Declaration of War
Thursday's TPA show was packed to the rafters.
On top of the usual TPA faithful, even WWO fans who had never given TPA a second glance poured in, and for the first time anyone could remember, ticket resales were popping up for a TPA event. Ringside reserved seats — not general admission — were going for more than four times their original price. The free seating had climbed right along with them, of course.
The moment the show opened, Director Karl grabbed a microphone. He didn't waste words.
"Allow me to introduce the director of NEXT — Aiba."
He brought Aiba out from the jump, and the two of them clasped hands with a smile.
"Did you all watch WWO's Summer Clash in July? It was the same show as March's Elimination Chamber — just two wrestlers swapped out."
Aiba paused, gauging the crowd. From the stands, a steady chorus of agreement rolled down.
"The Smash Down champions? Both the men's and the women's titles have been sitting on the same waists for over a year. They're not just stagnant — they've gone completely rotten. So tell me — what exactly are our NEXT wrestlers missing? Ahmed, who got an invitation to the last battle royal, eliminated four people. That was the second-highest elimination count of anyone in that match."
Huh. So the higher-ups were testing whether Ahmed was worth a push. The first time I'd met him, he'd been painfully shy. That kind of thing had probably held him back.
"Joshua goes without saying — and Jasper, Gilbert, Andrea, Mina, Karen — we've got more talent ready to eat the main roster alive the second they get the call-up. All they're missing is a chance."
— Yes! Yes! —
"And that is why NEXT—!"
As Aiba wound up for the final announcement, the arena fell dead silent in an instant.
"—alongside TPA, will go to war with Law and Smash Down. Not a sneak attack. An all-out frontal assault."
— BOOM! BOOM! BOOM! —
The second Aiba declared total war, fireworks exploded and the crowd erupted in a roar of pure heat. Aiba soaked it in and made his exit.
Karl followed up by explaining that tonight's show would be about sorting the wheat from the chaff for that war — that things would run differently from a normal card, and he asked the audience to bear with the unfamiliar format before heading down himself.
The show was built around three-on-three and four-on-four tags. Every wrestler out there poured everything they had into catching the eye of John Michaels, who was watching from the back. Plenty of the stables had been thrown together on the fly, and without time to gel, the chemistry hiccupped here and there — but the effort was so visible that the crowd stayed reasonably happy.
"Rina! You're up."
"Yes, sir."
My turn. Time to take the promo and crank the energy higher.
— Zing. Zzzing. Zzzzing. —
The second my theme hit, the pop rivaled the one Aiba had gotten for the war declaration. Since this wasn't a match, I'd cleared it with Jane and come out in bikini wrestling gear — something I almost never wore outside of that one NEXT invasion. The crowd got even louder for it.
I had a backpack loaded with the plushies that had become my trademark, a board in my left hand, and the stolen championship belt in my right as I took my time walking the ramp. Fans beyond the barricade were desperate for handshakes, but I answered them with a smile instead, took a mic in my right hand, and stepped into the ring.
"Hi."
— Hi! —
They fired the greeting right back.
"I'm Charina of TPA. Missed you all."
— Champion! Champion! —
"Hey — I don't think I'm a champion. I didn't even get a crowd pop that night. What kind of champion is that? Am I right?"
— NO! —
Man. The crowd is on fire tonight. This is what a promo is supposed to feel like.
"That's right! You're no champion! You're a thief!"
With that, a man appeared on the stage. Brian — Law's Intercontinental Champion.
— Boooo —
Brian had come out, but his theme never hit. He didn't seem to care. He just kept working the mic.
"You coward. You jump the match and steal my belt? If it weren't for you—"
I cut him off cold.
"Old man! Don't stand over there — come on down."
The crowd laughed. Brian's face went flat.
"What? Old? Do you even know how old I am?"
Thirty-four, sure… but next to me at twenty, he's still an old man. Whatever.
"Forget it. Just get in the ring."
"You think I won't? Hmph!"
As he strode toward the ring, I unhooked the belt from my shoulder, cinched it around my waist, and shifted the skateboard into my right hand. Brian climbed the steel steps, stepped through the ropes, and planted himself in front of me.
"Hey! Give me the belt."
"Come and take it yourself."
Brian looked me up and down, then got that awkward look on his face.
"You take it off."
"Excuse me? My clothes? Right here?"
— Bwahahaha —
— Charina! Don't! —
— Take it off! Take it off! —
"N-no — the belt—!"
