The Bear Crashes the Party
The public's reaction to Lance Orton was, frankly, about as bad as it could get.
He might as well have been a celebrity perpetually splashed across the pages of gossip tabloids.
The man couldn't so much as breathe without drawing jeers.
People refused to even acknowledge him as a professional wrestler — they simply laughed and wished he would get out of the ring for good.
From Orton's perspective, he had only done the job he'd been handed. And yet he was absorbing a torrent of abuse for it.
Was that fair? If you asked me, I'd have to say I don't know.
Was it fair for the crowd to heap such vicious insults on Orton?
The whole question rested on a flawed premise to begin with.
Human affairs, generally speaking, can't be neatly sorted into good and evil — which made that entire debate meaningless.
The crowd's habit of tearing people apart was simply beyond our control.
So the first thing to establish was this: what did Orton actually want?
"You want to go further with this?"
Instead of answering, Orton held out his open palm.
A small thumbtack was embedded there.
"If I can do it with this."
"You trust me that much?"
"I trust you."
Tears slid down his cheeks, but his face was filled with nothing but resolve.
Things were going so smoothly that I couldn't help but smile.
Of course it hit harder — it was my match.
In truth, the backlash against Orton had swelled precisely because I was the fan favorite.
But I knew this rivalry would benefit both of us in the end.
On one side, a wrestler who had clawed his way up from the very bottom of the industry, proving himself at every step.
Sin.
On the other, a man born with a silver spoon who'd been handed a belt from day one.
Lance Orton.
Similar to Russell Hart in some ways, but fundamentally different.
Orton was a genuine talent — one cast in the role of a silver-spoon heel.
Getting him to realize that himself seemed, for now, to be the most important thing.
"Why do you think people hate you?"
"Because I'm…… artificial."
"Exactly. And this thumbtack is going to go a long way toward shaking that off."
"Why?"
"Because it'll blow away most of the resistance people feel toward you."
Orton had been protected, over and over, so visibly that the audience could feel it in their bones.
Who could possibly like that?
Who would accept a guy who never threw his body on the line in a match as a legitimate threat — much less sign off on the company's booking of him?
"You see it, right?"
"I— I've done everything I could to overcome that, all this time……"
"Unfortunately, a reputation, once it takes root, doesn't die easily."
Orton's ideas had fallen short, too.
Everyone could see he was trying hard — but it never reached the fans' hearts.
If he gutted it out in hardcore matches, throwing caution to the wind, the crowd would have no choice but to acknowledge him.
Honestly speaking, I'd never been particularly fond of hardcore matches myself.
But the demand was undeniably there.
And quite a lot of it, at that.
The audience of this era tuned in expecting violence and blood.
The second week of October's Burning Kong.
After the opening video rolled, footage aired of Booker and me losing our belts to Orton's cowardly ambush.
Over a jarring sound effect, the announcer's voice flooded the screen.
[Orton delivers a brutal chair shot to the head of Sin! Ah……?! Batista appears behind Sin—!!]
The footage, washed in black and white for dramatic effect, replayed the closing moments of the match.
I took the Batista Bomb, the screen cut away, and the three men of Revolution raised the championship belts overhead.
A despicable act of cheating.
And the theft that followed it.
[Boooooooooooo!]
Amid the crowd's thunderous boos, the screen cut once more — this time to me standing in the locker room.
A backstage segment filmed the week before. Its premise was simple.
Booker and me, and where we went from here.
Having lost the tag team titles, how would the two of us respond?
As I seethed, barely containing my rage, Booker stepped over and offered his consolation.
[Don't take it too hard.]
[I'm fine.]
[You don't look fine at all. Well — if it weren't for that chair shot from Orton, that match was ours, no question.]
[I let my guard down. Back in the day, I would've seen through a filthy stunt like Orton's a mile away.]
[Funny you mention that — that was always your specialty. Doing whatever it took to win.]
[If I put my mind to it, Orton will spend every night of his life tormented by the fantasy that I'm hiding under his bed.]
[Heh. That's the Sin I know. ……All right. Leave Orton to you for the time being.]
[Booker, what are you saying?]
[I'm…… thinking about taking another shot at an open title.]
[The World Championship?]
[Yeah. You think I can still do it?]
[Of course you can, Booker.]
When I flashed a grin and shook Booker's hand, the crowd erupted in cheers.
Refusing to wallow in defeat. Choosing to fight on.
A classy move for a babyface.
