Signs and Superheroes
The next day.
A sea of humanity had already swallowed the plaza in front of the building that would host the pay-per-view, packed so tight there was hardly room to plant a foot. They were the citizens of Atlanta, along with wrestling fanatics devoted enough to fly in from every corner of the country.
Each of them had come dressed in their purchased wrestling shirts, championship belts, and merchandise, waiting since midday for the doors to open. In America, where sports culture ran deep, turning a whole afternoon into a festival was simply how things were done.
And of course, GCW had laid the groundwork to meet that energy halfway. Vendor stalls selling t-shirts and merchandise blanketed the outside of the building, and the promotion had even gone so far as to recruit the surrounding restaurants into setting up food stands. Sandwiches, hot dogs, General Tso's chicken, fried chicken, fries, chips, right down to bottles of Pepsi-Cola. The head chefs of beloved local eateries came out in person to show off their craft — for a cut, of course, minus the five percent fee they owed GCW.
While the crowd savored the festival atmosphere, GCW staff moved through the lines conducting interviews and surveys, taking the pulse of the fans who had come out today. Something like this:
1. Where did you travel from?
2. Who did you come with?
3. Which match are you most looking forward to?
4. Which wrestler are you here to see?
5. Which wrestler do you dislike the most?
Every question looked light on the surface, yet each one cut deep. The first question, for instance, was the quickest way to sort the out-of-town hardcore fans from the locals. The second revealed whether a customer came as part of a family. The third measured how well the storylines had been built, and the last two gauged how the roster itself was perceived.
A male college student who'd come all the way from New York, one Nick Johnson, spoke to the interviewer with theatrical enthusiasm. "Broken Wyatt, no contest! The polish on that gimmick — the sheer charisma!"
The family fans showed up wearing shirts that mixed WWF mainstays Greg Hart and Russell Hart together. "Russell, obviously. He's handsome, there's so much for our son to learn from him, and he just adores the guy. I really hope he wins!"
At his wife's words, the husband's face went carefully blank. He was the only one in the family of four cheering for the heel, Sin — which was why, as of late, he'd lost all voting rights at the dinner table. But in his heart of hearts, he believed a man ought to be like Sin. Confidence that bordered on arrogance, and the audacity to use whatever means necessary to win. That attitude — as if to say, I couldn't care less about the nonsense coming out of your mouths — reminded him of his own younger self.
Pro wrestler Sin had the kind of charisma that turned even people of entirely different races into his fans.
Much like 'Brooke Lee,' the Hong Kong action star and martial artist of yesteryear.
Through the window drifted the raucous sound of people laughing and carrying on.
Good energy out there.
With a faint smile, I leaned back in my chair and surveyed the desk in front of me. A sign-in sheet, a marker, and rows of my newly released t-shirts. The roster was working a schedule of autographs and handshakes for fans who had purchased the add-on tickets.
Seated beside me were Russell Hart, Bobby Ashley, and Broken Wyatt — the wrestlers judged to have fanbases substantial enough to warrant a table of their own.
It's been a while since my last signing.
It was also my first time being selected for an event like this. A flicker of nerves stirred in my chest, and I went quiet. Which was when Wyatt, already seated at the table, broke the silence.
"So how are you playing it?"
He'd grown his beard to roughly four times its previous length, and it made him genuinely terrifying to look at. He'd even brought out the actual lantern he used on the show.
"Playing what, exactly?"
"Kayfabe."
"……You mean the thing where you stay in character even in your private life?"
Nerves, maybe, but the words came tumbling out of me oddly fast.
"That's the one. Gonna keep it up?"
"Well… honestly, if I stayed in character, I'd probably end up fighting my own fans."
"I'm keeping it up. There'll be a lot of kids coming through."
Russell smiled easily. "Bobby? What about you?"
"I'll match whoever's in front of me."
That was my conclusion too. Bobby and I were heels — Wyatt nominally so as well — which meant we had to steer clear of any situation that might spark trouble with the crowd. If we pushed the villain act on someone unprepared and they took it as a genuine slight, things would get ugly fast.
