The Sin and the King of Kings
Tiffany McMahon cleared her entire schedule and came to Atlanta the very next day.
Everyone who witnessed that kind of decisiveness was left speechless. But I accepted it without batting an eye.
Because I'd seen it in my past life, too.
Tiffany was a born leader, and compared to her dictatorial father, she was relatively even-tempered.
That said, the McMahon temper never skipped a generation — once she'd inherited the company, she threw her weight around plenty. Just never at me.
As long as it's not aimed at me, that's all that matters.
In the end, that was the important thing.
Tiffany saw firsthand the feverish reaction GCW drew from its crowd.
Russell and I were scheduled to appear on Burning Kong in San Antonio, Texas, two days from now, which meant that laying the groundwork for it was today's objective.
When I climbed into the ring and opened my mouth, the crowd roared with a deafening reaction.
"Like I said, I'm the kind of man who'll do anything to win. And this is the result."
I raised the belt overhead. The fans hurled back a chant soaked in pure venom.
F-CK YOU SIN! F-CK YOU SIN!
Having experienced the live reaction for herself, Tiffany seemed deeply moved.
After the show, she came looking for me, barely containing her excitement.
"The crowd response is absolutely on fire. Even our main shows struggle to draw heat like this..."
"It's momentum built up step by step, finally breaking through. Right now is peak spotlight time."
"So what's your secret?"
"Hm."
"Oh — never mind. I'll watch the recent shows myself, and then you'll explain, won't you?"
"By then, the two of us can sit side by side and talk it over."
With that, Tiffany headed straight back to her hotel and began binge-watching every episode of GCW she'd missed.
In the meantime, we prepared the promo and the script we would present on Burning Kong. The video team produced footage introducing Russell and me, while the writing team drafted the core narrative. Then we delivered the material separately to Tiffany and to Burning Kong's writing staff.
The reactions could not have been more different.
Before long, Tiffany called, bursting into laughter the moment I picked up.
"Are you seriously going this far?!"
"Of course. You need this level of commitment for real impact, don't you think?"
"BAHAHA! Hunter's going to have a meltdown when he sees this...?! Oh — I'm watching the show right now. Quite the shocking debut."
"Is that all right with you?"
"Yes. To think I can enjoy pro wrestling as pure entertainment — it's remarkable."
She seemed to be enjoying herself.
The main roster's writing team, on the other hand, sent us a politely worded, thousand-character torrent of abuse.
Baku read the entire thing and snorted himself into laughter.
"They're asking if we have no concept of respect."
"Who?"
"Hunter, obviously."
It wasn't hard to picture it — Hunter flying into a rage after hearing the story from his writers.
But we had prepared thoroughly, so I wasn't particularly frightened.
San Antonio, Texas.
The city of machismo and steak, of shotguns and longhorns — the very symbol of the American South.
That was where I arrived.
Winter still held the city. Snow was falling outside the airport, and the air carried a homely warmth straight out of a Home Alone movie — people of every skin tone bundled in unfashionable coats, sniffing against the cold.
My entourage and I emerged to collect our bags, and I was waiting for the van WWF was supposed to send.
Sunglasses and a jacket. Still, I stood out.
People passing by stole glances at me, and I noticed something in those looks that hadn't been there before.
All that training paid off.
So appearance does come before race, apparently. And I was fairly tall on top of it.
Even standing between Russell and Baku, I apparently carried a certain masculine presence.
I could really feel the results of skipping every indulgence and pushing myself to the limit.
"...Nobody's picking up."
At that, Baku, who had been dialing on and off for a while now, furrowed his brow.
"The main roster?"
"Yeah. Something's been off since the moment they promised to send a single contact number."
I chuckled.
A classic move. But unlike GCW, the main roster's gatekeeping in WWF was beyond imagination — severe enough to cause actual, tangible harm like this.
Hunter must have pulled strings.