The commentary team, watching it unfold, piled on the moment the segment ended.
[Sin and Booker's careers have just entered a whole new chapter! Honestly, I can't help but root for both of them!]
[Isn't that a little biased for a commentator? But I'll admit it — especially Orton. Someone needs to knock him down a peg!]
Hearing that, I turned to glance at Orton sitting right beside me.
I'd expected him to be a little anxious, but the man just looked back at me with a smile.
"L-let's do this, then."
"Yeah. Let's have some fun with it."
He really did seem to trust me.
And frankly, I thought today's segment would be a blast too.
For a while, at least, the story would be me feeding Orton his own medicine, over and over.
The heel who had made a career out of dirty tricks, beaten by the exact same playbook.
Throughout the entire rivalry, Orton would take his lumps completely and scrub away the image of a man coddled by the company.
Then, at the pay-per-view, we'd detonate it all for the payoff — and earn his acknowledgment.
That was the plan.
The show rolled on.
One match later, the members of Revolution — all but Hunter — climbed into the ring and kicked off a segment of their own.
The ring had been laid with a red carpet, and a table groaned under a mountain of party food.
Wearing my bear mascot head, I watched it all from just outside the ring.
Tonight's script called for me to crash Revolution's celebration party in disguise and ambush Orton.
Nick Flair took the mic first.
"Hunter may be out for a little while, but Revolution is alive and well!"
The image of all three men standing there with gold around their waists was striking.
Add Hunter's World Championship belt on top of that, and Revolution was undeniably the stable at the center of the show.
Up until now, that is.
With Hunter sidelined by injury, Revolution had all its members wearing gold again, yet the whole thing felt lighter, somehow.
Was it because Orton and Batista were still green, still lacking that gravity?
Then Orton stepped forward, and the crowd buried him in boos.
But the man, resolve locked in, launched into his lines without a flicker of hesitation.
"I'm sure this is all new to you people. Party food like this — something you broke idiots never get to taste. This here is called lobster……"
[Booooooooooo!!]
"I prepared all of it to celebrate Orton and Batista recapturing their titles."
"Looking sharp, Lance. I brought a Dom Pérignon myself, in honor of the occasion."
"A party for winners, enjoyed in custom-tailored Gucci suits. Something these losers out there will never, ever experience!"
Truly insufferable men, every one of them.
Inside my bear head, I soaked up the boos raining down on Revolution right along with them. They were, without question, excellent heels.
Which meant the crowd was aching for one thing.
For someone — anyone — to come out here and demolish Revolution. And Orton, the most insufferable of the bunch, most of all.
And everyone watching had to be thinking of me.
Revolution, naturally, made a point of addressing exactly that.
"Nick — have you heard?"
"Hm? Heard what?"
"Sin. Word is he's gunning for Orton. Shouldn't we have some kind of plan in place, just in case?"
"Haha, Gabe, you're wound too tight. We're in the middle of the ring — if that idiot shows his face, we'll spot him a mile off."
"You think so?"
"Come on, Gabe. What could that guy possibly do against the three of us?"
The moment Orton smirked with that trademark arrogance, the crowd began chanting my name in unison.
[SIN! SIN! SIN! SIN! SIN……!]
"You can chant all you want — it's worthless! That guy's a loser too!"
And with Orton's revolting line as the finishing touch, the party began.
The bunny girls standing at ringside and I, in my bear mascot head, climbed into the ring and started mingling with the Revolution members.
But something was clearly off about the picture.
This was no kid's birthday party — so why the bear mascot head? As if to underline the absurdity, the camera zoomed in on me.
I leaned into it, dancing like an absolute clown and drawing every ounce of heat I could.
Revolution, oblivious to my presence, carried on with their party.
Bunny girls on their arms, champagne in hand, the men dripped with the smug swagger of nouveau-riche villains.
Then Orton was the first to sense that something about the bear costume didn't add up.
"Hold on, hold on, hold on."
He raised the mic again.
Not that it mattered — I'd already finished my preparations, exactly as planned with Batista.
"Who ordered the bear mascot head? Why is that thing even here?"
"Not me. Gabe?"
"I did not request it either, sir."
A beat of silence.
I was standing directly behind Orton.
The crowd, sensing something ominous in the air, let out a low ooooh—. Orton slowly turned around.
I pulled off the bear mascot head.
[Yeeeeeeeeeeeeeah!]
The crowd went berserk.
The first to react was Batista.