The real question is whether anyone's actually coming to my table at all.
Great. Now I was anxious for no reason. My palms were sweating enough to chill me right through the back of my shirt.
I waited for the fans to file in, brows knitted. The crowd's reactions had been incredible. Everyone was acknowledging me. But now, hoisted onto this strange new kind of test, something churned uneasily in my gut.
Trust everything you've built to get here.
The moment I made that vow, a staff member standing off in the distance called out.
"Opening the doors!"
The three sets of gates swung open, and the waiting lines poured inside in orderly fashion.
Long story short — my worry had been for nothing.
There's a ton of them!
The number of fans heading my way was substantial. Better yet, most of them were wearing my t-shirts. Feeling a prickle at the tip of my nose, I turned to the first person in line — a white man in glasses — and spoke.
"Name?"
"Uh, C. O'Connell. That's my internet handle. Could you write 'Pro Wrestling World Fighting' next to it?"
"Pro Wrestling World?"
"Yes, it's an online fan community."
"Do I come up a lot over there?"
"Are you kidding? Even the guys who used to worship nothing but Japanese wrestling have started watching WWF because of you!"
O'Connell's voice rang with conviction. "You might be the superstar who brings pro wrestling back to America. Godspeed, Sin."
"……Thank you."
I shook his hand with a smile, and a staff member standing nearby snapped a photo of the two of us.
And just like that, another hundred dollars.
Easy money.
Every photo came with an extra appearance fee on my end. The moment the nerves loosened, the money math surfaced first — that's the cunning little gremlin in every human being.
All sorts of characters came through my line after that.
"You'll never beat Russell Hart! Prepare yourself for defeat!"
"Oh-ho. Well, we'll find out when the bell rings. No way I'm losing to that greenhorn sitting right over there."
Light heel work. Honestly, this was one of the most beautiful things about pro wrestling — the fans stepping up and playing their part in the show.
"You're never gonna win!"
……That was an act, right?
Hiding a wry smile, I greeted the crowd, keeping kayfabe exactly as deep as it needed to go — and breaking it just as deliberately. Among them was a cluster of kids who, like me, had roots in Asia.
"Sin! Win it today, okay?!"
"Yeah, yeah. When Russell goes down, that's when you give me the big cheer, got it?"
"Of course! Guys like Russell deserve to get their faces smashed in!"
"……."
They say the preservatives in instant ramen really do mess with kids these days. After that fleeting thought, I took photos with each of the children. These kids would be in my corner whether I played heel or face.
It was bitterly ironic, really. That being Asian could actually work in my favor.
The venue buzzed to life the moment the fans flooded in, exactly as everyone had predicted: Russell drew the family crowds, Bobby drew fellow Black fans and the muscle-bound faithful, and Wyatt drew mostly nerds and rednecks. All of them saw something of themselves in their heroes and rooted for them with everything they had.
But for me, things got a little… strange.
Aside from the Asian fans at the start, I'd assumed it would be nothing but hardcore nerd fans — until one of them leaned in.
"You. I'm going to be watching you very closely."
"……Pardon?"
"A gay costume? There's no such thing. You're discriminatory. I'm watching you to the very end."
A male fan radiating a distinctly peculiar aura ran his eyes over my shoulder muscles like he was appraising a sculpture, then drifted away.
……Come to think of it, people do say pretty Asian men get a warm reception in the gay community.
Well, a fan is a fan.
But the fans who came after that were, truly, the ones who strayed furthest of all from my expectations.
A family.
I never imagined I could become an icon for people like them. Yet the little boy fidgeting nervously in front of me right now was, without question, my fan.
A fellow Asian. That was likely the whole reason they were cheering for me — but family threw me off my stride.
The couple looked modestly dressed, as if money were tight, and this appeared to be their first time in a place like this; they seemed a touch flustered. I smiled warmly and guided them along.
"Come on over this way."
"Oh — yes, yes!"
