A Rookie, You Say?
"A rookie, you say?"
Bart's brow furrowed.
At this point in time, he had spent a month in the hospital recovering from an injury sustained at a show, and had only just been discharged a few days ago.
Which meant this should have been his first time laying eyes on me. Something off about that, you ask? The chairman doesn't even watch his own show?
It couldn't be helped.
In order to preserve the patient's 'life,' the hospital had imposed a total ban on all pro wrestling-related content.
On top of that, they had kept him sedated for the entirety of his stay to keep him from getting any funny ideas (?).
Left to his own devices, Bart would have busted out of that hospital and returned to work within a day.
After all, the man had only checked himself in after powering through a torn intestine on painkillers, continuing to work until he finally coughed up blood.
A wrestling nerd.
A workaholic.
Born with a silver spoon.
A devil and a revolutionary the likes of which pro wrestling history would never produce again.
Bartholomew Cave Maxen.
Yes — Bart was, in some way, unlike ordinary people.
He hated losing to a childish degree, and he burned with passion for his work.
And that produced contradictory verdicts. Bart was the worst kind of tyrant — incompetence and competence existing side by side in one man.
He was a genius capable of revolutionizing the industry, yet he never adapted to the changing of the times.
The top he wanted was always built from white men with muscles that looked ready to tear out of their skin.
He clung to his own way of doing things, deaf to the shifting era around him.
That was the problem.
To build the world of pro wrestling he loved, Bart buried talent after talented performer, bought up rival promotions, and shattered them one after another.
All to prove that the show he created was the right one.
It would've been easier if he were just a cold businessman through and through.
Just a crooked corporate shark, nothing more.
But he wasn't.
He was a mad crooked corporate shark.
The proof was the simple fact that the chairman of a massive corporation chose to work mostly on the creative team, with final say over every script.
Still the same as ever.
Eyes that showed zero interest.
And yet, as if he would grant me one chance after all, Bart barked at me.
"Didn't I ask you a question? Quit standing there like an idiot and give me your name!"
Why the sudden hostility?
It was his own peculiar way of testing a wrestler he was meeting for the first time — flying into a temper out of nowhere.
When the boss himself did it, the average wrestler would be flustered into a fumbling mess.
But that was exactly the wrong move.
No — the correct answer was to scrunch up your brows and fire back like this:
"And who might you be, exactly?"
"What...?"
"Nearly blew my eardrums out. Unlike some people, my hearing still works just fine."
Bart went silent.
The other executives in the room all wore expressions of pure dismay.
Naturally.
"Do you have any idea who you're speaking to—!"
"Who else? The chairman, aren't you?"
"You knew exactly who I was and said it anyway?! Apologize. Now!"
"...My apologies, Chairman."
I played the contrite penitent for a moment, then flashed a small grin.
Incidentally, Bart Maxen was staring straight at my face the whole time.
"You joked that you didn't know me either, Chairman, so I figured I'd return the favor."
"Me?"
A smirk tugged at his lips.
The first good sign.
"Yes. The Icon of GCW. They call me Sin, Chairman."
"Sin, is it. Never had a spare moment to pay attention to your show. My apologies."
The only thing that ever held Bart's interest was the WWF's main roster — and within that, exclusively Burning Kong, which he considered the major leagues.
"No offense taken. If anything, it's given me a goal to chase. I rather like it."
"A goal?"
"I'd like to become one of the wrestlers you watch most closely, Chairman."
"...PUHAHAHAHAHA!"
Bart burst out laughing.
"I like this! It's been a long time since anyone showed that kind of audacity to my face!"
"Thank you."
"Kids these days just watch my moods and grovel. Not one of them has the guts for this!"
As I'd noted before, Bart was a man of the old era. Which was precisely why he took a liking to wrestlers who showed that kind of edge.
Hoodlums who talked back the moment they heard something they didn't like — even to a corporate chairman.
Once upon a time, most pro wrestlers were exactly that kind of sharp-tongued bastard.
I too showed him that same swagger, and it satisfied him.
"Is the contract proceeding smoothly?"
"Well, the Chairman's schedule—"
"Wait here."
With that curt reply, he stole the head of the table for himself. I had maneuvered him into exactly that, so I nodded approvingly and took my seat.
