greg Hart is, don't you?"
The crowd roared its approval.
Greg 'Assassin' Hart. 'The Master of Execution.''The Hero.''The Master of the Seven Techniques.' A WWF superstar draped in every illustrious nickname imaginable.
A peerless technician who, despite the handicap of being 'Canadian,' held no fewer than seven World Championship reigns. Bart Maxen, the chairman of WWF, had once declared that Greg possessed the charisma and the ability to carry an entire franchise on his existence alone.
True, he'd never carved out an era entirely his own — but he was beyond doubt a Legend, a genuine driving force of his time. Age had dulled his popularity now, yet even in the twilight of his active career, he remained a superstar who commanded the people's respect.
And here is how I chose to evaluate him.
"Shouldn't an old man hurry up and retire, go back to Canada, and watch some hockey?"
A beat of stunned silence.
Then the boos came down.
No — it was worse than boos.
The crowd hurled double-barreled curses at me in perfect chant rhythm. I simply shook my head as if it were nothing at all.
"Here's a fun fact for you! I could beat that old fossil right here in this ring until every last one of his wrinkles smooths out! And the same goes for that nephew of his — nothing but a 'minor copy' of the great man himself!"
"Did the truth sting? You all saw it with your own eyes, didn't you? Me kicking Russell's ass all over the ring!"
Right on cue, a shrieking guitar riff tore through the arena.
Russell came out to a thunderous ovation, glared daggers at me, and declared:
"I can tolerate you insulting me. But insulting a great man honored by countless people? That I will not forgive!"
"What's a 'minor copy' running his mouth for? I'm on my way up to devour the 'major copy' next, you know?"
"Face me. One more match."
"What? I don't have a hobby of fighting people I've already beaten."
"This time, I'll crack your knee."
"……Oh ho. Now that sounds interesting."
Sin's interest was piqued, and the match was made.
After the show went off the air, the radio broadcast weighed in on our feud like so:
Praise followed upon praise. The live crowds reacted much the same way. The focal point of the next match had naturally shifted to a single question: would Russell really crack Sin's knee?
Curiosity becomes sales. Anticipation becomes sales.
And refusing to be outdone by the two of us, the rest of the roster began flaunting their own individuality one after another. Amid a show-wide rise in quality, the most eye-catching figure was, of course, Wyatt.
In keeping with the standing policy — 'the championship is earned by ability' — it was he who had ascended to the GCW Championship. The other wrestlers' storylines began to weave themselves around him as the central rivalry, while Russell and I kept our own feud burning.
GCW, too, was steering the ship to ride the incoming tide.
A few days before the show where my match with Russell was set to take place, I was summoned to the office — and met a rather peculiar sight.
Arranged across the long table were five or so T-shirts.
"Pick one."
"……What is all this?"
I turned to Baku, who looked lost in grave contemplation. He covered the logo printed dead center on the black-and-white shirts with his hand.
"Your T-shirt."
"……Mine?"
"Yeah. We're releasing it as merchandise."
The front of the shirt read MAJOR COPY, the back MINOR COPY. On the shoulder was printed my logo — the word SIN fused with an inverted cross.
"I said it without thinking much of it."
"Well, the response has been great. You've already got a separate line of logo-print shirts coming, and we're releasing this alongside it."
"What will Mr. Greg Hart have to say about it, I wonder?"
"Just to be safe, I asked him privately. He said, 'Have him come up here and fight me about it.'"
"……What an honor."
I gave a wry smile.
It had caught me off guard, admittedly, but it was honestly not a bad shirt. The fabric was solid and the finishing clean.
"How much is it?"
"Sixty dollars at the shop. Forty-five online. Fifty-five through phone orders."
"Why is it cheaper online?"
"Because nobody uses the internet."
Oh, right. It was 2002.
At Baku's words, the realization sank in, and I sat down, picked out the one that looked best, and handed it over.
"I'll go with this one."
"Good. Now pray the shirts sell like hotcakes. That's how the money starts pouring into that bank account of yours."
"Ah — in that case, let me take another look…"
I took the shirt back from Baku's hand and examined it again. If the sales of this T-shirt were going into my account, then I had a duty to inspect it more carefully.
'What were my contract terms again?'
With Baku narrowing his eyes at me, I recalled the details of my deal. A signing bonus of twenty thousand dollars. An annual salary of roughly fifty thousand dollars negotiated through my performer's contract. And on top of that, my agreed percentage of merchandise revenue…
"What was it again?"
"Half a percent."
"I'd better sell my heart out, then."
In other words, every shirt sold put a whole six cents in my pocket. Taxes came out of that, on top of everything.
Baku snickered.
"That's what a contract is, kid. Say — want to shoot a promo to hype the shirt before next week's match?"
"If you'll only give the word."
I nodded, pulled on the final chosen T-shirt, and stood up. It fit a little snug — which, if anything, made my rugged musculature stand out all the more.
Major Copy, emblazoned across the chest.
Minor Copy, stamped across the back.
And through these, a good promo idea came to mind — one I couldn't wait to unveil.