The Hot Tag
In front of the TV yet again.
"Toast Bomb!"
The nickname had well and truly stuck by now. Word was the reaction had been fantastic, and I felt my shoulders square with pride without my even asking them to.
The GCW wrestlers gathered around the screen had watched enough pro wrestling in their lives to be sick of it. Yet even they couldn't deny it — Cena and Eddie's Toast Bomb was a thing of beauty.
Beautiful enough to bury my moves and Russell's right along with them, but sure.
Still, we had strengths of our own. That was enough.
Right after the Toast Bomb landed, the footage cut away. I drilled Calista with a knee strike, and Russell came falling from above, hammering a Shooting Star Press straight down.
"Ha! That's pure art!"
"Gorgeous!"
"That stomp-and-release thing? Badass as hell!"
The wrestlers shouted their reactions, each in his own key.
"......."
My shoulders puffed up a little further.
They cheered like boys watching wrestling for the very first time — and then, right at the moment Russell went for the cover, the screen cut dead.
Baku's doing.
He'd come by the training facility, summoned the four of us from the footage, and put this tape on for us. The trouble was that the other wrestlers had piled in to watch as well, and now they all wore sheepish looks.
"...Don't you lot have practice to get to?"
"Yes, yes, we're going."
"We just wanted one more look at that beautiful move, that's all."
The wrestlers drifted back to the training floor.
Baku let a beat of silence pass, then turned to the four of us and got down to business.
"So. What do you think?"
"Why all of a sudden?"
"Sin pitched it."
At Russell's question, Baku looked my way instead — as if to say, your turn to talk.
"I figured we could cut this footage together and run it as a commercial."
"A commercial?"
"Yeah. A TV spot. The tag team tournament finals are on next week's show."
"The company feels this feud is worth pushing. That's the thinking."
"I-is that right?"
"Relax, Sin. The fans are already anticipating it — all you have to do is show them exactly that much."
"Anyway. The main concept is these two moves; the rest is up in the air. I want to hear ideas from all four of you first."
"W-well..."
"What if we shot some camera work from the victim's point of view — the wrestler taking the move as it comes crashing down on him?"
"Ohh?"
Baku's interest sparked. I pressed on.
"If we want the moves to read as bone-shakingly intense, that kind of direction could really sell it."
Like filming Russell's Shooting Star descent from the mat, looking up. Or capturing the spinning world of a man taking the powerbomb.
"And to close it out, show all four of us face to face, then snap the logo up on screen."
"Not bad at all. I'll have a word with the video team."
"Thank you."
"So you all get the picture? Next week's match is getting a proper promotional push, and I want all four of you ready for it. Properly ready."
"Yes, Baku."
"We'll give it everything."
"Good. You can head back now. ...Ah — Sin. You stay a minute."
"......?"
Summons out of nowhere. Puzzled, I stayed in my seat.
Once Russell, Cena, and Eddie had gone, Baku ejected the tape from the VCR and looked my way.
"So. What's the angle?"
"Sorry?"
"Every time you've asked for something, every time you've pitched an idea, there was always a reason behind it. And you always cashed in big."
"Did I?"
"Don't play innocent with me."
He wasn't about to let it slide.
I'd planned to brush past it without giving a reason, honestly. From our side, this was a gamble carrying real risk — no need to make anyone else shoulder it.
Baku really has been around the block.
"The rating came out at 3.5 percent."
"What?"
"The live number the night Greg appeared. A full 3.5 percent."
"Wasn't it 3.2?"
"That was when we only ran the promo. The following week, when he actually stepped into the ring, it climbed all the way to 3.5."
"I see."
"Wouldn't breaking that record soon be the respectful thing to do? For Greg's sake?"
"...Is that even possible?"
"It has to be. That's what all of us have been preparing for together, this whole time."
"Hm-m-m..."
"It'll be all right."
"That's the question, isn't it. To beat the record from Greg's era, we'd need to lift the rating by nearly a full point."
"Then we'll lift it by a full point."
"Ha! You brat."
Baku broke into a wide grin.
"If there's anything else you need, say the word. As far as my authority reaches, I'll back you to the hilt."
"Nothing else. Just give us a generous match time."
"Would two hours do?"
"...Our show is two hours."
"No, no — now that I sit with it, this idea actually sounds pretty fun."
Is he serious?
A two-hour match? Even I would drop dead in the ring.
And yet somehow, the sense that Baku of all people could probably fill two whole hours standing up was even more terrifying.
Oh — and one more person.
Dad would pull it off without breaking a sweat, too, if somebody told him to.
The world really did have far too many terrifying people in it.
Once Baku grasped my aim, he carried the proposal straight up the chain. After a long meeting among the top brass, the match time was set: thirty minutes.
A full quarter of the entire show devoted to a single match — an extraordinary length.
This is going to be a real grind.
But impossible it was not. It would simply demand brutal preparation. The four of us wrestlers — myself included — sat through meeting after meeting, working out how to pace a match that long.
And out of it came our first conclusion: a Falls Count Anywhere match.
Under the standard rules, a wrestler who leaves the ring is counted out — ten seconds, and it's a loss. Strip that rule away, let the fight go anywhere in the building, make pins legal wherever they land, and you have Falls Count Anywhere.
And the second conclusion: Broken Wyatt and Bobby Ashley would storm the match at its midpoint.
With those fixed points in place, we began to weave the match together.
In the meantime, GCW promoted the thing as big as their leash allowed. Of course, being a subsidiary outfit came with hard ceilings of its own — honestly, it was barely different from when Greg had appeared.
In other words: we were being tested on exactly the same terms Greg Hart had been tested on. Nothing more, nothing less.
