Thumbtacks
Here was a thumbtack.
"……"
Orton's expression was anything but good.
The wrestlers who had gathered around us, on the other hand, were all snickering in obvious amusement as they listened to me. Of course — it wasn't going to be their problem. And besides, in their eyes, Orton was an insufferable rookie.
The hardcore match — a bout built around thumbtacks as its biggest spot. It had a quiet, unspoken history within the WWF, and it was about as brutal as anything we were allowed to put on television.
Truthfully, outside the WWF — in the indie promotions that never made it onto broadcast — matches like this happened all the time.
No, that wasn't even the half of it.
Fluorescent light tubes. Barbed wire. Every cruel implement the imagination could conjure — anything that wouldn't cause life-threatening harm but could still bare the face of violence to the crowd. Using all of it to the absolute limit — that was what a hardcore match truly was.
Of course, since we're on broadcast, we don't go anywhere near that far.
Flip it around, though, and that meant thumbtacks were the most 'hardcore' prop we were permitted to use.
I picked one up and held it out toward Orton.
"You're going to use these."
"…Wh-what?"
"The tips are filed blunt. They won't sink in deep, and they won't bleed you bad."
"Th-that's still…"
"That said, because they don't go in easily, they do hurt more. Try one."
"Try what?"
"See how much it hurts."
Cold sweat traced down Orton's cheek. He hesitated for a moment, then touched the tip of a finger to the tack.
"What's the matter with you? Scared?"
It was right then that someone watching from the sidelines cut in.
Max Hardy — the older brother of Jack Hardy, the man I'd once tagged with. The two of them had come up through the indies, and as the Hardy Boyz they'd built a huge following wrestling hardcore matches. The younger Jack, with his decadent charisma, had gone on to become one of the WWF's biggest stars.
His older brother, not so much.
With that thought, I lifted the pouch I'd set at my feet and held it out.
"Want to show them how it's done?"
"What?"
"I've got plenty of tacks, you see."
When I flipped open the leather pouch, the thumbtacks packed inside rattled together. Max gave an awkward laugh, glanced around at the watching eyes, and quickly backed off.
"Why would anyone do that outside of a match?"
"Fair enough, I suppose."
"N-no, I mean, even in a match…"
Orton shook his head at the sight of the tacks spilling from the pouch.
"I can't. There's no way I can do it."
"Adrenaline's flowing during a match. It'll hurt less than you think."
"Still can't! I watched the tape from last night! They scattered tacks across the mat and fell onto them back-first…!"
"If you have a goal, you can do it."
"…What?"
"Through this feud, I'm taking the Intercontinental belt."
"I-I…"
"Think about it yourself."
With that curt brush-off, I spread my palm flat and brought a folding chair crashing down onto it.
Every eye around us went wide.
Because the thumbtacks Orton had inspected and set down were sitting right there beneath my hand.
A searing jolt of pain.
Dozens of them burying into your flesh at once was, presumably, not a pleasant experience.
But it had to be done.
Because our match needed this.
"Think it over, Orton. Think about what you're going to take away from this feud."
I said it with complete ease, then walked straight out of the locker room.
And in the hallway, wincing, I plucked the thumbtacks out of my palm, one tear at a time.
…It definitely hurt.
Portland, Maine.
Monday night Burning Kong. And it was Revolution who opened the show.
Hunter, leaning on a crutch, climbed into the ring with Flair's help, struggling with every step. He looked like a wounded beast — which is to say, none of that charisma had gone anywhere.
So when he took the microphone, he spoke with his chin held high.
"You all look shocked. Well, I suppose you can't help it, seeing the man who represents this show show up in this state."
He hadn't done a single move, yet he had the entire crowd in the palm of his hand.
"I won't make excuses about my quad injury and say that's why I lost to him. I was beaten. Plain and simple."
Hunter raised the World Championship belt he'd been carrying over his shoulder for all to see.
"And so I have surrendered the title. …But I will be back for it. Why? Because I am Triple H! The King of Kings! The Cerebral Assassin!! That is who I am!!"