"Go on, Ned. Go see him."
"……."
The hesitant boy shuffled toward me. I looked down at a child barely tall enough to peek over my table. He was quite thin, and so tongue-tied he couldn't even meet my eyes.
Moments like this somehow hollow out your chest. But I was careful not to speak too freely — it might all be my imagination, and if it was, anything I said could come out as an intrusion.
"What's your name?"
"N-Ned Kim."
"Kim?"
That was unexpected.
"I'm a Kim too."
"…Huh?"
"Your parents are Korean, aren't they?"
"Th-that's right."
"So am I."
I gave him an easy smile. I scrawled my signature across the sheet and added a small 'Junho Kim' beside it, then held it up for him to see.
"That's my real name."
"Joon… ho… Kim?"
"Junho Kim."
"Th-then what about Sin?"
"That's my superhero name."
Not exactly phrasing a boy like this would grasp in one go — but he did. "Keep it a secret from everyone else, okay?"
"Y-yes!"
"Good. Ah — ma'am?"
Glancing sideways, I turned to Ned's mother as she fumbled with her camera. "Oh — yes?"
"Take plenty of pictures. It's a pleasure meeting another Korean family."
At those words she broke into a bright smile and fired off shot after shot. I kept the conversation with Ned loose and easy. Where he lived, why he'd become a fan, and even a bit of well-worn advice about working hard at his studies and his sports alike. A sharp-eyed staff member decided not to rush me, so I stretched the moment out as long as I reasonably could.
And at the end, I sent him off happy — a t-shirt, a GCW cap, sweatbands, a whole haul of merchandise tucked under his arm.
When I came back to the past, I never wanted to obsess over race the way I used to.
Still, if I could become a superhero to little Asian kids out there, I figured that wouldn't be such a bad thing at all.
And so the autograph session drew to a close, leaving far more inside me than ink on paper.
"GCW! Welcome to TAKEDOWN! Calling the action tonight is yours truly, Rick Ross, alongside the Malibu King! Pleasure to be here, Mali!"
"Yesss, a pleasure indeed. Rick, how have you been keeping yourself?"
"Counting down to this pay-per-view, and nothing else! Can you feel it, folks? That white-hot energy rolling off this crowd?!"
Official attendance: 9,842.
For a developmental promotion, this was a crowd most main-roster shows could only dream of. The giant crane camera swept grandly across the stands, where fans hoisted signs of every shape and color and roared their approval. Even the weathered veteran Rick Ross felt a chill run down his spine at an atmosphere he so rarely got to taste.
"Sounds like everyone out there feels the same way I do! Here's hoping our athletes reward them with one hell of a show tonight!"
"Let's start by running down the match card, shall we?!"
The GCW logo flashed across the massive screen above the entrance ramp. But the match card that was supposed to follow it never appeared. The commentators stumbled, thoroughly thrown by the sudden turn.
"Uh — what's happening here?"
"We appear to be having a brief technical difficulty. Our apologies, viewers—"
"Hear me, all of you."
A voice like a funeral bell rolled through the arena.
With it, a single candle flame flickered onto the screen. The crowd, caught off guard by the delightful twist, erupted in cheers.
Broken Wyatt — GCW's de facto top babyface.
The screen showed him lifting his lantern, and the fans, swept up in that strange charisma, lost their minds.
"All of you have been waiting for this."
Wyatt raised the gleaming golden GCW Championship belt.
"I am not that kind of man. Not the kind who talks pretty and delivers nothing. Not the kind who hands you hope — and then works you like slaves."
A beat of silence.
With his mouth shut behind that wall of beard, only his pale blue eyes showed.
"Unlike those men… I came for you."
Whooosh!
Wyatt lit the lantern — and the screen went black. In the same breath, a mournful, crawling guitar line began to play.
Astonishingly, Takedown was opening with the GCW Championship match itself. The main event would be Sin versus Russell Hart, one on one.
And it was there, in that match, that the single most important event of this pay-per-view was destined to unfold.