Gay Costume!
The arena thundered as the crowd clapped along in perfect rhythm, chanting for me to get out.
Performance art without a script. In that single moment, pro wrestling revealed its true nature for all to see.
I had drawn the audience straight into the orbit of my mic-work, turning them into actors in my show.
Russell, who had been silent for a beat, raised the microphone to his lips. The crowd hushed, waiting on his every reaction.
Furrowing his brow, Russell looked at me with an air of bewilderment.
"I'm not sure I want to hear it from a man who can't even wear these 'gay clothes.'"
"What did you say?"
"No, wait. These aren't gay clothes. This is battle gear — made for fighting. Like what Waterman or Alphaman wear."
As if struck by a thought, he pressed on.
"Did anyone ever sneer at Alphaman's costume trunks and call them disgusting? No. They're an expression of conviction."
"Conviction?"
"That's right. A symbol that, unlike a lowlife like you, we intend to fight like men — to give as good as we get. Frankly, those jeans you're wearing to soften every blow look a lot gayer to me."
"You little..."
"Whoa, whoa, hold on. I'm not finished. These clothes, unlike yours, are the true garb reserved only for men like me — men who actually *wrestle*."
Russell flashed a sly smile.
"If you're worried about scraping your knees up there in the ring, why not strap on some knee pads? Cowboy."
I fell silent.
It was, undeniably, a persuasive argument. And in response, the crowd began to react on their own.
[Knee pad! Knee pad!]
I staggered back as if stunned, and the crowd fed off it, their "knee pad" chant swelling even louder.
"If not, then get up here! Prove you're no coward!"
[Hart! Hart! Hart!]
"Stand up to this great name these people are chanting!"
The atmosphere hurtled toward its peak.
The crowd had been swept away completely by Russell's promo. After standing there with my mouth shut for a moment, I finally tossed my microphone aside and charged toward the ring.
But I didn't climb in.
Instead, I flashed a grin — one that seemed determined to hide the fact that his swagger had crushed me.
[Booooooooooooooo!]
The crowd, deflated, showered me with boos. Ignoring them entirely, I backed away slowly and retreated through the curtain to the backstage area.
Amid the chorus of jeers that followed me out, I walked inside, wiping the cold sweat from my forehead.
How did that land?
When I turned to check the situation, Russell's entrance music hit — the sound team's timing had been flawless.
All eyes in the arena locked onto Russell, standing alone in the ring. He climbed the turnbuckle like a man promising victory.
Good. That works.
I let out a breath of relief.
And no sooner had I done so than a heavy hand landed on my shoulder — Baku's, thick as a bear paw.
"You saved my life back there."
"Even by my own standards, that was one hell of a cover."
When I turned around with a wry grin, Baku was giving me a look of dead seriousness.
And it wasn't just him.
Harley Racy and every grizzled veteran on the crew were watching me with something close to awe.
This went beyond mere respect.
Wow, honestly? That was pretty damn cool.
If I thought so myself, I could only imagine how it looked to everyone else. Even the god of pro wrestling would have whistled at that one.
What I had just done was rescue Russell's gimmick — a character that had nearly plummeted into the abyss — with absolute perfection.
The only problem was that performing with such stone-cold composure burned through stamina, and I was still dripping sweat.
Taking a water bottle from a passing staffer, I drained it to the bottom and waited for Russell to come backstage. The crew, too, watched the curtain with tense faces until his exit was confirmed.
A commercial had already begun rolling on the broadcast, but live at the venue, the action had to go on regardless.
Russell calmly gave them one last display of himself as a wrestler, then drew back the curtain and stepped inside.
"......"
And then his legs gave out beneath him.
I had anticipated it, and my arms were already out to catch him.
"Thank you, Sin."
"Don't mention it."
"No, I keep saying the same thing, but — seriously, you saved me."
"Your comeback was pretty impressive too."
I gently patted and stroked Russell's trembling cheek, doing my best to comfort him.
One thing had now been made crystal clear.
Russell Hart could not yet stand on his own as a superhero. The cheers he'd been basking in were half-baked — propped up entirely by the crowd's backlash against me, the resident villain.
After the show, seated at a table, I sank into thought.
It's not like I didn't expect this.
Still, it had arrived half a beat ahead of schedule. As I chewed on the reason, the answer soon came to me.
First: when people saw Russell's ring gear, they genuinely felt it looked like a "gay costume."
Of course, in reality, it wasn't.
I don't think gay men dress like that either, for the record. And I had no intention of demeaning anyone.
It was strictly business talk.
Nothing more than a cheap joke. A bad move, sure — but one absolutely necessary for the success of the show.
And in fact, people loved it. They connected with the old prejudice that amateur wrestling is "kind of gay."
And through that reaction, another conclusion emerged: the character of Sin was drawing a positive response from the crowd.
Bold, confident, unapologetically badass. A macho persona that made Americans lose their minds.
Transcending race (they probably saw in me something akin to Dwayne Johnson), my in-ring ability and my humor were simply magnetic.
We had anticipated all of this and scripted the program to carry us past even the pay-per-view. And yet, with Russell's pop already dying out this early, there was an uncomfortable wrinkle in the plan.
If he flopped entirely, the fallout would land on me too.
"This is an unexpected situation."
Baku, seated across the table, let out a long sigh. The other staff gathered around nodded in agreement.
His words stung Russell, who was still sunk deep in despondency over the night's events.
"I-I'm sorry."
"...Why are *you* apologizing?"
Baku's brow furrowed.
"If anything, it's on us to apologize. We're not supposed to let your character get made a fool of."
