Wrestler Court
The phone I'd tossed carelessly onto the passenger seat buzzed once. So the expected message has finally arrived.
I was driving toward the next city, and I had a pretty good guess what it was about as I picked up the phone. A text from Hunter.
Of course it would be this. He wanted to have a little talk about the incident with Lance Orton. Hunter was exactly the kind of man whose moves were this transparent. He was the type who repaid everything he received — every debt, every slight, settled in full.
Just as Bart Maxen shielded Tiffany for the sake of the Maxen name, Hunter too was thinking of the safety of Revolution, the faction he led, and his backstage clique. Which meant he'd no doubt torn into Orton — you got played by some Asian?
I didn't need to see it to know. An annoying rookie who'd shown up on Burning Kong, the show that orbited around him. Just as that was starting to grate on his nerves, I had made the first move and struck first. Hunter would surely have judged that if he didn't crush me right here and now, there'd be trouble down the road.
He's probably going to open it, then.
As I sped down the desolate highway, a single name surfaced in my mind: the Wrestler Court.
It had been born in 1988, in the wake of a murder between wrestlers in a Mexican promotion. As I've said, the pro wrestling business was a gathering place for drifters and macho men who'd lived rough, hard lives. And that remained true to this very day — it was one of the career paths chosen by those who, for unfortunate reasons, had failed to fit in across any number of other industries.
And the people who made it as far as the WWF, for the most part, had talent — along with a record of "unpleasant incidents." Acts of violence, to put it plainly. Thugs who'd beaten up a colleague they didn't like, or put a hated coach in the hospital, half his body broken.
Did men like that come here and turn over a new leaf? No. If anything, the miserable working conditions only sharpened them further. Three hundred or more days a year crisscrossing America, unable to see their families — a filthy, dangerous existence. This institution had been introduced precisely to keep men like that in line.
...Though, to explain it simply: it was basically the wrestlers throwing down for real, and whichever side won, that side was ruled in the right.
...And on top of that, it was also used plenty often as a tool for hazing.
Both of those cases applied to me. Which meant Hunter was absolutely lying in wait — to make an example of me in front of the roster, and shore up his own pride.
As I debated how to respond to that, I found myself snorting with laughter. What a strange industry this is.
Perhaps because a man's rough-and-tumble bearing mattered above all else in a wrestler, this era was full of every origin story imaginable. Club bouncers, convicted armed robbers, back-alley boxers, outright gangsters. To make dangerous men like these cooperate with one another, you really did need something like a courtroom.
Pittsburgh — the great city of Pennsylvania, at last. Since Hunter had told me to contact him immediately, I promptly placed the call.
Ah — well, first I checked into the hotel and unpacked. Ah, and I ate. It took a while to find a restaurant with anything healthy on the menu. Ah, and I got a workout in, too. Trained my muscles at the gym, mixed up a protein shake, and unwound. Ah-ah, and then — one last thing — it turned out there was a Korean-style sauna nearby, so I went and gave my body a thoroughly satisfying scalding.
...And that is how, at 11:55 in the evening, I finally got around to contacting Hunter.
"You're late."
"Traffic was bad."
"You could have at least called. Where are you right now?"
"Just came out of the sauna, heading to pick up my car."
"The sauna?"
"A great wrestler like you is coming to see me — I couldn't show up looking like a limp dishrag, could I? So I washed up a bit."
"...Get to the arena."
The call cut off. Someone's sulking. And all I'd done was needle him a little. I slipped the phone into my pocket and glanced over to my side.
Of course, I could afford to act like this because I had backup. Greg Hart. "Now he wants you there?" The one man in the entire backstage hierarchy that Hunter, its reigning king, found genuinely uncomfortable. He'd been on vacation through this week, and had returned with impeccable timing.
I had contacted him the moment I got the text, and Greg had immediately taken my side. Since then, we'd enjoyed the sauna together and had a grand old time. Without him, I probably would have stopped at the gym and headed straight for the arena.
"He says come now."
"Does that lunatic not sleep? Summoning a man to the arena in the middle of the night."
"He seems to think he needs to give me a thorough education."
"That bastard ought to be polishing his own skills instead of finding nothing but joy in tormenting others. When is he ever going to grow up?"
Greg clicked his tongue. A dependable senior, through and through. Backup secured, I drove straight for the arena.
Naturally, as I'd already decided, I had no intention of placing myself under Greg's wing. He would retire from the industry before Sin's era ever arrived, never passing his wrestling philosophy on to the next generation. History's victor would be Hunter. Aligning with Greg, therefore, had no future — that was my assessment. It hadn't changed even now. But that being said, whatever was there for the taking, wasn't I entitled to take it? So for this one occasion, I intended to make full use of Greg's goodwill.
At the arena, we followed Hunter's instructions to his office. A corridor with the lights off. The facilities weren't fully installed yet — a tarp hung up roughly, and it looked like everyone had knocked off for the night and gone their separate ways to rest. Summoning a man at this hour. A special breed of lunatic.
And yet, ironically, this was happening because Hunter genuinely loved this business called pro wrestling. He wanted to place his character at the very summit, and dreamed of leaving an immortal mark on the industry's history. Exactly like me. Which was why I didn't particularly think of the current Hunter as a son of a bitch. We had simply met at the wrong moment, in the wrong place.
Just like Detective McClane, really. The hero of the action film Die Hot — and yet, precisely because of that, neither of us could afford to hesitate when we pulled the trigger on the other.
Inside the office, the lights were on. Three members of Revolution were gathered — everyone but Orton. Hunter, who'd been reading a book, looked up first. "So you came... what the—" His voice had been pitched low, but the moment he spotted Greg, his eyes went round. "Greg? What are you doing here?"
"Thought you might be needing a lawyer."
