The Golden Spoon Problem
The European tour had come to an end.
I returned to the United States on a chartered plane, completely worn out.
J.F.K. Airport, New York.
On the European tour, I had essentially carried Burning Kong on my own.
And the result?
In the end, it was Will O Speedy who received a WWF contract. He would be starting out in our developmental territory, GCW.
I had cleanly taken down a monster like Triple H, delivered a result that left everyone stunned, and come home. It had been grueling, but I felt good about it — the way you do after finishing a great journey. All I wanted was to crash at a nearby hotel and sleep for a week.
But another trip was already waiting for me.
Airport lobby. Hiding from the heat outside, I stood there in my sunglasses, buried in the crowds moving through the terminal. The Burning Kong and Rkdawn teams were unloading luggage from their respective planes and loading it into cars. People kept sneaking glances at the muscular Asian man in their midst, but thankfully nobody seemed to recognize who I was.
Well, I did give everyone a heads-up.
Telling myself it was time to rest, I pulled out my phone — and found a staggering number of missed calls.
Russell, Russell, Russell, Baku, Baku, Russell, Baku, Harley, Harley, Baku.
"Orton, Orton, Flair, Booker, Batista, Booker, Greg, Russell…?"
What on earth was going on?
The moment I went to check my text messages—
"Siiiin~."
Someone came up to me. It was Cena.
He was wearing a sleeveless shirt, drawing every eye in the vicinity with those hulking muscles of his. Feeling suddenly uneasy, I pushed my sunglasses up and scanned our surroundings. Everyone was whispering.
Cena didn't have a clue.
"There you are! I've been looking all over!"
"Cena, I told you — when we're out in public, call me by my real name. People will recognize me."
"Okay, June!"
"It's Jun. Jun. Like the June in July and June."
"...Joon?"
"Never mind. Just—forget it."
I let out a sigh. "So, what's up?"
"Nothing, just came by to say goodbye."
"Goodbye? Oh... right."
Rkdawn's departure was apparently finished. They were heading south, the exact opposite direction from us, going north.
"It's been great working with you."
"Yeah, you take care of yourself."
"Haha, you should transfer to Rkdawn, you know. The veterans here — everyone's been really good to me."
"..."
I suspected that had less to do with their goodwill and more with the fact that Tiffany McMahon had been keeping a steady eye on them lately. Either way, if he was happy, that was fine by me.
"See you in November."
"November?"
"Yeah — that's when the pay-per-view happens, right? Ring Survival."
"Oh, right. But by then..."
"You'll be the U.S. Champion."
"And... you?"
"We'll see."
I gave a small smile. Cena looked puzzled for a moment, and then, as the meaning of my words sank in, his face lit up.
Ring Survival.
Burning Kong versus Rkdawn — one of the four major pay-per-views where the two brands went head to head. Champions faced champions, while the beltless wrestlers formed their own teams or sought out opponents at their own level. It was a colossal event. Held around Thanksgiving, America's great holiday season, attendance routinely soared past a hundred thousand.
And going into that event as the Intercontinental Champion — that was my current goal. Only then could I face Shawn Cena, the U.S. Champion, Rkdawn's second-line titleholder.
But before that, there was a mountain of work to do.
Ring Survival was a November pay-per-view. It was currently late September. September's pay-per-view had been forced to cancel — the Europe tour had left no room to build the feuds — so we would run four straight weeks of shows, and then we needed to crown a new World Champion to replace Hunter.
On top of that, there were title changes to sort out and the whole booking roadmap to straighten out. There was so much to discuss it made my head spin.
In the middle of all that, Bart Maxen summoned me to the conference room and, in front of everyone, made his announcement.
"Drop the tag team belts."
"...Excuse me?"
"And enter Ring Survival as Intercontinental Champion."
"That's a surprise."
"I've already spoken with Booker."
"And the belts will go to—"
"Revolution. Nick and Batista."
Figured as much.
"And by having your tag titles taken from you, the feud over the Intercontinental Championship begins."
"Mm. How do we do it?"
"You pitch me an idea."
"Orton interferes at a critical moment in the match to sabotage me... and pulls my pants down."