Thinking so, I sighed and said, "Good thing we booked a rental."
"You can say that again."
Baku nodded, and we went straight to the rental car and drove to the arena.
We could have taken a bus or the subway, but there was a chance of hassle — and we had a lot of luggage. This was the better call.
For the next four weeks, Russell, Baku, and I would travel with the live crew of Burning Kong to appear on the show.
We would travel separately, of course. A pro wrestler was, at the end of the day, an independent contractor. Everything from lodging to meals had to be managed on our own.
Once you reached main eventer status, the company did assign someone to help with scheduling — but only to prevent a money-making asset from no-showing a program, or getting into trouble.
Which means what the main roster wants most right now is for us to get hit by a freak act of God on the way here.
Even setting Hunter's faction aside, they would all treat us with hostility.
Why?
Because we had proposed that "ludicrous script."
Those were their exact words. If Tiffany hadn't stepped in as mediator, they would have simply ignored us outright.
But here we were.
From this point on, we had to appear on Burning Kong while simultaneously fighting the gatekeeping their live crew would throw at us.
Not that I was worried.
Because I'd brought Baku.
We parked the car and stepped out, and the colossal arena came into view.
Twenty thousand seats.
The weight class was simply different.
WWF was the only promotion in the world that ran arenas this size. No wonder they called Bart Maxen a revolutionary.
This company had taken pro wrestling — a single act in a traveling circus — and reimagined it as global content.
And now I was stepping back into it.
Unlike my past life, when all they needed was a token Asian comedy jobber, this time I walked in as a legitimate champion.
We passed the security staff, then the crews already preparing the show, and went inside.
Gorilla Position — the arena's command center — was already fully assembled, and the key figures leading the live crew had gathered within.
The general manager standing in for Bart, plus the department heads of creative, broadcast, facilities, security, and merchandise.
And last, representing the talent side — Triple H himself.
At our entrance, they shot us openly uncomfortable looks. So Baku stepped forward with a smile, trying to thaw the air.
"I know, always this busy. Crisscrossing the whole country isn't easy. Right, Hunter?"
"You arrived faster than expected. We hadn't even sent a car for you yet."
"The plane oversped."
"Did you bring your luggage?"
"We did — we rented a car. ...I take it the Chairman isn't here?"
"He's in Mexico on business. He'll return in time for next week's show."
"Is that so? And here I thought I might see him. In any case — introductions. This is Sin. You haven't met this one, I take it?"
"I'm aware of him. Russell Hart."
Hunter approached us with a smug, prim expression that sat oddly on his massive frame.
His true colors were showing plenty.
But it couldn't be helped. The script we were executing tomorrow was just that radical.
We intended to place the man called Triple H on the same level as me.
It was essential.
And the next day.
Before a crowd of eighteen thousand, WWF Burning Kong began.
With Rockcold out with an injury, the weekly show was currently being driven by Triple H's Revolution storyline as its centerpiece.
The premise: the members of the heel stable Revolution, belt in hand, grinding down the roster of face wrestlers one by one.
Triple H, having captured the World Championship belt mere weeks ago, kept his stock climbing.
The opening of the show. Revolution's theme thundered through the arena.
Emerging to the metal roar of the famous band Motörhead, Triple H strode out in a tailored suit and took the microphone, flanked by the three members of his stable.
Gabe Batista, who had filled the main event spot in Shawn Cena's absence. Lance Orton, who had grown into one of Cena's premier rivals. And finally, Nick Flair, the legendary wrestler who'd been performing since the eighties.
Revolution's gimmick was nouveau riche mob boss crossed with the Italian mafia — a pack of suits-wearing bruisers orbiting their leader Hunter, running every insufferable scheme imaginable. That was the baseline.
Today was no different.
Well — only at first.
"What a magnificent day. The greatest man in the greatest position, carrying the greatest moment forward."
The crowd's reaction was ferocious.