Triple H roared, as if unleashing the fighting spirit he'd been forced to keep leashed while injured.
"Triple H! Triple H! Triple H!"
The crowd began chanting his name in unison.
For this one moment alone, the script dissolved — it was genuine encouragement for a wrestler who was actually hurt.
Hunter smiled, satisfied, and passed the championship belt to Flair, who stood beside him.
Watching all of this unfold, I said a brief prayer for Hunter's recovery.
And the moment I did, Batista took the microphone in his place.
Right on cue, the crew member standing beside us spoke up.
"Sin, Booker. Get ready."
It was almost time to go out.
Batista, seething over Hunter's loss to me, would invoke the rematch clause as the former champion.
While Batista poured out his feelings with surprisingly decent mic work, I gave the belt a look.
So this is goodbye to this thing too.
It had been fun while it lasted.
A good team, a good environment, and the chance to build a wonderful story against excellent opponents.
Booker seemed to feel the same way, fiddling absently with the belt. He spoke up.
"Sin."
"Yes, Booker?"
"It's been a pleasure."
"Don't mention it. The pleasure was mine. …You're being awfully sentimental tonight."
"I don't imagine I'll ever tag with you again."
"Why? Was I that bad?"
"Not at all. It's just — if I project where your career is going, that's what it comes down to."
Booker's eyes were dead serious.
"You're good. As a singles wrestler you're going to climb straight to the top and keep climbing past it. And by the time you've had your run up there and come back down, I'll be long retired."
Booker's praise was as blunt as his personality — but he was saying exactly what he felt, holding nothing back.
It was an answer I had no choice but to accept.
All of us have to leave this business someday.
I gave a bittersweet smile and clapped him on the shoulder.
"You're the only one who could ever have partnered with Kung-Fury."
"Was that supposed to be funny?"
"…I meant it as a compliment, I swear."
Just as I shrugged, the crew member watching the monitoring screen shouted.
"Music! You're up!"
Our team's final entrance.
It struck me all over again what a magnificent partner Booker had been.
And the show rolled on.
Revolution's rematch clause, justified as Hunter's revenge — and with it, the main event was set.
The WWF Tag Team Championship match.
Having given the audience their story hook, we finished our 'work' and headed back to the locker room.
All that remained was to watch the broadcast up through the main event and wait.
Normally, this would be the time to shoot the breeze with the opponents you were about to face, deepening the match beat by beat. But with the Revolution members, Hunter's territorial attitude had always meant we worked without much conversation — so I expected more of the same tonight.
Huh. That's a surprise.
Hunter had come himself.
Appearing on his crutch with the Revolution members in tow, he strolled uninvited into the locker room our crew had monopolized.
And froze.
"Simmons…"
"Oh, Hunter!"
"What, exactly, did you smuggle into the arena?"
"Vodka."
"You don't have a match tonight, sir?"
"'Course not. I'll just sit here and knock back a few, and when they call my name I'll go out there and holler 'DAMN!' That's the whole job."
"……"
"……"
Everyone was dumbfounded.
Me included.
Booker looked so embarrassed on behalf of Mr. Simmons that he couldn't lift his head.
But what could you do.
This was a crew that gathered for a drink no matter the day, matches or not.
And honestly, I rather liked that cheerful, devil-may-care freedom of theirs.
Embarrassing, though, at times like this.
Which meant it was my turn to step up.
"Uh, Hunter. What brings you by…"
"Nothing much. No work on the books today, so I came for a bit of vodka."
Having told his transparent lie, he dropped heavily into a chair.
"Simmons, pour me one."
"Hah! Sun's rising in the west tomorrow! Hunter drinking liquor!"
"I'm out of action with the injury anyway. Might as well drink until then."
Because no normal person's first thought after getting injured is to hit the bottle.
I watched them, wondering if this was really acceptable behavior even for pro wrestlers, then shrugged and took a seat nearby.
They'll manage.
Down to business, then.
"Shall we talk through the match?"
"Yeah. Let's."
We'd locked down the match's major spots, but there hadn't been time to nail the fine details.
Flair opened with the match's single most important spot.