I agreed with that assessment.
After a stretch of silence, Baku broke into a wry smile and looked my way.
"Still, we wriggled out of it somehow."
"That we did. Thanks to everyone getting fired up and covering for me."
"The script itself should hold up fine."
"I caught the radio on the way in — Relcher was raving about tonight's booking. Called it fantastic."
The staff chimed in one by one. Baku, digesting it all, spoke as if delivering a verdict.
"From here on out, we ease off the gay jokes. The script proceeds as planned."
That's probably for the best, for now.
I didn't agree with flat-out ignoring the crowd's reactions, but until this rivalry ran its course, holding that line seemed wise.
If Russell ended up looking like a joke, this whole feud would be dead in the water.
So I raised my hand.
"Baku, mind if I add one more thing to that?"
"What is it, Sin?"
"In next week's match, I want to go hard hitting."
"Hard hitting...?"
Baku's brow creased.
"And a blood job on top of it."
"A blood job?!"
His eyes went wide with disbelief.
Everyone around the table wore the same expression — they'd just heard something insane.
But I meant every word of it.
To navigate this situation smoothly, we absolutely needed a match worthy of the moment.
A great pro wrestler does not always give everything to every situation.
Pro wrestling is the art of throwing your body and taking the hits. That's why the wrestler who went all-out, night after night, always met the same bitter end.
Shredded knees that screamed in agony at the mere touch of wind. Or a chemical dependence, just to forget the pain.
I'd been there myself. If only to avoid walking that road again, I had guarded my body jealously ever since I came back.
From within the knowledge I carried, I strove to draw the biggest possible reaction out of the smallest possible effort.
Pacing within a single match matters — but pacing across an entire career matters just as much.
And yet, when the moment demands it, you have to throw your body into the fire.
The blood job — using blood itself as a storytelling tool — sprang from the same philosophy.
It is the wrestler's sacrifice: a declaration to the audience that the contest they are witnessing is desperate, brutal, and real.
Blood streamed down from my forehead.
"Haah... haah..."
Spread flat on my back in the middle of the ring, I gasped for air, spent beyond strength.
The second match with Russell.
A contest of utter savagery and cruelty was racing toward its conclusion.
I'd taken a beating all night long — my chest, my neck, my cheeks burned hot.
Russell, sprawled right beside me, was in just as wretched a state.
The crowd had been flattened by our match. A long while had passed since we'd both gone down, but not a soul among them showed any sign of tiring — they were chanting their hearts out.
[This is Awesome!]
Clap, clap, clap-clap-clap!
Hand claps gave way to that chant of pure awe. I slowly gathered myself and began to move.
There was a technique we'd used to captivate the crowd that had started the night watching us with casual indifference.
Hard hitting.
Exactly what it sounds like — laying it in for real, holding nothing back.
When delivering blows, and when receiving them.
No matter how well everyone knows it's staged, when two men genuinely clobber each other, the crowd flinches. It's human nature.
And then they start to wonder — is this actually fake?
Because anything could be happening beyond the script, after all. By deliberately dancing along that boundary line, we pulled them deeper into the story.
Then, little by little, we showed them moves that could only be executed through perfect harmony between partners — revealing the truth of what we do.
And once they understood, the crowd felt something else entirely watching the match.
Awe.
CRACK! SLAP!
The crowd roared their ecstatic approval at the two of us enduring impacts that swelled and split flesh.
There was no room left for talk of "gay costumes." The people had accepted us both, beyond any doubt.
These were two wrestlers you could trust to deliver — wrestlers worth the price of a ticket.
That was the respect owed to any pro wrestler, regardless of face or heel, regardless of the script. And we had just reminded everyone of that fact.
CRACK—!
My open hand tore across Russell's chest with a vicious chop. He collapsed in agony.
The final stretch of the match.
Stamina was bleeding away, both of us exhausted past exhaustion. But Russell and I refused to stay down, trading blows without pause.
Even the biggest bombs couldn't buy a three-count.
And at last, the crowd gave us their ultimate reaction.
[Let's Go Russell!]
A cheer for the babyface. But the opposite side answered for me too.
[Let's Go Sin!]
[Let's Go Russell!]
[Let's Go Sin!]
The crowd chanted our names in alternating rhythm, lost in the sheer joy of the contest itself.
Grinning, I looked across the ring at Russell. He was laughing too, shaking out his battered limbs.
The collision began anew.
Signature moves flew back and forth until even the most passive spectators were on their feet.
When Russell snapped his Sharpshooter into place, the arena felt ready to storm the ringside barrier.
The closing moments of the match.
A submission hold at a moment like this carried enormous weight.
"GYYYYAAAAAGH!!"
The louder I screamed, the more violently the crowd responded.
Would I tap?
Could I escape?
The tightrope walk stretched on, and I reached — just as I had last time — for the laces of Russell's boot.
But Russell wasn't falling for the same trick twice. His boot crushed down on my outstretched hand.
"Ghk—?!"
Wheezing through the pain, I went limp on the canvas and didn't move.
Then the referee stepped close to check my condition.
And in that exact instant, I snapped upright and yanked the referee's body toward me.
"Wh-what—?!"
Off balance, he toppled forward and collided with Russell, who was mid-hold on top of me.
Exactly as the script demanded.
The second match ended, in the end, with my disqualification — unable to endure the hold any longer.
A heel's move: one that wrecked the integrity of the match itself.
DONG! DONG! DONG!
The moment the ring bell sounded, the boos began to rain down.
[Booooooooooooooo!]
But I, only just freed from the pain, let out a long sigh of relief.