The Open Challenge
I wanted our rivalry, until Russell returned, to become an open challenge.
An open challenge.
The champion stands in the ring and takes on any challenger who answers the call, right there on the spot.
"The reason I want to steer this rivalry myself is simple."
Everyone listened intently to my words.
"My reign will last about five months. Well, longer than President Harrison's, at least."
William Henry Harrison, the ninth President of the United States, had died just one month into his term, making him the shortest-serving president in American history.
"It's an awkward stretch of time — too short to truly elevate the championship's prestige, or to raise anyone else's standing alongside it."
"So you'd run an open challenge and face as many wrestlers as possible?"
"Exactly. Baku here said it himself. Even if a wrestler is garbage, our job is to polish him into garbage that shines and sell him anyway."
I stole a sideways glance at Baku, whose expression seemed oddly uncomfortable.
"With that in mind, I think it would work beautifully — spend the open challenge period putting on some truly great matches."
"I understand your point."
Harley let out a sigh.
"But why me?"
"Because on paper, the rivalry between you and me isn't finished yet."
"The rivalry between you and me?"
"Yes. You gave me a shot at the championship because I blackmailed you, remember?"
"I did. ......Though I suppose there is still some mileage left in it."
"So let's have the match."
"Now, hold on. Sin."
It was the head of the creative team who cut in, flustered, interrupting our back-and-forth.
"Forgive me if I'm misunderstanding something, but you're saying you want a rivalry with Harley...?"
"Of course we'd have to actually wrestle, too."
"Against a man in his sixties?"
"What I see is a legendary professional wrestler — an eight-time world champion across his career."
"......Hmm."
Harley's eyes narrowed slightly.
But the team heads who heard my words wore expressions of pure incomprehension. And understandably so.
Could a sixty-year-old wrestler, retired for twenty years, really compete in a match?
My answer to that was: under the right conditions, it wasn't impossible.
Harley met every one of those conditions.
He hadn't retired due to injury, so his body was healthy, and he had kept up his training well into old age.
"In a situation like that, I'd say you could handle one match if we tailored it for you."
"Tailored?"
"Yes. Stripping out all the dangerous maneuvers as much as possible, and taking it slow..."
"There's no need for that."
Harley cut me off.
"Instead, give me some time to prepare. It's my first bump in twenty years, after all — I'll need to drill the falls again."
"......You think you can manage it?"
"I'll be fine. One match, at least."
Harley flashed a grin at the worried team heads, then turned back to me.
"Besides, it's true I can't very well let a remark like that slide."
"Then until you're ready, shall we proceed the rivalry with the other wrestler I mentioned earlier?"
"Sounds like a good idea."
Harley glanced around at the team heads, gauging their reactions. One by one, they nodded their agreement.
Then Harley asked:
"So — this other wrestler you have in mind for the rivalry. Who is it?"
"I already told you."
"The open challenge? No — I mean your opponent for the rivalry at the pay-per-view."
"That, too, will be decided by open challenge."
"By open challenge...?"
"Yes. If we want to raise the stature of several wrestlers at once, there's no better booking than that."
Convinced by the certainty in my explanation, it didn't take long for the room to come around.
About fifteen years from now.
Shawn Cena, then in the twilight of his in-ring career, was left off the main-event booking for the first time in ten years.
But his popularity and stature remained as strong as ever. So Cena began using that capital to lift up his younger colleagues.
He captured the US Championship — the secondary title of the main show — and defended it every single week against a different opponent.
This was called the open challenge.
Anyone who wanted a shot could come out and fight Cena.
And so, for several months, Cena ran title defense after title defense on the weekly show against a parade of wrestlers.
Fans were fascinated by the sight of these competitors going toe-to-toe with a giant like Cena and refusing to back down.
In time, several of the men who had faced Cena in those championship matches grew into genuine fan favorites.
Taking my cue from that, I intended to spend my own championship reign the very same way.
But my purpose — my reason — differed from Cena's in one crucial respect.
The first reason was the nature of our calendar: a pay-per-view only once every three months.
If I ran a standard rivalry, locking onto a single opponent as usual, the number of wrestlers I could face would be exactly one.
After all, the plan was to hand the title to Russell upon his return at the pay-per-view after next.
Dropping the title to one guy right after feuding with him? That story doesn't quite hold up.
I had to defend the belt against as many wrestlers as possible.
Only then, when Russell finally beats me, will the drama land that much harder.
When the brass heard me out, they agreed it made sense, and immediately began booking around the open challenge.
And so, the following week.
As GCW Champion, I naturally opened the show, gripping the microphone amid a thunderous wave of boos.
Once again, I was in a suit.
I was no longer a back-alley thug — I had grown into one of the big bad villains of GCW itself.
"You all came out in droves to welcome me. Truly, I hardly know where to put myself."
"Boo all you want — it doesn't change the fact that this belt is sitting right here on my shoulder. Be my guest!"
As if they'd been waiting for the cue, the jeers swelled even louder. I thrust the microphone outward, milking an even bigger reaction from the crowd.
They genuinely hated me.
Admittedly, most of them hated me in the full knowledge that this was all an act.
But my character — one laced with threads of real-life bitterness — drew the audience deeper into the show than ever before.
"Of course, I know a lot of you still doubt me. Then again, I suppose it must stick in the craw, seeing a man like me standing at the top."
I owned the ring, laying out every thought that came to mind.
"So here's what I'll say — if any of you have a problem with that, then quit glaring from your seats and come step in here with me. Any of you."