"Lance, use the chair fast. Hold the referee too long and the story loses its credibility."
"Got it, Nick."
"Gabe, you'll have the strength for it, right?"
"Ate plenty and rested up. Booker might be a question, but Sin I could lift clean even at the end of a match."
Booker's frame was 198 centimeters and 110 kilograms. I held steady at about 188 and 90.
Though, of course, once we stepped through the curtain, those numbers always grew in the telling.
The finish: I'd eat a chair shot from Orton, and then Batista would plant his finishing move — the Batista Bomb.
Truthfully, Batista gassed out early for his age; back in his prime, he'd lifted Booker without the slightest trouble. But we pursued safety and perfection in everything we did, so factors like that were always on the table.
And still — this was Nick Flair, after all.
A legendary villain with over thirty years in the business, and every year of it showed as the advice came pouring out.
Every word of it was right, too. He left me not even a crack to squeeze into.
So there we sat — me and Booker, and the three men of Revolution — building the match around Flair's voice.
The main event crept closer.
Name the hottest wrestler in Burning Kong right now, and the answer was, of course, me.
I'd turned GCW into the industry's burning trend, climbed up here, and was pulling reactions out of the crowd on Burning Kong itself.
And I delivered on every script handed to me.
The serious and the comedic at the large scale — and beyond that, the rare ability to work either side of the fence, face or heel, without complaint.
Even my character, though a babyface now, was a complicated one who could flip heel at any moment without it feeling strange.
And finally — with Tiffany Maxen, a rising power within the company herself, pushing me from above, people wanted to work with me.
Capable, on top of that.
Good-looking, on top of that.
In great shape, on top of that.
Who on earth would hate a wrestler like that?
Just as predicted, the match began with the audience in total, deep immersion.
They say a great wrestler captivates the crowd no matter what he does. But I'd always believed the truth was the exact opposite.
A great wrestler does the things that captivate the crowd.
Ring psychology.
The psychology of the ring.
A style of match where every action is deliberate — carrying the story, harvesting the reaction.
I was a master of it.
And so was my opponent.
"Sin. Looking forward to it."
"The honor's mine, Flair."
From the opening minutes, Flair and I tested each other's full range.
Flair stood around 175 centimeters — far smaller than the average wrestler.
But he buried that weakness under charisma and in-ring craftsmanship.
A master of the dirty player.
The style he'd refined across three decades was a textbook for every wrestler in the business.
"Woooooooooooooo~!"
When Flair let loose his signature battle cry, the entire arena roared it back at him.
Hearing it sent a shiver straight through my body. Flair was a wrestler loved by everyone — beyond the line between good and evil.
Which was exactly why a man like him drew boos if you pushed him too hard.
So as we traded holds back and forth, I built him up instead — lifted him sky-high.
Fouls that would have earned anyone else a shower of curses drew cheers when Flair committed them.
"Flair! Flair! Flair! Flair! Flair!"
Flair, visibly moved by the response.
"Thank you, son."
"Don't mention it."
The atmosphere of the match stayed white-hot from bell to bell.
Hot tag after hot tag; Batista and Booker each unspooling what they did best.
Booker snapping off kick after kick on those long, whiplashing legs — Batista flexing his raw power while working over Flair.
The energy climbed until it had nowhere left to go.
The crowd screamed themselves hoarse for the wrestler each of them had come to cheer.
And my name drew no less than Flair's or Booker's.
Then came the final spot of the match.
That was where it happened.
"Boooooooooooooooooo!"
The instant Orton picked up the steel chair, I caught the shift in the room.
The immersion had broken.
The curses from the fans in the front rows were loud enough to hear every syllable.
"Orton, you son of a bitch!"
"Just drop dead, you piece of garbage!"
"Don't ruin a great match, get out of here! That Sin-hating trash!"
For an instant, Orton flinched at the wall of hostility.
Flat on the mat, I slammed my fist against the canvas — BANG!
Like one of Pavlov's dogs, Orton whipped his head around at the sound.
The thumbtacks.
I flashed him my palm — the wounds not yet closed — and snapped the man's mind back where it belonged.