"PWAHAHA! Magnificent!"
Ah, damn it. Shouldn't have opened my mouth.
I had tossed the idea out half-jokingly, and now I found myself flustered by Bart's roaring laughter. Come to think of it, he loved this kind of juvenile humor — slapstick, farts, poop, pee, that whole brand of gag.
"So tell me, is yours big?"
"...I'm sorry, what?"
"A gimmick where you run around covering yourself with your hands because it's tiny — that would be absolutely hilarious!"
"That sounds like it comes from personal experience, sir."
"PWAHAHA! Ridiculous! The shotgun in my pants is a genuine masterpiece!"
"So is my Apollo 11."
"Hm. Hard to verify, though."
"I'm honestly not sure when exactly I became the butt of the joke here."
"I-I think so too," the head writer cut in. "Instead of pulling his pants down, what if Orton — still devoted to Hunter — just acts with brutal, unhinged viciousness?"
"Couldn't that come after the match? With Nick and Batista, newly crowned champions, joining in as well."
"If we stage a comedy spot mid-match and then abruptly pivot to brutality, I don't think the audience will be able to adjust."
A perfectly valid point. But Bart was the kind of man who, when a correct statement didn't please him, simply brushed it aside.
Okay, this is getting tense.
Hunter's words flashed through my mind. Anyone who wanted to become a Main Eventer had to go to war with Bart. I'd known it all along, but experiencing it firsthand felt strange — almost novel.
Then again, I was curious. Hunter had been so eager to see what kind of chemistry would spark when I collided with Bart directly.
But the chairman, rather than pushing his opinion, simply backed down.
"Fine, whatever. We'll go with that. Sin, join the booking review later on."
"Yes, Bart."
And so my assignment came down from on high. As the meeting showed signs of moving on to its next topic, I read the room and slipped out of the office.
First, the plan: in week one, we'd run a tag team championship match, and Revolution's Flair and Batista would take the belts off us.
And with Orton as the cause of it, the feud kicks off from there.
Not bad. But Orton himself was the problem. For the feud with him to truly succeed, certain conditions had to be met.
I should talk that over with him.
With that thought, I belatedly remembered my phone. Everyone had left me dozens of missed calls. I'd been busy and exhausted, and it had slipped my mind.
So the first one is Orton, huh.
I dialed immediately. Ring... ring ring ring...
[Uh, yeah. Sin?]
"Where are you right now?"
[Where am I? At the arena, obviously! Where are you? Not answering your calls, you little punk—!]
"Perfect timing. Come to the parking lot."
[Everyone's losing their minds over you beating Hunter! I heard it straight from the man himself, but still! ...Oh, Nick and Batista say they want to see you too. Can they come along?]
"No."
I said it flatly, hung up, and headed straight for the parking lot.
I get it now.
Why everyone had been calling. A memory surfaced — the radio I'd half-dozed through on the tour bus. The newsletter journalists had run a special recapping the European tour, most of it praise for me, plus speculation about why Hunter had put me over at the end.
[So this is Sin's first step toward becoming a Main Eventer? That's fast. Honestly, too fast.]
[He's certainly got the ability. Word is, the internal pushback has been less than you'd expect.]
[Your 'source' remains deeply unreliable.]
[It's not actual insider info — just the general mood floating around the company, so it's trustworthy enough.]
[Is it, though? Why would there be no pushback at all? A rookie who debuted on the main show barely a year ago is already going Main Event.]
[Well, even that arrogant Lance Orton calls himself a Sin fan.]
[...Yeah, I really can't trust your source. How could that lowlife possibly say that?]
[Hey, I doubted it too and asked again. But apparently the guy who treats every other wrestler like garbage is perfectly docile around Sin.]
I knew the reason.
Orton trusts me.
Maybe because we were newcomers standing in similar positions. Around me, and only around me, he let his guard down.
But our circumstances couldn't have been more different. He was still a heel getting booed — in the bad sense. Meanwhile, I was a face receiving cheers in the good sense. Orton had been watching me, learning from me, trying desperately to change how the crowd reacted to him, but so far it had only ever been an uphill battle.
