The Mystery Partner
Paris, France.
The fans who had come out for Monday Night Burning Kong were about to witness a show beyond anything they could have imagined.
This is insane.
The ring. Waiting across from me, on the opposite side, were Paul of France and Yong of Spain, and watching the two of them loosen up had me fighting a losing battle to keep a straight face.
Ding-ding-ding!!
The ring bell rang out three times, loud and clear, and the ring announcer picked up the thread.
"Ladies and gentlemen, please be advised: tonight, in the interest of fair competition, Sin will be competing alongside a mystery partner."
A mystery partner. A classic piece of booking, and a very good one — guaranteed to amplify the show's intrigue. A tag team partner whose identity would stay hidden right up until the last possible second. The mere mention of it set the French crowd murmuring.
What followed was a brief hush. Then, as if to tear it open, an entrance theme erupted through the arena — a song with a soft, slow groove, carried on by a female rapper's verse.
Seriously, what even is this?!
But damn, it killed.
The crowd knew exactly whose song that was. They shot to their feet and spun toward the entrance ramp.
Tiffany McMahon.
My mystery partner strode out in full ring gear, head held high, waving to the people in time with her own music. Watching her, I thought:
That woman is insane.
And from far across the arena, she met my gaze with a smirk. What a magnificent woman. She hadn't disrupted my plan one bit — she'd aided it with exquisite precision. Bart, crazy old coot that he was, had approved on the spot, saying it sounded like fun, and just like that, the thing was settled.
It hadn't been smooth sailing, though.
I'd been through the wringer. Mentally speaking, that is.
A few days before all of this went down.
Thwam!
Tiffany, still in her workout clothes, drove a forceful bump straight into the ring mat. Standing by the ring post and watching, I felt my eyes go round.
Not bad... no, wait — she's actually good?
That was a beautiful bump, pro caliber. Then again, until just a few years ago, Tiffany McMahon had been a veteran who'd competed in the women's division herself.
She popped straight back up from the bump and asked, "How was that?"
"How tall are you?"
"Five-eight or so, I'd say."
"And your weight?"
"……"
"You look about a hundred and thirty pounds."
"I've been off training for quite a while, so I'm actually lighter than that."
"Even so, you're tall."
"I told you, I'm not."
I was teasing, but she really did look the part. Hers was a frame so delicate it seemed it would shatter at a touch. Could someone built like that really work a proper match?
So that's the crux of it.
There was also the matter of believability. If she ignored the physical gap between men and women and traded blows head-on like an equal, the crowd would never buy in. But I had more than enough ideas to blow that problem away.
"How long have you been out of training?"
"Oh... about two years?"
"Your muscle's definitely wasted away quite a bit."
I gave Tiffany's soft upper arm a squeeze. There was a trace of what had once been there, but hardly anything you could call muscle.
"Anyway, I'm just here in a 'time-buying' role, so I should be fine, don't you think?"
"Yes. Still, if you could pull off one impressive move, everyone would love it."
"What should I do?"
"Before that, let's double-check your bumps first."
"...Now I'm nervous."
And that unease proved well placed. I ran Tiffany McMahon through a whole catalogue of slam maneuvers to see whether she could take a proper bump.
First up, the body slam.
Thud! Tiffany dropped from the height of my waist and sucked in a breath.
"You okay?"
"...That hurt."
"Say the word if you can't handle it."
"As if."
She smirked, and I didn't go easy on her — I put her through move after move. No matter that she'd once competed as a wrestler; the way men's and women's matches were worked in the present day were worlds apart. Bluntly put, most women's matches these days didn't even qualify as matches at all.
Because the WWF wanted something entirely different from its female wrestlers than it did from its men. The women mostly worked their bouts playing up sex appeal for their core customers — men. Faces and figures were prized above in-ring ability. Of course, that was only the state of things now; a decade or so down the line, the women would be judged on much the same terms as the men.
But that was the future.
Not now.
Even so, Tiffany McMahon was different. She winced at every move I laid on her, but she took the bumps, all the way to the end. I was being careful myself, easing her down so a bad landing wouldn't hurt her, but the fact that she could chain together one stable bump after another was deeply encouraging. I turned the reason over in my mind for a moment, and soon found the answer.
Now that I think of it — Tiffany spent her entire career taking the men's dangerous moves, burning her body up for the business.
I figured she'd be fine.
"Not bad."
"Your moves hurt, but they come in incredibly stable."
Tiffany groaned as she picked herself up.
"Of course, you won't have me doing anything this rough in an actual match, right?"
"Of course not. It's a weekly show, so we keep things moderate."
"So what's the plan? I'm a woman, and not even an active wrestler — how on earth am I supposed to survive a tag match..."
"You borrow the power of authority."
"Authority?"
"Besides, you're a woman, so the opponents will feel awkward about hitting you full force. How about this — catch them off guard, land a shot apiece, and scramble away?"
"That could work. But do what, exactly?"
"Hmm."
I turned it over for a moment, then laid out two criteria first.
"Something flashy, and something that looks strong."
"A hurricanrana?"
"Can you do one?"
"Well... clumsily, at least."
"Then let's practice it. And we'll add one top-rope move as well. Sound good?"
"Fearlessness happens to be my one virtue."
"Then we'll add a top-rope cross body."
It was a move with plenty of impact while still being fairly simple. Reasonably comfortable to catch, too. A strategy of sorts — built around Tiffany's safety while squeezing every drop of performance out of the show. With the two moves settled, we dove straight into practice.
Whether it was the icing or something else, her body held up fine. And Tiffany was so light that lifting her was hardly a strain at all.
