4.1 Percent

A hotel room ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠in Denver, Colorado.

Greg Hart had just finished showering for tomorrow's WWF weekly show and was about to climb into bed.

Unlike GCW, WWF ran its wrestling shows not only across the United States but flew crews out to Japan, the United Kingdom, Australia, and beyond. A pro wrestling juggernaut with fans all over the globe — that was the WWF.

Which meant fans were always hanging around wherever he went. Annoying, sure. But being able to hand dreams and hope to those people was something he'd never grown tired of.

Another show tomorrow. Let's make it a good one.

Greg was scheduled to give a push to a rookie who had just debuted. He hadn't heard yet whether the kid was slated to win or lose, but honestly, he figured he'd just work the match at whatever pace felt right. He wasn't expecting much.

Amateur wrestling background, washed out of football, and came here after that, if I remember right.

The name was... LeBron Lesnar, was it? It wouldn't come to him.

I'll ask when I get there tomorrow.

With that thought, Greg flicked off the bedside lamp.

The very next instant, perfectly timed, someone knocked on the door.

"……"

It was only eight o'clock, so he could understand it.

But he had strength training scheduled for the crack of dawn tomorrow, and this was simply how Greg's life worked. His routine had been interrupted, yet without a single flicker of annoyance he got up and opened the door.

A bellboy stood in the hallway.

"Oh — Mr. Hart, I'm so sorry. Were you about to turn in?"

"What is it?"

"I'm terribly sorry, sir! It's, uh — a fax came in, and someone on the phone insisted I deliver it to Greg Hart right this minute."

"Who was—"

"He said — he said his name was Sin, sir."

"Sin?"

At that name, Greg snatched the paper out of the bellboy's hand and looked it over.

"...Heh."

A smile spread across his face.

So the kid was keeping tabs on this kind of thing. Still smiling, Greg checked the numbers on the page one more time.

The little punks had done something, all right.

So the publicity I gave them on a WWF show paid off handsomely.

He'd caught plenty of grief from Bart Maxen for it, but whatever. A good thing was a good thing.

Still smiling, Greg looked down at the bellboy, who stood there fidgeting. And being well versed in moments like this, he said quietly:

"Want an autograph?"

"Y-yes? I mean—yes!"

"You seem to want one."

"Th-thank you, sir!"

The kid wrenched his shirt open like he was tearing it off, and beneath it Greg Hart's lightning-bolt logo T-shirt made its appearance.

Greg turned to grab a marker — and that was the moment it happened.

CRASH! THUD! BAM!

A tremendous racket erupted from the room next door. Greg turned around, puzzled, and the bellboy spoke up.

"Uh — I'm pretty sure that's Triple H and Rock Van Dam sharing that room—"

"Ah, don't worry about it. Happens all the time around here."

"...It does?"

"They're fighting over who's supposed to look like the bigger star in the match, that's all."

Unlike GCW, where every man in the locker room got along, WWF was a daily fight for survival. Which was why physical altercations like this were far from rare.

Greg Hart had stepped back from the front lines now, but he despised that whole situation with a passion. And so wanting to help while he still had some pull left — to him, that was simply instinct.

Get up here before it's too late, Sin.

With a wry grin, Greg found himself wishing he could meet the kid a day sooner.

4.1%.

A genuinely miraculous number.

With the population of Georgia sitting at roughly ten million, it meant that more than four hundred thousand people had watched our GCW weekly show. And since viewers outside the state of Georgia weren't even included in that count, the real number would climb higher still.

Worth every ounce of the effort.

I called my mom to share the happy news. She picked up and, without so much as a greeting, said:

I hung up, flustered.

What's all this about getting married?

For a split second the thought crossed my mind — but then again, considering it was 2003, maybe that was simply how things were done.

I was twenty-four years old now.

In my previous life, I'd lived reasonably hard until fifty, and never once had I even dreamed of marriage.

Because I had no money. That cursed American healthcare system.

An astronomical sum had been devoured by my parents' hospital bills, after all.

Either way, it had taught me one simple truth: if you don't have enough money to raise two kids properly, don't even dream about marriage. And that conviction hadn't changed one bit.

So — work.

"Whew."

I set my flip phone down, closed my locker, and headed out into the training facility.

Among the ranks of wrestlers drenched in sweat, I made my way over to Russell.

"How's it feeling?"

"Oh — Sin."

The guy was in the middle of his squats, and he flashed me a bright smile. ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠Ever since he'd surpassed his uncle a while back, he'd seemed to walk around a little lighter.

"Feels great, actually."

"Good to hear."

Russell nodded. From today, the two of us would be preparing for our next feud together.

The opponents being...