"I said come and take it yourself."
I stepped right up into his space, and Brian actually backpedaled — the whole thing looked ridiculous.
"Damn it!!"
He balled up a fist like he was about to throw a punch. I flinched, playing scared.
"Oh my! Are you going to hit me?"
"I— no!"
"Then are you going to throw me? This outfit comes right off, you know."
Some women wrestled in bikini gear, sure — but what I was wearing was closer to something you'd wear to the beach with a boyfriend. I shoved my chest out like I was daring him to toss me, and Brian let out a strangled yell.
"Aaaagh!"
He kept backing up until he turned to leave the ring. I'd been waiting for exactly that. I cracked the skateboard across his back.
— CRACK —
"AAAAAGH!"
The board snapped clean in two. Brian screamed, clutched his back, and rolled.
"You walk into someone else's house, you don't just get to leave."
— Yes! Yes! —
"Listen up, Brian. Monday, I'm coming to Law myself."
All he could manage were pained groans.
"Go tell your boss. I don't care if the challenger is a man or a woman. Anyone's fine. But only one person — and it's a cage match. Have it ready."
— Whoa! Whoa! —
— Charina! Charina! —
Then I opened the bag and pulled out a mint chocolate spray.
— Eek! —
— Nooooo! —
— Whoops! —
"What? Why does everyone hate this? It's delicious."
I squirted some onto my index finger, stuck it in my mouth, and sucked it clean for the crowd — then stuck that same finger in Brian's mouth. The one I'd just had in mine.
Even doing it, I felt a full-body shiver for a second. I hadn't wanted to go that far, but Brian had insisted on it beforehand, so there was no getting out of it. Married guy with three kids, and this is what he wants!
Still — looking at the crowd's near-fainting reaction, a tiny part of me thought, well, that worked.
I left Brian sprawled in the ring and climbed out first. The second I hit Gorilla Position, I started hunting for wet wipes.
"Nice work, Rina."
"Your face gets more wicked every time. You're gonna bewitch half the locker room."
"That was excellent. Straight-up good."
"Wet wipes! Does anyone have wet wipes?"
"Why wet wipes?"
I grabbed the pack someone handed me.
"That bastard licked my finger with his tongue. Disgusting. Filthy pig!"
My full-body revulsion left everyone a little speechless.
"Do you have, like, a cleanliness thing?"
"Usually if someone's germophobic, they hate sweating and skin contact too, right?"
"Yeah, she's being extra."
"Are you kidding me? A man's mouth was on my finger! He licked it with his tongue! How is that supposed to feel good?"
I snapped, and for a second it seemed like they'd just let it go. Then Ben, the head of the scenario team, opened his mouth.
"Rina. Has she… never dated a guy?"
Every pair of eyes swung toward me. I bolted out of Gorilla Position like I was fleeing a crime scene.
"Hahahaha!"
"With that face, and she's never been with anyone?"
"Unbelievable. Hahaha."
Even from outside, I could still hear them laughing in Gorilla Position.
The next morning, I headed to Orlando Airport early. There I met Ariana Silva, the producer who would be running the San Diego schedule with me.
"Charina. Are you really a lifelong single?"
"Silva — who told you that?"
"All of TPA is losing their minds over it."
"Ugh. I'm going to lose it."
"So you've never even had a first kiss."
"I have."
"With who? Your dad? A puppy?"
"Oh, come on!"
"Pfft — hah. In the ring you're terrifying, but outside you're still like a high school girl."
If she'd been a guy, I might have smacked her one — but she was six years older than me and barely five-two, so that wasn't happening.
"The contact went through for sure, right?"
"Tch. Changing the subject… Yes. We made contact. Though his family wasn't exactly thrilled about a visit."
"Hard to blame them. I've heard his health hasn't been great lately."
"From what I dug up, it's not that bad. But what kind of storyline needs us flying all the way to San Diego in person?"
We were already this far along — I could have told her. But after all that teasing, I wasn't feeling generous.
"No spoilers."
"Hmph. Here's your stuff. I'll go check the bags."
"Silva, I'll come with you."
Ariana and I checked our luggage and boarded the flight to San Diego straight after.
WWO had offered to handle the outreach themselves, but this wasn't just anyone. I wanted to meet him face-to-face. He was one of my role models, after all.
That's right.
I was on my way to meet the legend of hardcore himself — Mick Foley — currently recovering somewhere warm.