Kung-Fury and Kung-Booker
To get straight to the point: I decided not to team up with Greg Hart.
Pairing up meant working closely with that wrestler for the foreseeable future — and working closely meant we'd be stuck around each other whether we liked it or not. Looked at that way, Greg simply wasn't the partner I wanted.
What I wanted was a veteran still in his prime. Not someone who would transition into a legend and soon vanish from the scene, the way Greg inevitably would.
'Someone whose career still has room to run — a partner solid enough to hold me up.'
So who would it be? The backstage roster was crawling with senior wrestlers, but how many of them could actually lead me the right way?
Someone who, unlike Greg, would stay active for as long as possible and go on to wield real influence as one of the seniors in the 'team' I planned to build piece by piece. Someone who wouldn't loom over me, but who I could build a genuine partnership with — equals cooperating, not a master and his junior. And someone whose in-ring skills were absolutely beyond question.
After days of deliberation, I finally settled on one name.
Booker-Lee.
Given where he stood right now, it was a win-win for both of us.
He sat somewhere between main eventer and mid-carder — a high mid-carder, in other words. He'd come from another promotion, and because he was Black, he'd never been handed the opportunities his talent deserved. Superb in the ring, but he'd never once climbed to the World Championship.
A man like that was bound to be interested in the path I was offering. And besides, I held a card that could bring even him to heel.
The wrestlers' locker room.
I caught Booker-Lee just as he was finishing up for the day and headed for the exit.
"You wanna talk to me?"
That gravelly voice. He stood six-foot-five, all dense, coiled muscle, with long braided dreadlocks that gave him an unmistakable presence.
But he also carried one of the most unusual résumés in the entire company.
……He was a former armed robber.
Word was that sitting in a cell had made him reflect, and he'd walked out determined to live straight and build a proper career as a pro wrestler. Still, that raw edge of his nature never fully went away — and it showed in the way he fixed his gaze on me now, utterly serious.
Wild, animal eyes. Eyes that sized up a stranger on first meeting and made damn sure no one would ever take him lightly. Not that I had any intention of disrespecting Booker-Lee. He was one of the few men in that room destined to be remembered as a true legend.
"Yes, Booker. If you have a moment, may I make you a proposal?"
"A proposal?"
"Yes. To be blunt about it — I need a team. That's the situation I'm in."
"And you're saying you want it with me."
"Granted, it would only happen once it cleared the booking meeting. But I wanted to make the offer to you first."
"Why?"
"Because I believe the wrestler's own wishes should matter most of all."
"That ain't what I asked. Why should I team up with you?"
"……Because Bart Maxen has promised a program with Revolution?"
"That's bullshit."
He let out a short, dismissive laugh and slung his enormous duffel bag over his shoulder.
"The moment that old man stops getting a reaction out of you, he'll bury you six feet deep."
"Please don't talk like that—"
"And an Asian and a Black man teaming up? Oh, they'll just love that."
"We don't have to jump straight to the race angle, do we?"
"Listen here, kid."
Booker stepped right up into my space.
"I don't team with dumb rookies. I'm fighting for my survival every single day out here."
"Just hear me out."
"I've heard enough."
"No — not my side of it."
I pulled the phone I'd been hiding behind my back and held it out toward him.
For the record, I'd been on the line with someone who could help my case ever since before this conversation with Booker even started.
"His side of it."
"……?"
[HEY, YOU PUNK! BOOKER! PICK UP THE PHONE!]
"What in the hell—"
Booker snatched the phone out of my hand, his face twisted into a scowl — and in the space of a heartbeat, that scowl melted clean away.
However rough an ex-armed-robber might be, there was always someone above him. Above him sat Baku.
"Ah — yes, yes. Baku. Been a while, sir. I was actually meaning to reach out to you one of these days, ha, ha……. What do you mean, don't lie to you. Yes, sir. Sorry, sir."
Sweat beaded on Booker's forehead in sheets. For a moment I genuinely wondered if my phone was waterproof.
Anyway.
Baku had granted my request — "please, just talk him around" — with magnificent, wholehearted enthusiasm. Every Black wrestler on the Burning Kong roster looked up to Baku, which was precisely why a stunt like this could work at all.