I stomped down on the power cable sprawled across the mat and yanked it taut. It snapped tight around Batista's legs and brought the giant crashing down.
"……?!"
I'd rigged it beforehand while fooling around in the bear head up on the ring apron.
Batista's falling body plowed into the table, sending fruit punch, pies, and champagne cascading everywhere.
The ring descended into absolute chaos, and Batista — drenched head to toe in food — thrashed around in a stupor.
The crowd roared its approval.
"You son of a—!!"
Orton came charging at me, fury pouring out of him.
I slipped aside, first dumping Flair over the top rope and out of the ring.
Then I started toyed with the charging, frothing Orton completely.
"PUHAK?!"
A pie sailing through the air connected square with his face, and Orton flailed and went down.
I swarmed on top of him and beat him senseless with every prop on the table.
"S-stop it……!!"
I poured his prized Dom Pérignon straight down his face and smeared pies across it until Orton was made a complete and utter fool.
Beaten, humiliated, by the very luxury party food he'd been bragging about a minute earlier.
The crowd must have felt a catharsis so pure it washed clean from the pit of the stomach.
But this was only the beginning.
Through weeks three and four of Burning Kong, Orton was scheduled to keep taking his beating.
Atlanta, Georgia.
At GCW, Monday and Friday nights had always been left deliberately empty on the schedule.
Because everyone gathered at the training facility to watch Burning Kong and Rakedown together.
A strange little tradition that had taken root after Sin and the Wyatt Family each began making waves in their respective promotions.
Tonight was no different.
People had dragged chairs and couches wherever they pleased, each clutching a bottle of beer as they watched the broadcast.
Tiffany was no exception.
Thanks to Baku's thoughtfulness, she'd secured one of the best spots on the couch, sipping her beer as she took in the show.
"That's it! Get him—!"
Sheamus was on his feet, whooping as Sin carved Orton apart on screen.
Russell, by contrast, was scrutinizing Sin's every single movement.
So was Tiffany.
And she reached her conclusion.
A genius. Through and through.
Talent that outshone every professional wrestler she'd ever watched. Watching him up close like this, she could tell — most of those ideas had come from Sin himself.
[Sin ties Orton to the ropes on the ring! Where are the security guards — where are the rest of Revolution?!]
[I'd say they were picked off one by one backstage. He's met the single most dangerous man you could possibly make an enemy of.]
There was no other way he could have produced a segment this brilliant.
Having utterly demolished Orton, Sin trussed him up with rope and dragged him around the ring, the insults never once stopping.
The crowd burst into howling laughter at Orton's ridiculous spectacle.
But Tiffany never believed it would end there.
This was the show for week four.
The pay-per-view was that weekend.
No matches had been confirmed yet.
And she worried Orton's image might be sinking a little too far.
Five minutes of broadcast time left.
Could Sin really resolve every one of these loose threads in that window?
As if to brush the question aside, Sin — mid-mockery — climbed up onto the ropes.
Orton knelt there, spent and broken.
Sin sat down cross-legged in front of him.
Tiffany couldn't hold back her admiration.
What a picture.
Seconds ago, the whole thing had been pure comedy — and then the turn.
Orton on his knees.
Sin seated before him.
The ensemble created by their two grim, resolute expressions was simply magnificent.
[Scared of me now?]
[……Untie me. Right now.]
[Not a chance. You still haven't given me what I want.]
[You want the belt?]
[To be precise — what I want is to slap you legally.]
[Same here!]
[You? A guy who's done nothing but hide behind Revolution's protection? Let's be honest — without Hunter's permission you can't do a damn thing, you idiot.]
Every line carried weight.
They articulated, with surgical precision, exactly what the crowd had been feeling toward Orton.
Sin was first-rate, as always.
But Orton didn't fold either.
[That's what you think of me? Let's see you say it to my face in the ring, then.]
[A singles championship match.]
[No — let's go further. Sin……! I'll show you exactly what kind of man I am!]
Unable to hold back his fury any longer, Orton growled the words out through gritted teeth.
A hardcore match.
The instant she heard those words, Tiffany felt the blood drain from her head.
"No……"
The words escaped her before she could stop them.
Her beer bottle hit the floor with a dull thud. Tiffany McMahon's mind flew back to what had happened not long ago.
The European tour.
Sin burning himself alive, night after night, delivering his absolute best in front of every crowd.
And that man — unleashed in a hardcore match. She was terrified to imagine what the result might be.