He clearly wasn't at icon level like Rockcold or Cena, but Triple H was a superb professional wrestler.
He was a touch old-fashioned and static, but that only elevated his aristocratic image — lending an untouchable charisma to a suit-wearing thug, amplified further by that hulking body of a Greek myth hero.
"I defended this belt against Kane, and my reign has continued without a hitch ever since. This is my territory. We've taken it all."
The confident mic-work rolled on. I watched from Gorilla Position.
Almost time.
"Sin — you're up."
Most of the staff wore icicles for faces. I paid them no mind and waited for my cue.
"If any man here has a problem with that, come on down and say it to my face!"
A textbook call-out. The crowd would expect the main-show faces to appear right about now — the likes of Kane, who'd just been named.
But betraying their craned necks and rising hope, my music hit.
Gospel chant fused with dubstep.
A handful of the die-hards knew exactly who I was, and the ring thundered with roars of anticipation. It was, honestly, a magnificent sight — the greatest heel champion in the business, answering the call of the greatest heel in this one.
Most of the crowd, however, had no idea who I was. So I hoisted the belt on my shoulder and made sure they saw it.
In a way, it was a gamble.
But my situation was far better than on debut day. I had the certainty that I could pull this off.
I climbed into the ring, seized the microphone with total composure, and opened my mouth.
"Hey, champ."
That single line drew down a barrage of hostile stares — from Triple H and two of his lackeys. Nick Flair's eyes, on the other hand, gleamed with something like interest.
Hard to tell where the script ends and reality begins.
The two men actually in Hunter's faction genuinely despised me to the bone. Hunter went without saying.
But I was well past being fazed.
"I'm a champ too."
I said it with a lazy smile. The crowd reacted, sensing the sheer audacity of it.
Deliberately, I raised the GCW championship belt high in Hunter's face.
Face to face.
We were equals.
No — if anything, the man who'd walked out here alone and unafraid might stand above the one with his faction behind him. As if to broadcast that defiance, I went on at my leisure.
"Georgia Championship Wrestling."
"...A subsidiary promotion, yes."
"Not as long as I'm in it."
"And who the hell are you?"
"Sin. One extremely bad son of a bitch."
I made a point of laying my character bare, line by line.
"You haven't heard? News travels slow around here. Word is, the hipsters these days lose their minds the moment my name comes up."
"A thug like you?"
Hunter's voice wavered slightly.
A thug like me.
That was the mic-work I'd requested. In real life, Hunter hated delivering that line — but he had no choice.
His professionalism was airtight.
"You're saying you want a fight? How about we raise it — belt against belt?"
The crowd erupted in astonishment. Boos and cheers tangled together as they scrambled to figure out who this Eastern champion who'd appeared from nowhere really was.
"...Fine."
Not that Hunter was the type to be run over so easily. He bared his teeth, sharp and gleaming. He, too, was a man who had survived a long time on this WWF Burning Kong.
"Let's do it, kid."
"Tonight? Main event?"
The crowd roared its approval. Champion versus champion — delicious material.
At my provocative remarks, Orton and Batista closed in on me. I smirked and slowly backed away, belt still in hand — but I didn't concede.
"Just kidding. Gang-jumping four-on-one isn't really my thing."
Taunting all four of them as I retreated, I delivered my closing line.
"And the reason I came out here is that I have other business to handle. We'll do this properly later, Hunter."
With that, I flung the microphone away and made my exit.
Not bad.
That was my own assessment. But when I got back to Gorilla Position, the mood was less than warm. Cautiously, I asked, "How was it?"
A man already waiting there answered.
After Hunter, the second main-roster star joining our script.
"Damn fine."
Greg Hart.
Russell's uncle, and the wrestler who had stacked up a mountain of accomplishments in WWF.
Sin would ambush him tonight to send a warning to Russell.
...And Greg, saying it would be a genuine blast, had coolly agreed to my request.