A little while later, Booker hung up, let out a long sigh, and looked me dead in the face.
"……What'd you say your name was?"
"Sin. Currently I go by Kung-Fury, but please, call me Sin."
"Right, Sin. You're the first man I've ever seen shamelessly pull strings like that."
"Thank you."
"It wasn't a compliment."
"I know."
"Hoooh. You drink beer?"
"No."
"Goddamn motherf—"
Not like there was anything I could do about his frustration. After all, we were teammates now.
And so Booker-Lee and I became a team.
We headed straight out for beers, and along the way I introduced myself to the other wrestlers already gathered at the pub. When they heard the news — a green twenty-something like me paired with Booker-Lee, who was pushing his mid-thirties — they roared with laughter.
"PHAHAHAHA! Booker! When'd you decide to become a kindergarten teacher?"
That would be Rock Simmons, one of the veteran wrestlers at the table. Besides him there was one white wrestler and two more Black wrestlers, bringing the group — Booker included — to five in total. Together, we formed a backstage crew.
That's right. One white guy. People didn't cluster by skin color out of blind tribalism. But skin color did, undeniably, trace the lines of cultural difference — which was why the wrestlers who'd grown up on Black culture like basketball and hip-hop tended to roll together like this. And yes, most of them were Black.
That said, Booker's crew never made any move to throw political weight around backstage. They just traveled together, drank together, and blew off steam together. Which, I suppose, was exactly why Booker had asked me right away whether I drank beer.
"Quiet down, Rock."
Booker looked worn out already, and kept tipping his beer back. I sat beside him, calmly reading the room. To a man, they all wore the expression of people taking a fresh, genuine shock at my arrival.
Then came the questions.
"Kid, what happened with you and Orton?"
"Hunter tried to end my career, apparently."
"What? So how'd you make it out?"
"Greg stepped in for me."
"Greg? Huh, now that you mention it, Greg seemed pretty taken with you."
"Wouldn't the old man have been the smarter pick? Guy like that's got more to teach than this fool."
"Rock. Enough."
Booker's eyes narrowed to slits.
"Not that it would've been a bad call. But I judged that teaming with Booker gave me the better odds of actually succeeding."
"Oh-ho. And on what grounds is Booker better than Greg?"
At Simmons's question, even Booker — who'd been pouring beer down his throat — paused, visibly intrigued, waiting on my answer. So far Booker had been playing it like he had no choice, stuck honoring Baku's favor(?). This was my golden opportunity to win him over for real!
I flashed my sweetest smile.
"You're funnier."
"……? What?"
"Way funnier than Greg."
"Pfff—pfffhahh—"
"Goddammit, damn it all. A favor for Baku, fine, but how does this—"
"What I mean is, our team's probably going to start out as a bit of a comedy act."
"Comedy……?"
"May I present: Kung-Fury and Kung-Booker."
"Kung—"
"PHAHAHAHAHA! AH! Damn it! Kid, you are the absolute best! HAHAHA!!"
Rock Simmons finally lost it completely, pounding the table as the laughter burst out of him. Booker, meanwhile, had gone pale as a ghost.
But what could you do. When inspiration strikes, it strikes.
From there, everything moved at breakneck speed. I drafted the scripts under my own direction, and once I submitted them, the response was overwhelmingly positive. Bart Maxen — the man with final say over everything — laughed so hard from his chair that he nearly toppled clean out of it.
And so Booker-Lee and I methodically prepared for our team-up.
The first week of March. Burning Kong.
Once the opening pyro faded, Booker-Lee's face filled the giant screen. The crowd that had packed the arena erupted in a thunderclap of cheers at his entrance.
Booker had always been enormously popular — a face who balanced his signature crisp kicks with humor and sincerity in equal measure. He'd been handed far fewer chances than his ability warranted, but he was, and had always been, the kind of wrestler who could make any crowd happy.
The interview began.
[Booker, a lot of people are saying your momentum died after last year's World Championship match. Any response to that?]
[Terry, I don't give a damn what the critics say. The chance will come back around, and until it does, all I can do is keep preparing my own way.]