Greg fired back with a quip. Batista's face and Flair's both stiffened. They'd waited so long for this, finally on the verge of getting what they wanted — and now the situation had tangled itself into a knot. Of course everyone's mood had soured. But what could you do?
I was having a great time.
Hunter's expression was a sight worth watching. "A lawyer? I have no intention of holding any Wrestler Court."
"As if. Hunter, we've worked together long enough that I know exactly how you think."
Greg stepped forward. Judging by the atmosphere, it didn't look like my moment to step in would come at all. I lounged back and smiled, like some corrupt corporate tycoon awaiting trial. "I heard what happened. Word is this kid of yours gave your boy a proper thrashing."
"..."
"Frankly, the one who ought to be hauled before a Wrestler Court is Orton."
"Orton, you mean."
"That's right. It's fine to reign like a king, but wouldn't it serve you better to listen a little more to what the common folk have to say?"
"I have no idea what you're talking about."
Hunter answered through gritted teeth. To me, it sounded exactly like "I have no idea what you're talking abouuut..."This is genuinely comfortable. And it was even a little entertaining. It felt like watching a ring segment live. I leisurely enjoyed the sight of Hunter's face crumpling.
"That Orton boy. Word gets around that he's arrogant as hell — even our good friend Kane says he can't work with him anymore. See to it he gets educated. Appropriately."
"..."
"That goes for you too, Gabe."
At the charismatic turn of Greg's head, Batista's body went rigid in an instant. "Get it through your head. In this business, more than anything else, your opponent's well-being comes first. The longer the men who face you keep hurting and getting injured, the longer the list of guys who won't work with you grows."
Words of wisdom. "Answer me if you heard it."
"Y-yes, sir. Understood."
Batista, glancing around nervously, nodded. Flair let out a long sigh and soon stepped forward himself. "Greg." "Nick. It's been a while." "Let's take this outside first."
Perhaps out of consideration for Hunter's dignity, he made the request earnestly. Greg glared at Hunter for a long moment, then exhaled deeply and turned away. "Sin. Come along." "Yessir."
It was over. Seeing Hunter's head hang low, I registered as much, and followed Greg and Flair outside. Right after that, from inside the office, came the sound of something shattering spectacularly.
Orton's about to get it. With Hunter that worked up, this wouldn't be settled quietly. I walked along behind Greg and Flair, mulling over what faces were in store for me at this week's shows.
In front of a vending machine, Flair fished a few coins out of his pocket and dropped them in with a clink-clink. The rattling of cans. "Drink whatever you like." "Thank you, Nick. I'm always in your debt, senpai." "Don't mention it, Greg. It's because of my face that he's letting this go, eh?" "That it is."
The two men laughed and talked. On the surface, an odd pairing — Revolution, and the man opposed to them. And yet Flair was on good terms with Greg? But of course he was. Flair was a legend of the industry, a senior respected by everyone. In his youth he had guided the young Greg, and that was why Greg looked up to Nick.
...Though after retirement the two of them had quarreled a fair bit. But that was neither here nor there now.
"Kid — Sin, was it? Your moves were beautiful too. First time I've ever seen Orton taken apart that fast." "My sincere apologies for that night. I figured that with your reputation on the line, senpai, letting myself get disrespected there would've been the real end of me." "Hahaha! I understand perfectly. You're the first rookie with that kind of nerve, though — you startled me." "Right? This kid's the real deal, I'm telling you." "He is. Though I doubt Bart has any idea what he's actually worth."
"...Kung-Fury, you mean." "Right — back in GCW you were so cool, and since coming here you've been put through the wringer."
"Sin." Greg turned to me. Hold on — why do only those two get soda? I can drink soda too, you know.
"Shall I help you out a little?"
"Greg..."
"That Kung-Fury gimmick is flat-out discriminatory. Honestly, it made me want to smash something." "It is, isn't it." "Maybe it wasn't your intention, but right now, the Asian kids of America think of you as a hero."
"...Are you telling me to take responsibility?"
"That's your call. But I think there's a need for it."
"That much, I can't argue with."
More than that, though — I hadn't imagined he'd even concern himself with something like that.
"But Greg. Life can't always go that way, can it?"
"What do you mean?"
"There's hardship too. There are times you simply have to endure discrimination like that. What I'm going through right now is exactly one of those times."
"That really was magnificent, Sin." It was Flair who answered. "Framing that gimmick as the hardship Sin endures upon joining the company — brilliant." "It's certainly cool, but..."
"Don't worry, Greg. Besides, it's Bart's favorite character, isn't it? I get attention out of it, so it works for me." "...I can't tell if that's a big appetite or what." "Kid, Maxen's attention is a curse. This Greg right here could talk all day about the idiotic scripts he performed on account of it." "Indeed he did, Nick."
Greg laughed, a little hollowed out. But what these two didn't know was how long, in my past life, I had survived by performing humiliating script after humiliating script.
"Though if I'd been guaranteed a championship in exchange, it would be a different story."
"A championship?" Flair's eyes went wide. "Ah — not Orton. You, Flair. You're the one." "Me... and Gabe?" "Yes, that's how it's been settled for now. Coming from Bart, though, it could be rewritten any number of times along the way." "And who's to be your partner?"
"Hard to say."
I glanced sidelong at Greg. He smirked and spoke up. "Surely not me. First he teams with my nephew, and now he wants the uncle too? Isn't that a bit much?"
"...Excuse me. The way you leave the subject out of that sentence makes it pretty gross, you know."
"Hm. Does it?"
The Harts, sure enough, had an innocence about them that bordered on infuriating. I gave him an exasperated look, then let a light smile form. I had more or less made up my mind. My tag team partner.
"So — is it me, or isn't it?"
Pressed by Greg, I answered the question straight away.