The reason I wanted Bart Maxen in his chair in the first place was simple: I wanted to add a line or two to the contract.
Reading through the contract, it hit me all over again.
This company had no conscience. Just like every other ordinary company out there.
Which meant that if the company ever tried to bury me, I needed an escape route prepared in advance.
After all, the revenue split could be settled next year without any real trouble.
What matters more is how much freedom I'm guaranteed as a performer.
Just as I reached that conclusion, Bart glanced over the contract and grinned.
"Five hundred thousand dollars. Fitting for a former champion."
"Thank you. My humble little ego got a nice breeze blown into it, thanks to you."
"What's there to agonize over? Sign it."
"Before that, there's something I'd like to ask the gentlemen here."
"Ask away."
"Well, a company this dominant surely operates differently from what I'm used to, no? I wanted to hear a bit about that first."
"You've got good instincts."
Bart's eyes gleamed.
"We believe in strict division of labor. On the independents, a wrestler has to do everything himself. Here, entire teams support each of our performers."
Match construction, mic-work, scripting, promo filming — everything worked that way.
It was the polar opposite of the indie scene. And GCW's way sat somewhere in the middle.
GCW trusted its wrestlers, tolerating ad-libs and actively encouraging new ideas.
That was exactly how I'd managed to seize my opportunities and thrive there.
But here, it was different.
Unless you had serious tenure, you followed instructions to the letter. No exceptions.
Wrestlers who never got the chance to let their talent bloom before withering away were a dime a dozen.
What I need to do is simple.
Having sorted out my thoughts, I met Bart's eyes dead-on and spoke.
"Honestly, I'm a little worried. It's not as though a man like you, Chairman, would ever concern himself with my scripts."
"Me?"
"Yes. I think the scripts you write, Chairman, are truly magnificent."
"Oho! You know your history!"
Bart beamed.
Let's be precise here, though. Ironically, the script work from Rockcold's era — the most glamorous period in WWF history — was not Bart's creation.
What he loved was the more traditional hero, the Captain Logan type.
I gently scratched that itch of his and reaped the goodwill.
"Nothing that comes up these days sits right with me. That's why the whole roster's walking around with their spirits crushed!"
"Well, in that spirit, I'm worried too. If people with less feel for this than I have get handed my scripts, it's all going to fall apart."
"...You want freedom, don't you?"
He caught on fast.
I answered honestly.
"Yes."
"And the responsibility?"
"The company bears that."
"So the rookie wants terms that have never once been granted to a rookie. Unprecedented ones."
Exactly.
Script control.
A privilege held only by veterans of Greg Hart's caliber.
They had the right to refuse any script that didn't sit well with them.
But look — I wasn't shameless enough to demand that much.
"A few words. That's all I need."
"What?"
"Specify that when I speak on the microphone, I'm free to add a few words of my own beyond the established script."
"Hmm..."
"Of course, I would never contradict the script. I'd simply talk in a way that reinforces it."
"Interesting. Honestly, you're the first person who's ever asked for terms like these."
Figured.
Instead of answering, I flashed him a smile — and Bart's eyes lit up. A sense of foreboding washed over me.
Why did this feel ominous?
"How about this?"
Right on cue, Bart brought it up as if it were nothing at all.
"What if I cut your proposed salary in half and add this condition in its place?"
"Deal."
I answered without a heartbeat's hesitation.
Hesitating here would have cost me everything. This question was Bart testing me.
Is it worth that much?
"Honestly, a few words aren't worth hundreds of thousands of dollars."
"Then why?"
"But if the words are mine — spoken for my own sake — that's a different story."
"Kheheh. The more I look at you, the more I like you. If you weren't Asian, I'd hand you a belt right this instant."
"I see."
"What, does that offend you?"
"Not at all. Well — it's only natural when you think about the viewers."
"That's right, that's right. I'm hardly a discriminatory man. I simply give people what they want. And in that spirit, you haven't proven yourself yet."
To be precise, he only believed himself to be that kind of man.
"In any case — done. Personally, I'm curious to see what your few words can do."
"I'll give it everything I have."
"Good. Ah — and the salary business was obviously a joke. Don't go taking it too seriously."