"Introducing! Weighing in at 270 kilograms! Hailing from San Antonio, Russia — the Villainous Son of a Bitch! Siiiiiin!"

The two men standing before us right now.

J. Angelo and Montez Gaspard. The tag team built from those two very men.

Street Times.

With their trademark party-animal energy, the pair had found popularity with a gimmick built around parties and all manner of games and good times. Currently the reigning tag team champions.

The next opponents for Sin-Cell.

And out of nowhere, Angelo had appeared while announcing me like a ring announcer.

Montez gave him a puzzled look. "Whoa, whoa, Angelo. What are you doing?"

"I don't know, man, I just laid eyes on Sin — the rising superstar of the moment — and my heart filled right up with the urge to introduce him."

These two were a bit unique. In a good way — the kind of veterans who'd actually made a living doing pro wrestling, the sort who could needle you lightly and put anyone at ease. Genuinely cool seniors.

"But our boy Russell can't just stand by either! He is, after all, the only man in GCW who can hit the Shooting Star Press!"

"Whoa~ is that actually true, Angelo?"

"I'm telling you it is! Now then — ahem, ahem. Weighing in at 350 kilograms! Hailing from New York, Japan—"

"Seniors."

I cut in, laughing. New York, Japan? What on earth.

"Looking forward to working this program with you both. I've wanted to do a proper feud with you two for a long time."

However it might have sounded, I treated the two of them with full courtesy. Like the Lucha Kings, they were seniors who had spent years at the top before naturally coming down to this place. On top of that, they were the ones handing the belts over this time — respect was owed, plain and simple.

"...Us?"

"Why's that?"

"Because you two are the men capable of cutting the funniest promos in ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠GCW history."

The pair fell silent.

But not for long.

"Thank you for saying that."

Angelo dropped a hand on my shoulder. Seeing how seriously his face had shifted, I nodded. The two of them took enormous pride in their brand of comedy wrestling. They knew how to make people laugh with promos and segments, and their matches delivered the same results. Which meant approaching them with respect for exactly that was the surest way to tear down the wall between us.

Before long, Angelo was laughing heartily and kneading my shoulder with both hands.

"I like this kid."

"Same here, Angelo. Hey, Russell — what do you think of us?"

"Huh? Oh — oh, um. I respect you both a great deal too."

"Which of our matches do you like?"

"Uh, that's..."

"Come on, which one? Sin?"

"All of them, sir."

"Hahahaha! Is that right? Well, I suppose we are a touch philosophical!"

"Everyone who works a program with us comes to respect our way of doing things."

...I honestly couldn't remember, so I dodged — and somehow it worked out just fine.

"That's the direction I want to go in too. I'd like to run this program the way you seniors do it."

"Oh yeah?"

"Yes, sir. We did a little comedy on the mic recently, and the crowd reaction wasn't bad at all."

"Th-that's what I think too! We could definitely stand to lighten things up a bit!"

Russell was right. From our very beginning until now, the two of us had never once done a light-hearted feud.

Sin versus Russell. Sin and Russell versus the Wyatt Family.

The defining trait of both programs was that every party involved had something real to be tangled up over. Russell and I stood at opposite poles, arch-enemies in the making.

"Broken Wyatt was created by me and Russell. That's why, even without any elaborate promos, the atmosphere turned deadly serious on its own the moment we faced his disciples."

But this time wasn't like that.

This was not a feud rooted in any grudge. Which meant there was no harm in trying something we'd never attempted before.

Sin-Cell versus Street Times. It goes comedy.

"We've got a month, so we play the mind games like usual. How about you two spend that time figuring out exactly what kind of guys we are?"

"Ooh — like Holmes and Watson?"

"No, Mulder and Scully are better."

The ideas came rolling out.

"And what are you two planning to do?"

"You're both old hands at tag matches, so wouldn't it work for us to take a bit of a beating along the way?"

"Now THAT sounds fun!"

Buzzing with excitement, we traded ideas back and forth and built the program together.

Then, the following week.

The promo we'd filmed came pouring out of the monitoring TV.

The two members of Street Times strolled past the locker rooms, giddy as schoolboys — dressed, of course, in outfits parodying Holmes and Watson.

The roar of the live crowd laughing themselves silly came through loud and clear. I felt the reaction land hard, and couldn't help smirking.

At which point Russell, standing beside me and barely holding in his own laughter, asked:

"...So, how's it feel?"

"The crotch is a little tight."

So saying, I looked down at what I was wearing. The Hart Family wrestling gear Russell-sensei had prepared for me, built on an amateur wrestling singlet as its base.

True, I'd never managed to pay it off during the Greg Hart program.

It was foreshadowing that absolutely had to be cashed in.

Still — the crotch was a little tight.