But there was one thing we had that he didn't.
On Monday Night Burning Kong, WWF's flagship broadcast, Greg Hart himself had name-dropped our match in the middle of his mic work.
That almost certainly wasn't in the script.
And he'd helped us anyway. That was Greg through and through.
With that promotional boost stacked on top of everything else, show day arrived.
Attendance in the building...
"1,258."
I said it to the three men facing me, moments before we walked out to the ring.
"Two hundred of them standing-room only. We've come this far — there's no way we hold anything back now."
The three of them nodded, faces grave.
"Highest rating for a regular show without Greg is 2.8 percent. Let's add a full point to that."
Our hands stacked together in the middle on instinct, and the other three each said his piece.
"No nerves. Just run exactly what we prepared."
Russell.
"I'll keep up. You have my word."
Cena.
"......."
Right, Eddie. Let's go get 'em.
With a light bark of spirit, we began our entrance.
First out were the two members of the Wyatt Family.
Broken Wyatt was not with them — and so the crowd's reaction stayed lukewarm. But Cena and Eddie, in their black sheep masks, paid the silence no mind and climbed into the ring.
And that was precisely what we had counted on.
Their theme — a vocalist drifting over a hushed, unsettling melody — painted the pair as something dangerous. Even the lack of a pop felt less like indifference than a crowd struck dumb by the sight of two monsters.
Then it was our turn.
A bright, bounding guitar riff, and Russell led us out. The second he drew the curtain aside, the crowd exploded.
But instead of striding down the ramp, Russell glanced back over his shoulder.
"Sin. Slaughter every last one of them."
"I'll give it everything I have."
So much for Baku's "encouragement." Grinning, I stepped out to my music.
What followed was a dubstep hymn — reverent and destructive all at once, and impossible to stand still through. The crowd sang along. Out on the ramp, I conducted their chorus like a choir director as Russell and I made for the ring.
The babyface team everyone loved: Russell Hart and Sin. Otherwise known as Sin-Cell.
And across from them stood Cena and Eddie, disciples of Broken Wyatt, leader of a backwoods cult.
The four of us glared across the ring at our assigned men. Me and Cena. Russell and Eddie.
The referee wedged himself between us to break the staredown. It didn't take. Wound tight on the brink of the match, the crowd kept cheering long after the music had died.
"Both teams, please compete with sportsmanship and, uh... do respect the rules."
The referee darted nervous glances toward Eddie and Cena. Neither of them had even removed his black sheep mask yet.
Meanwhile, on our side of the ring, Russell and I — as if this were what we'd been waiting for — started up a game of rock-paper-scissors.
Russell won. I slumped in theatrical defeat while he pumped his fist in delight.
Because here was the thing: unlike everyone else in that building, the two of us showed no fear whatsoever in the face of the Wyatt Family's monsters. Quite the opposite — we were playing two men aching to get their hands on them.
Playing the reluctant substitute, I slipped out through the ropes, leaned an arm against the corner, and murmured to Russell.
"Russell. Do this right."
Instead of an answer, he gave a small nod. Across the ring, Eddie — preparation complete — stepped forward.
The bell tolled, and the match began.
One thing about facing giant-class wrestlers: the bout never opens with textbook chain wrestling. The moment Russell closed the distance, Eddie attacked in a flash, driving him back across the ring with punch after punch.
With Russell shoved into the corner, a razor-sharp chop cracked across his chest.
SMAAACK!
The sound seized the crowd by the collar. Unable to bear watching Russell sell it with everything he had, I covered my eyes and wailed.
Details like that mattered. Sometimes the camera swept the entire ring. Sometimes the viewer's gaze landed squarely on me. Which meant that, for as long as I was out there, I had to keep acting as Sin — every single second.
That kind of granularity bred immersion, and immersion moved the ratings.
Thankfully, those two were delivering.
SMAAACK! CRACK!
"Kghk! Guhk!"
Russell's selling was spare and efficient — he hurt like a man genuinely being beaten without once tipping into theater.
Which made it feel real, and made the people watching want to root for him. Riding that swell of support, Russell slipped free at precisely the right moment. The instant Eddie turned, he lashed a low kick into the man's knee.
Eddie wobbled.
The crowd chanted Russell's name. On that rolling wave of cheers, he began tearing into Eddie.
Since teaming with me, Russell's style had transformed. He moved flashier and far more efficiently than his uncle Greg ever had.
"Yeah~! That's it!"
Kick the knee, drop him, wrench it. It was strategy known as leg hell — and Eddie's massive frame heaved and wobbled, filling the ring with the sight of it.
Not that he intended to just lie down and take it, of course.
WHAM!
A lightning counter caught Russell flush, and he crashed down. Eddie staggered across the ring and made the tag, summoning Cena into the ring.
Cena came out to a chorus of boos and piled straight onto the fallen Russell.
"Russell! Get up!"
I screamed toward the man taking the beating, helpless on the apron.
But Russell, tangled in the duo's tag team rhythm, couldn't gather himself. The pair bent every dirty rule in the book to keep hammering him down.
Russell fought, of course. Again and again he lunged toward my outstretched hand — and again and again, agonizingly, the tag never came.
Dragged back reaching for it. Blinded by fouls, senses scrambled.
The match ground on, burning the crowd's nerves — and then:
THWACK!
Off the ropes, Russell and Cena struck each other at the very same instant. Both men crashed to the canvas together.
The crowd felt it — the perfect moment for a tag — and thundered the chant.
I stretched my hand out and hammered the turnbuckle, slap after slap after slap.
This was the moment for the Hot Tag.