The Line That Rewrote the Script

Greg Hart had, for the time being, stepped away from the main event picture, making broadcast appearances without any particular feud to his name. Which was exactly why he'd welcomed our proposal more warmly than anyone. Drifting through the twilight of his career, he'd been longing for a promising rookie he could lift up as high as his hands would allow.

We found him in a lounge tucked into a corner of the backstage area. Greg watched Russell and me come in with a fond expression, then opened his mouth.

"I never imagined the two of you would end up coming up like this."

Greg's match and my run-in were slotted for the mid-to-late portion of the show — meaning we had roughly an hour and a half to kill.

"Good to see you again."

"You as well, sir. Have you been well?"

"Same as always. So — how does it feel, working your first main-roster show?"

"Big crowd tonight."

"Smaller than it used to be, mind you. Back when Rockcold and I were at each other's throats, we'd come within a hair of thirty thousand on a slow night."

"That truly was something to see."

Honestly, I considered the matter a good deal more complicated than that, but I decided to offer the agreement anyway. Greg's pride as a wrestler was every bit as large as his skill.

A veteran of his standing had plenty of people who looked up to him, yet he never built a faction of his own. That was precisely why he'd lost the political war against Hunter and ended up in the position he occupied now.

A good man — but a somewhat demanding one, and not the sort to come out ahead. That was my assessment of Greg Hart. Of course, if I went around sizing people up by profit and loss alone, I wouldn't have been sitting there in the first place.

"The look on that bastard Hunter's face when it scrunched up was worth the price of admission. A man who loves strutting around like he owns the place, mind you."

"We're both champions now, aren't we? He has no grounds to push me aside."

"Hahaha! Now that's the truth of it!"

Greg burst into a great laugh, then tilted his head, thoughtful.

"Still, I can't for the life of me figure out why that crafty son of a bitch would go along so meekly with an angle that damages his own standing."

"There's a complicated story behind it."

"Complicated?"

I laid out the situation — Triple H's provocation, Tiffany's interest in me, and how I'd chosen to answer it all.

When he'd heard me out, Greg laughed as though thoroughly exasperated. "So Hunter got properly played. And you, playing it right back at him — that's something too."

"If someone picks a fight with me first, I'm not about to take it lying down like a sucker."

Greg couldn't hide his admiration.

Fair enough. Even I would have done a double take if a rookie fresh up to the main roster operated this shrewdly behind the curtain.

But this was far from the end of it.

I had spent more than ten years performing in main events. I knew how people behaved, and I could see what was coming.

The show rolled on.

Exactly as planned, I carried out the script that called for me to ambush Greg Hart.

I dragged him out of the ring in the middle of his one-on-one match, beat him down without mercy, and took the microphone.

BOOOOOOOOOOOO!

The reaction was far fiercer than before. I had stolen away the match people were enjoying, and I pressed on with what I had to say.

"There's a reason. A reason. Every action has its reason. Boo me after you've heard it — that won't be too late."

At the calm delivery, the crowd quieted, as if to say, fine, let's hear it. I drove straight into my lines.

"You're all wondering why a GCW-contracted man like me showed up here. Simple."

Standing where I stood now was like balancing on the edge of a cliff.

Most of the crowd here wasn't well disposed toward me. One wrong move and they'd switch off their interest entirely and be done with me.

That was exactly the trap I'd used Hunter and Greg's help to avoid.

"Russell. You watching?"

Saying that, I stood over the fallen Greg and flashed a wide grin.

First, I explained that Russell and I had been carrying on a feud in GCW.

Fortunately, the crowd gave my words a decent reaction.

‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠

I'd already made a strong impression in the show's opening, and on top of that I'd ambushed a heavyweight name like Greg Hart.

It wasn't the reaction GCW would have given me, but by this arena's yardstick, it was a passing grade.

Twenty thousand really is a different animal.

Had I ever drawn a response from a crowd this size before? Back then, I'd been nothing more than a comic character whose entire purpose was to take other wrestlers' moves.

Whatever the case, it gave me confidence. I felt certain now that I could pull a pretty good reaction out of a crowd like this.

My Burning Kong appearance sent a fresh ripple through the entire industry.

The GCW champion had walked onto Burning Kong with his belt in hand. With no precedent for it, everyone spilled over with speculation.

That this would lead into a GCW invasion of the main show. Or that GCW as a whole was about to be elevated into one of the major promotions.

And all of it was because of me.

Until now, every wrestler under GCW contract had surrendered their belt without exception when they got the call up.

Wyatt had done it, and so had every champion before him.

But I had appeared on Burning Kong with my belt still around my waist — unheard of.

While everyone wondered what it meant, a newsletter soon put out an article, and then the radio shows began holding forth on the matter as they pleased.

So the information had leaked.

It was only to be expected. The main roster was a great lumbering beast; somebody was always going to siphon information out of it.

And so the newsletter writers poured out their impressions of my debut.

I smiled bitterly.

Nothing has changed.

They'd done the same thing in GCW — I couldn't fathom why, in a segment discussing the entire show, only my name kept coming up.