Mulling all this over, I reached the parking lot, and before long I spotted Orton jogging out toward me.
"Sin!"
He ran straight up and grabbed my shoulders, trying to pull me into a hug. I quietly slipped backward out of his grasp and looked around before speaking.
"You came alone, right?"
"Yeah, yeah, I did. I'm over the virus. Totally clean, so let me hug you just once."
"...What is wrong with you?"
"I'm just happy to see you after so long. I thoroughly enjoyed the Europe tour, by the way."
He was so persistent that I settled for a light bro fist. Grinning broadly, Orton fell in beside me as I headed for the exit.
"I never thought you'd beat Hunter. What the hell happened there?"
"Wouldn't your side know better than I would?"
"Hm. All anyone said was that his leg was injured, then everyone clammed up. Nick seemed to understand something, but I still don't get it."
"I helped him out during the European tour, and he was repaying the favor."
Instead of untangling Hunter's complicated psychology, I summed it up in one line.
"Ah~ so you're the one who helped him. Hunter barely put up any fight in that match — I wondered if something was off."
"He'll probably be out at least six months. The muscle tore badly. He might not even be able to walk properly for a while."
"Th-then what happens to us?"
"You?"
"Revolution, I mean."
"What do you want to happen?"
"Me? Uh... hm. Hard to say."
"I told you to think for yourself."
"R-right, you did."
"Whatever it is — no matter how ridiculous — I won't laugh. So tell me."
"...I want Revolution to stay together. Honestly, I don't think I'm ready to go solo yet."
The man had zero confidence.
"You're the Intercontinental Champion now. Give yourself a little more credit."
"And you said the belt's going to you."
"Then use that as your opportunity."
"How?"
"Can you put up with pain pretty well?"
"As well as the next guy...?"
"Good. Orton, this is my idea. ...First, let's order some coffee."
We ducked into a chain café nearby, and I ordered an espresso. Orton, apparently copying me, ordered an espresso too.
"My treat."
"Then I'll enjoy it."
Orton earned far more than I did, so he accepted the gesture without protest. Besides, the storyline I was about to pitch would sweep away his biggest headache in one stroke. Considering it payment for that, my espresso was an absolute bargain.
"So, Sin. What did you want to talk about?"
"You already know I'm feuding with you this month and taking the Intercontinental Championship off you, right?"
"I know. Congratulations."
"..."
Cena, and now this guy. Why was everyone in this business so damn naive?
"That's why I called you here — to talk about that feud. If we do this right, it can solve your problem."
"My problem?"
"The fact that the fans refuse to accept you. I think that's a serious problem."
"So do I. Why though? Why does everyone hate me? And it's not even the good kind of heat a heel is supposed to get — what is that about?"
"It's because you were born with a silver spoon in your mouth."
"Silver spoon?"
"Yeah. Let's walk through your career from the very beginning, in detail, shall we?"
Debut as a member of Revolution.
Born into a family of third-generation professional wrestlers, blessed with a handsome face and real height, he'd received a monstrous push from day one. Riding that push, he'd racked up wins over WWF's veteran legends and earned the nickname the Legend Killer.
"That's reason number one you get booed — the bad kind of booed."
"Th-there's a second?"
"Of course there is."
I smiled brightly.
His matches were booked as simple as possible. His seniors took most of the dangerous spots, and his image stayed protected at all times.
"That's reason two."
"...And a third?"
"Just the silver spoon itself."
"Why—"
"Because you only ever get bookings a silver spoon would get. Handed the important storylines from day one, kept out of anything risky for fear of injury."
I spoke with the tiny espresso cup still cradled in my hand.
People weren't fools. Most of the audience enjoyed professional wrestling as a show with scripts — they knew the storylines existed. But the moment they sensed something off outside that script, they didn't hesitate to let their disgust show, full force.
"People look at you and see 'an idiot who only knows how to cash checks without doing any work.' As a heel — no, as a wrestler — that is never a good reaction."
Boos that broke kayfabe. The worst kind.
"So... what do I do about it?"
"That's why I asked whether you could put up with pain."
"...What are you planning?"
"Thumbtacks. Things like that."
The color drained from Orton's face in half a second.