The crowd stirred. I hoisted the belt high off my shoulder, savoring the moment, and shouted:
"This belt is on the line!"
At those words, the audience turned toward the entrance ramp, brimming with anticipation.
Anyone at all — please, somebody come out and strip that arrogant son of a bitch of his title.
And that was exactly why the very first thing we prepared was the strongest possible opener.
Soon enough, over a thunderous drum beat, Bobby Ashley's music exploded through the arena.
The ruler of the ring. Bobby Ashley.
A man of devastating muscle and raw power, whose wrestling style had made him the undisputed apex predator of GCW.
The de facto top babyface challenger versus the top heel champion, for the GCW Championship.
A match that should have been saved for a pay-per-view began right then and there.
Fifteen minutes of brutal warfare.
Countering Bobby's strength with technique and the occasional cheap shot, I put on a hell of a match — and in the end, I walked away with the win.
Rising amid a roiling mix of thunderous cheers and boos, I took the microphone in hand once more.
Then, still gasping for breath, I looked dead into the camera and promoted next week's show.
[Did you see that?! Every single week from now on, I'm going to teach you people why you owe me your respect! This — is the OPEN CHALLENGE!]
It was mic work with a shameless, naked message: keep watching this show.
But it fit my arrogant character perfectly. I raised the belt and made my exit first.
And then, during the commercial break... no — the cameras stayed rolling to capture Bobby receiving the crowd's adulation, all the way to the end.
That, too, was shameless.
But it was a shrewd move.
Every element of the booking had to carry meaning. And when that meaning landed, the audience reacted — and spent their money on the show.
In that sense, the fact that the fans had rallied behind a defeated Bobby Ashley was proof that our design was working.
The experts' reactions were positive as well.
The mystery would remain a mystery.
From then on, I appeared on the show every week and threw myself into a relentless schedule of outside appearances, drowning in work.
Sheamus, Kalisto, Kring, and so on. Week after week, I sat through meetings with a long line of wrestlers and put on incredible matches.
After all, I already had most of their data filed away in my head, and after trading a few holds with them in rehearsal, I had their strengths and weaknesses mapped out before long.
Using that as my foundation, I built matches designed to make each man shine.
Our ratings, which had spiked as high as eighteen percent, held steady in the fifteen-to-sixteen range.
That meant at least 1.2 million people were watching our show every week.
Factor in all the viewers catching it through other channels, and the true number was far higher still.
Given that WWF's main show was currently pulling around five million viewers, we were more than keeping pace, roughly speaking.
Never mind that WWF broadcast nationally while we were a regional promotion.
And more than that — our ratings were still rising. In other words, our numbers were trending far better than the main show's.
The main show was in the stretch where the Attitude Era was quietly dying.
I took genuine pride in the fact that GCW's show — where my era was still in full swing — was the better product.
And so I worked for it.
I never slacked on conditioning, sat in endless meetings with the staff, drilled timing with the wrestlers, and kept building better shows, week after week.
That effort paid off.
Two months later, in late September.
The pay-per-view returned.
The crowd that had traveled from all over the country to see our show proved it beyond doubt.
The main event: a fatal four-way match — me and Kalisto, Bobby and Sheamus.
In plain terms: one-on-one-on-one-on-one.
Four wrestlers, one belt, decided in a single fall.
Preparations complete, I watched from Gorilla Position as the other competitors made their entrances ahead of me.
The champion enters last.
That was the custom.
Golden belt slung over my shoulder, I waited for my music to hit.
I checked the monitor — Bobby's music had ended, and the entire arena sat wound tight, waiting for me.
Fifteen thousand fans who had paid good money to be here for me.
Three wrestlers gunning for my title.
And even the crew backstage, the ones orchestrating this entire spectacle.
Finally, it was my turn.
A torrent of boos crashed down, timed to the sacred strains of my entrance music. I let it wash over me, then pulled back the curtain and stepped out.
This hatred, too, would flip to roaring cheers by the time the match was over.
Because I was the best.
After a ferocious battle, I managed to retain the championship belt once again.
And the three men who shared the ring with me walked away with enormous reactions.
Whatever booking they carried out from here on, the fans would remember this night, cheer them on, and expect great things.
But this one had taken quite a bit out of me.
The morning after the pay-per-view.
......Yeah, I can't get up.
I had woken, and my body refused to move through the deep ache pulsing through it.
Since it was a pay-per-view, I'd taken harder bumps than usual — and I'd been the landing pad for nearly all of them.
Being champion isn't easy, is it.
Even so, I had taken every single move flawlessly. All that sweat-and-grunt-stained offense, delivered by hulking slab-muscled men, straight onto my body.
Putting it that way sounds kind of weird.
Anyway.
At least I hadn't overdone it.
Everything that hurt from taking the moves was nothing worse than bruises and sore muscles.
Joints, spine, neck — the parts that don't recover once damaged — were all fine.
Maybe I'll take it easy today.
First things first, I figured I'd stop by the medical room and grab some painkillers.
As I rose with that in mind, I spotted the championship belt resting on the bed beside me and found myself smiling before I knew it.
For a champion — the face of an entire promotion — I was doing all right for myself, wasn't I?
Of course I was.
Through all those matches, I had proven that I was an unbeatable champion who wouldn't lose to anyone.
And the fans were growing more and more curious about who my next rival would be.
Right at that moment.
I heard the news: Harley was just about finished preparing for his match.