People taking curiosity and hope in me was a good thing. The main roster's reaction, I suspected, would not be so kind.

A few days later.

My group and I drove some twelve hours to Kansas City, where the next Burning Kong was to be held.

And there, the second week of my feud with Russell unfolded.

The goal of week one had been to make the audience fully understand my character and my reason for appearing here.

The GCW champion stormed Burning Kong to ambush Greg Hart.

And the reason was to carry on his war with Russell.

That much was enough.

The fans knew who I was now, and they came to the arena expecting something to happen at this show too.

And now — week two.

Today there were two goals.

One: get the crowd to accept Russell's character.

Two: make it unmistakably clear that our feud was deeply, bitterly personal.

To that end, we squeezed every last drop out of the fifteen minutes we'd been given.

First, the show's opening. Last week's ambush aired again as a slickly produced video package — one more pass at stoking everyone's memory.

Then.

When Greg Hart's image appeared on the screen in the locker room, the crowd roared its approval.

(A long, heavy sigh)

The aftereffects of last week's attack had him wearing a bandage across his forehead.

Sighing again and again as though his heart were weighed down, Greg was joined on screen by a blond young man.

Russell Hart.

"Uncle — are you all right?"

"Yeah. Good of you to come, Russell."

That's how the names and the relationship got refreshed in everyone's minds, and then the lines rolled on.

"Sin might show his face again. I'll be at ringside when you wrestle tonight."

"Good. That puts my mind at ease. But wasn't that boy your tag partner? How did it come to this?"

"...Not anymore."

"Right. Something happened, apparently."

Greg clapped Russell on the shoulder.

That was one minute.

The remaining fourteen were the match.

The early and middle portions of the show passed with other feuds and matches, and then came the final hour.

When the commercial break ended, Greg Hart's theme shook the arena.

Sharp guitar work and a cheering crowd. Greg emerged as if to reheat the whole building — and at his side walked Russell.

Tonight, Greg was booked against the heel wrestler Chris Jenco.

A stage with no story attached to it — a showcase of pure in-ring craft.

Perhaps that was why Jenco had cooperated with our script without complaint.

Greg climbed into the ring, and next in line was Chris Jenco.

His entrance had been announced mid-show, so the people were waiting for him.

But strangely, Jenco's music never hit. The crowd murmured, and Greg in the ring looked puzzled.

Only Russell — who knew me all too well — felt a stab of foreboding and knitted his brow.

Nice acting.

Standing in Gorilla Position watching the broadcast feed, I judged it a main-event-caliber piece ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠of direction.

A moment later, one more video — filmed days in advance — rolled across the big screen above the entranceway.

"Hello? Can you all hear me out there?"

It was me.

Backstage.

The feed cut back to Greg's stunned face. With the belt slung over my shoulder, I smiled and kept talking.

"Last week was a coward's move, unworthy of a champion. I understand that. But understand this too — I didn't do it because I'm afraid of an old relic like Greg Hart."

BOOOOOO—!!

The crowd's jeers rained down.

"So here's my thought. How about we settle it tonight? Let's show these people, once and for all, which of us is the stronger man."

The video paused there.

The screen held on Greg's face as if demanding an answer. He gave a wry chuckle, took a microphone, and spoke.

"I'd ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠love nothing more than to kick that fearless ass of yours. But I've got a scheduled match tonight, you see."

The feed cut again.

Chris Jenco, in his ring gear, laid out flat on the floor. And there I stood over him, steel chair in hand.

"Even like this?"

A murmur rolled through the stands. Everyone was stunned at the sight of Jenco taken down by me.

"What's it going to be, old man?"

At those words, Russell climbed onto the apron. Spreading his hands as if to calm his uncle, he shook his head.

But Greg settled him and stepped up to the ropes.

"Russell, I know what you're worried about. It's true enough — next to you, or to that man, I've got quite a few years on me."

The crowd chuckled.

That was the signal — don't say it like that. But Greg simply gave a faint smile there, and went on.

"And yet, it seems you two don't see it that way."

Natural, living communication with the crowd.

He truly was a great wrestler. Amid the cheers of the people, he passed a single value on to Russell.

"Remember this, Russell. As long as these people are cheering ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠— you never run."

Whew.

Magnificent.

The kind of line that drew applause all on its own.

He'd spent most of his career as a babyface, talking with the people, living among them. In every single word, you could feel the creed Greg Hart had kept through twenty years in the ring.

God, the man can talk.

With that one line, Greg had even handed Russell the image of his successor.

And it was most definitely not the line in the original script.

"You heard him, Sin! Let's do this!"

Roaring it, he flung the microphone down. The crowd sent up a cheer.

Watching all of this unfold, one of the staff gave me my cue.

"Sin, you're up."

A listless, indifferent voice.

The difference between this and GCW is heaven and earth.

I understood why it had to be that way. It's hard to root for the success of something you had no hand in building.

But what was I to do about this?

Greg's single line just now had made the script so much richer.

And one premonition crept over me.

The finish of tonight's match was going to make me the most despised piece of trash in the world.