"I never imagined a man of Bart Maxen's stature would bother nickeling-and-diming me over pocket change anyway."
Bart laughed again, plainly enjoying himself.
And that was that. Or so I thought.
But then Bart's expression froze for an instant, as if remembering something.
At times like this, he went beyond eccentric — he looked genuinely unhinged. It sent a chill down my spine.
"...Come to think of it, Tiffany said she wanted to get involved with GCW a while back, didn't she?"
Having dredged up the memory, Bart next put his uncanny insight on display.
"So GCW rose up, and then you came to me with an intriguing offer. Now the whole picture finally makes sense."
Without ever having watched a single show of the promotion I ran, Bart had read the whole situation cold.
He'd likely synthesized it from the ratings data in his head, Tiffany's remarks, and my attitude just now.
Absurd, really.
There were moments — rare, but real — when Bart displayed intuition so razor-sharp it was frightening.
The problem was what he chose to do with it afterward.
Ominous. Very ominous.
I stared at Bart's face as he sealed his lips shut, thinking exactly that.
And it didn't take long for that premonition to arrive in concrete form.
Immediately after signing, I was ordered by the company to undergo a gimmick change.
That despised, detestable name.
Kung-Fury.
Burning Kong, third week of February 2004.
With Triple H's reign of dominance in full swing, the members of Revolution opened the show as they always did.
Then the commercial break rolled past, and Booker Lee appeared at ringside first.
Having lost to Triple H and slid down the card, he was currently in a state where no proper script was being written for him at all.
Maybe that was why his expression was sour as he waited, worked up, for his scheduled opponent to come out—
The unmistakable battle cry of an Eastern martial arts master rang out through the arena.
The crowd turned, puzzled. Then the shock hit them like a freight train.
"HAAA-DOOOOO..."
And there I was, having just thrown back the curtain, performing a ridiculous martial arts routine.
Pristine white gi. A headband tied tight.
If Russell, Baku, or Harley had witnessed this, they'd have passed out on the spot.
As for me — wallowing in old memories? Yeah, right. It made me sick to my stomach.
But I knew exactly what this meant, and so I accepted it.
The ring announcer introduced me at the top of his lungs.
Throwing a punch on every stretched syllable of "Fu-ry," I struck one ludicrous pose after another on my way up to the ring.
Booker Lee just stood there, looking utterly dumbfounded. I bounced on my toes with exaggerated little steps, taunting him as obnoxiously as I could.
It had to be this way — only then would the single line I delivered at the end shine like a blade.
And so the match began.
The fans who remembered me shouted their hearts out, as if begging me to stop. But I hammed it up as Kung-Fury with gusto.
And then I took a joyful beating from Booker Lee and went down in glorious, humiliating defeat.
Bart was handing me what he considered the worst possible debut — all to put me to the test.
Given a single card to play at contract time, what would I do with it?
He wanted to hear my answer. That was why he'd gone to the trouble of changing my gimmick— no. That wasn't it.
Truthfully, he just wanted to watch a half-comical Asian caricature.
In fact, I had stubbornly survived in this company precisely because Bart liked me. My ridiculous Asian antics always sent him into roaring fits of laughter.
But not anymore.
Watch me.
With that thought, I lay sprawled on the canvas and watched Booker Lee finish his post-match celebration and head for the back.
Everyone in the arena looked bewildered.
Normally, the loser exited first and the winner followed.
But suddenly — the man who'd been lying flat on the ring leapt to his feet.
And exactly as planned, I took the microphone that was handed to me, drew a long, slow breath, and spoke.
With this one line, the character called Kung-Fury took on a meaning entirely different from anything it had held a moment before.
A beat of silence.
But it didn't take long for the crowd to understand — and then they began chanting the name SIN at the top of their lungs.
Just like that, Kung-Fury stopped being a character. It became the mask Sin was forced to wear just to survive the daily grind of office politics.
Amid the crowd's fervent roar, I let out a laugh that said, this is ridiculous.
With this, even if the company screwed me over, I had my answer ready.
Which, come to think of it, is probably why they screwed me over at such an early stage in the first place.
Whatever. By now, even Bart understood exactly what kind of man I was.