First, the hurricanrana — a move where you climb onto the opponent's shoulders face-to-face, hook your legs, rotate, and flip them down onto the mat. It looked spectacular and took little strength, so it was mostly the lighter wrestlers who used it.
"First, get up onto my shoulders."
Tiffany nodded, grabbed the ropes, and came off them with the rebound. I caught her around the waist as she arrived, lifted her a touch, and bent forward — and Tiffany mounted my shoulders, facing me.
Our eyes met.
"And now, from here — you flip me over backward while you rotate."
"That's not the end of it, is it."
"Huh?"
As I stared at her in puzzlement, Tiffany's body whipped backward. Instinctively I rotated with her and lunged forward. All I had to do was roll through in time with the moment her legs hooked and sent me over.
But astonishingly, she rode the whole thing — hooking her legs onto me as I spun forward half a rotation and came down.
Thud!
It worked. A flawless hurricanrana.
"How was it? How was it?"
Tiffany beamed as she asked. Still perched on my chest, she laced her fingers together and went for the pin.
"Done like this, it's a hurricanrana. If you'd just flipped me over, it'd be a head-scissors whip. You thought I was an idiot, didn't you?"
"No, that's just a matter of detail — most people lump them together."
"Hehe, Mr. Viterero told me to always make the distinction crystal clear. And I can properly tell a huracanrana from a frankensteiner, too."
"...Impressive."
"Are you mocking me right now?"
"Ghhk—?!"
Tiffany hoisted her hips up high once, then dropped them right back down onto me.
"Three seconds. I win."
"C-congratulations."
"Anyway — how was it? My move."
"It was magnificent."
I pushed Tiffany off me and rose to my feet. She truly was a woman you couldn't underestimate. Her execution was solid — had she stayed on as a full-time wrestler, she'd have made it big.
After that, Tiffany and I kept drilling the moves we'd use in the match. The top-rope cross body — a move where the attacker leaps and lands across the opponent's body in the shape of a cross, driving the impact home. It was never a technically demanding maneuver to begin with, and Tiffany — no coward, just as she'd claimed — threw herself off that top rope with everything she had.
As the drills rolled on, one thing surfaced in my mind. Come to think of it, the 'Viterero' Tiffany had mentioned had passed away a year ago.
Eddie Viterero. A Legend of the sport, born of Mexico's storied wrestling dynasty, the Viterero family.
A heart attack, wasn't it.
The image of Tiffany — who had appeared on the memorial broadcast of her own accord and wept her heart out — flashed suddenly through my mind. It seemed the tears she'd shown on that broadcast hadn't been 'part of the show' after all.
Tiffany's idea had been pinpoint accurate. With this, I could buy just enough time to rest without wrecking the script I'd planned. In the end, what I feared most was fatigue piling up until I made a mistake mid-match. If that happened, either I or my opponent could end up seriously hurt. The one danger to avoid at all costs — and the one that always comes sniffing around anyway. That anxiety was now gone.
Smack!
"Gah?!"
The instant a palm cracked against my back, I flinched and flung my shoulders wide. I'd just been beaten back to the ropes under Paul's assault — and Tiffany McMahon had tagged in out of nowhere.
The crowd roared its approval. Tiffany waved back at them, then stepped over the middle rope and into the ring. For a fleeting moment our eyes met, and I conveyed my thanks. Then, playing my scripted part, I raised my hands as if to say, what the hell?
In truth, I was pretty worn out. But since the script had me dominating both opponents, I couldn't let it show. And there Tiffany stepped up boldly in my place — buying me an actual window to catch my breath. I steadied my breathing, rolled the stiffness out of my arms, and made a show of the stamina I still had to spare. Then I checked on the ring.
This should get over well.
Even so, I watched Tiffany with a thread of unease. But the woman in the ring blew my worries away, performing like a true professional from the very first beat. She circled the ring wide under the crowd's cheers and squared up into her stance — while Paul stood flustered, at a complete loss.
A woman — and not even a wrestler — had come out demanding he fight her. Any man would react exactly like that. Paul shot the referee a look that said, you're not going to stop this? Then he sighed and went at Tiffany with raw power.
The reaction that followed wasn't quite what I'd expected.
Huh?
A French wrestler, booed in France. Paul was genuinely thrown — he lifted his head for a beat, scanning the crowd. But Tiffany caught the opening and raked a slap across his cheek.
Not in the script. But it jolted the crowd's hearts awake — and it was more than enough to snap Paul, who had briefly forgotten himself, back into the performance. He staggered back, dumbfounded, then charged in a flash of fury. He hoisted Tiffany up and flung her down.
Thwam!
Tiffany received the move with a textbook bump and rolled lightly backward. She wobbled for an instant from the pain, but quickly turned Paul's momentum against him, driving him face-first into the turnbuckle.
The crowd erupted. Realistically, it was an absurd sight — but in terms of the script, there wasn't a thing wrong with it. Pro wrestling follows its cartoon logic faithfully: the small ones are quick, the big ones are slow.
As Paul turned around, dazed, Tiffany came flying off the rope rebound. The hurricanrana followed. She rode the momentum straight into a pin, but Paul kicked out fast.
But by the time he collected himself, Tiffany was already up — off the turnbuckle and onto the top rope. Her slight frame took flight. Thankfully, Paul caught her cleanly and fell backward with her. Another cover followed, and Paul shoved her off quickly.
But as he tried to rise, his legs seemed to give out, and he dropped to one knee. Tiffany thrust her arm into the air, as if flaunting her own strength.
The crowd sent up a roar that threatened to carry the arena away. And watching it all, I felt my strength steadily returning.
She was, without question, a magnificent woman.