[Great words, thank you. You've got a match against La Résistance tonight — have you settled on a partner?]
[No, and that's a real problem, honestly. I was thinking I'd grab someone from the locker room tonight—]
Mid-interview, an unknown attacker stormed the frame.
La Résistance — the tag team out of Quebec, Canada.
Booker, seized by the back of the neck, was hurled bodily into the steel scaffolding backstage.
[Urgh?!]
CRASH!
Stacked equipment toppled over in a deafening clatter. Booker clutched his head, groaning through his teeth.
[BOOOOOOOOOOOO!]
The boos poured through the microphones — but La Résistance showed no mercy, laying into Booker with everything they had.
And with that, the first of tonight's two backstage segments came to an end.
That footage, of course, had been taped days earlier — the real Booker and I were currently sitting in the locker room, watching the monitors together.
The show cut to commercial. Booker let out a long sigh.
"You sure this is gonna work?"
"It looked great."
"Not me. It's the second segment that's gotta carry it. You know that."
"It'll be great."
"Goddammit……"
He heaved another sigh. He clearly didn't trust me one bit, but I didn't let it bother me.
I'd told Booker his greatest strength was that he was funny. Both Rock Simmons and Booker himself took it as an insult. But it was a genuine strength. No other veteran in the entire WWF had Booker's easy, warm approachability. It was, without question, his biggest weapon.
We sat in the locker room and kept watching the show roll on.
After Greg's match came the second backstage segment. On screen, Booker sat pressing an ice pack against his head, still rattled from La Résistance's ambush. He muttered to himself.
[Damn those bastards. Pulling a coward's stunt before the match even starts.]
[And a coward's stunt deserves to be paid back with one of exactly the same kind, don't you think?]
Someone answered him from off-frame.
The camera swung with Booker's gaze — and there I was. Kung-Fury, lips curling up into that greasy grin. The crowd greeted him with light, amused applause and a few cheers.
[……? The hell?]
[Oh — no, that's not right.]
[What?]
[Let's take it again. From the top.]
I gestured for the camera to reset. The slip — a brief moment of me confusing my own character with my real self — sent the crowd bursting into laughter.
[HAAAAH-CHOOOOO!!]
[What—?]
[Kung-Booker! It seems to me you find yourself in need of a comrade at your side!]—
[……Kung……?]
[And that is why I have come! Hailing from China! The legendary warrior……! A living weapon! A warrior of destruction! KUNGFURY!]
[Why are you like this. All of a sudden.]
[I, uh…… misread the contract.]
I let my shoulders slump in utter dejection.
Watching it back, I was starting to understand.
'God, this is embarrassingly juvenile.'
Even viewed through the lens of 2004, the Kung-Fury character was mortifying. I had no idea how I'd ever done this with a straight face in my past life. But the live crowd's reaction right now was absolutely electric.
Why? Because every single one of those over-the-top actions was premised as an act — and that single premise turned the whole situation into absurd, self-aware comedy. The character wasn't trying to be cool; the joke was that he thought he was cool, and the audience was in on it from the first second.
Booker exhaled a long, theatrical sigh and rose from his seat. Then, with something like genuine curiosity, he looked me over from head to toe.
[Ain't the worst idea I've heard. I saw what you can do in the ring at Never Escape last year.]
[……Uh, forgive me, what was that?]
[You came looking for me because you want something. Fine. Let's see it, then — let's tear La Résistance apart.]
The crowd absolutely exploded at Booker's declaration.
[U.S.A! U.S.A! U.S.A! U.S.A!]
The chant of praise for America rolled through the arena in a natural crescendo, and the segment faded to black.
'That should do it.'
I smirked and turned to Booker, who was staring at the monitor with his eyebrows shot up in astonishment.
"Well?"
"Hmmmm……"
"I told you, didn't I, Booker? I promised I'd kill it with the crowd reaction."
A rookie stumbling into the main roster on a botched contract(?), and a veteran who'd been starved of opportunities for far too long. A team-up between two men like that was guaranteed to feed both of them exactly what they needed. And the fans, without a doubt, were already dying to see what the two of us would show them next.
"Alright then. Let's go."
It was time to give the people what they wanted.