Talk Is Jeico
Jeico, widely regarded as the best talk-show host among wrestlers, quickly collected himself.
"I've been getting outtalked by you all day."
He let out a dry laugh and pressed on.
"Booker. Ever since you started commentating, that tongue of yours has gotten real sharp."
"I was always good. I was just holding back!"
"Pfft. Sure, let's go with that. Now let's get to the real reason I brought you on."
"Fine by me. But is water all you've got?"
"What, you want a beer?"
"Iced coffee."
Booker was a veteran himself, and he deliberately ordered a drink to break the rhythm and reset the atmosphere.
Before long, the talk show was rolling again.
"Booker. So you don't know anything about the judges either, then."
"I knew they were pulling legends for the panel. But who was actually showing up? No idea."
Jeico paused for a moment, then worked the laptop.
One by one, photos of the seven judges appeared on the giant TV behind him.
"Chairing the panel, the silver-tongued Carter Angle. Harley Molly and Karish to cover the women's side. An Icon in Jack Cena. RBD, top-tier technician. Then the Deadman as the living symbol, and Mick Foley — the hardcore legend who's run more gimmicks than anyone…"
"That is a genuinely fantastic lineup."
Booker nodded hard at Jeico's assessment.
"Agreed. Full stop. If they were taking more than seven, maybe you could argue — but as a seven-person panel, that's the ceiling."
"So this is John's work too, then."
"Probably? John picks them, Paul handles the outreach. Maybe one or two of the original names got swapped out along the way."
Whether those seven had been the plan from the start, or whether one or two had been replaced, nobody could say for certain. What everyone did know was that no one who deserved a seat had been left off.
"You're talking about someone like Iron Cold."
"Could've been eight with Iron Cold on it. But once you exclude anyone currently under WWO or another promotion, this was the best available. 'The Stone' could've made the cut too — except he's on the WWO board."
"Right. So they deliberately stripped out every WWO insider. Smart call. Shame there's no dedicated tag-team specialist, though."
"Hardy Boyz and Dudley Boyz are still active. What are you gonna do? Nobody short of those guys would get the respect."
The two of them went on like that, trading the strengths and weaknesses of all seven judges.
"Mick Foley was already a coup for Charina to pull in — but how did they land Jack Cena? Wasn't he buried in a film shoot?"
"I heard he had a gap open up. He must've missed this kind of energy himself. Hollywood doesn't have this kind of noise."
"Fans showing up just to see the judges are going to be insane."
"No kidding. Getting a ticket is about to become a full-time job."
The more he talked with Booker, the more the comparison to the current EAW stung.
EAW alone was carrying eight championship belts, and once you folded in the developmental brand NOH and the rest, the total hit twenty-four. And that was without the brand splits WWO used. The result was predictable: the prestige of every title had cratered, and it was common for a single wrestler to hold three or four belts at once. Jeico himself had worn four at the same time. It got so bad that not only the fans but the wrestlers themselves couldn't keep track.
Despite a roster nearly as deep as WWO's, the company had never split into brands. Every show ran two or three title matches as a baseline. The inevitable side effect was a whole tier of talent who barely made TV once a month.
"Jeico. EAW's atmosphere is a mess, isn't it?"
Booker's voice dropped a notch.
"Pretty much. WWO swallowed the entire heat."
Jeico nodded, bitter, and kept going.
"I heard the ratings didn't just get cut in half — more like seventy percent gone. And it's only going to keep sliding from here."
"You've got scenario-pitch authority. Why not try forcing some change?"
"That only works when you've got someone with absolute power — someone like Stacey or Paul. John Michaels is the same. John has total control over creative. EAW may be smaller than WWO, but changing it is harder."
EAW didn't keep dedicated writers on staff. It handed creative to the veterans — an unusual model. Even for a decades-long survivor like Jeico, the place was difficult. Having top-level scenario rights still didn't give him the muscle to steer a company-wide arc. Copying WWO was simply impossible.
As EAW's most senior figure, the responsibility sat heavy on him. He gulped water in big swallows, trying to wash the frustration down. It didn't help at all.
"Yeah… I know. Their boss has money and nothing else. Doesn't understand pro wrestling. Just like CWC back when we were there."
Booker's mouth curved up, but his eyes weren't smiling. The more he listened to Jeico, the more he kept flashing back to CWC twenty-odd years ago — the company he'd once poured himself into.
"Booker. Don't trash the boss in front of me. He might be watching. Then I'm out of a job."
"Heh. Hahaha."
They talked a little longer about WWO's trajectory, then wrapped the broadcast.
"Jeico. You're fifty-six now. Time to start thinking about retirement, isn't it?"
"Yeah. It is."
It was the kind of thing only Booker — thirty years of shared history — could say out loud.
"What are you still hanging on for?"
"I don't know. Why I'm still in this business… Maybe if I took a real injury, I'd finally feel ready to walk away."
"Don't say that kind of garbage."
"Heh."
"Your EAW contract — how long's left? It's almost up, isn't it?"
"Not much left, no."
"Come back when you can. Watch over the kids a little, do some jobbing, and retire clean. You won't get a Jack Cena retirement tour, but you can get something close."
"Jobbing, huh…"
A retiring legend putting over the next generation by jobbing to them — it was practically tradition.
"Jeico. See you again."
"Yeah. Next time, I'll be the one crossing over."
"Got it."
Booker clapped Jeico on the shoulder a couple of times and nodded.
"Don't try to carry everything just because you think it has to be you."
With that one line, he left.
Silence settled in. Jeico sat in the chair for a long time, staring at nothing. A thousand thoughts tangled behind his eyes.
Saturday morning, I woke up, checked my phone, and burst out laughing.
"Pwahahaha."
Selma had posted a bikini shot. Alf and James had uploaded photos of themselves in swim briefs — late at night, no less. I'd been half-joking, half-serious when I suggested it. I genuinely hadn't expected them to go through with it. And the shots were actually pretty good. Comments were piling up, and it looked like their follower counts had climbed overnight.
If the extra followers converted into votes at even a decent rate, they had a real shot at making the cut. I didn't need to worry about those three anymore.
Then I headed into TPA.
I was first through the door, already warming up, when Olivia walked in.
"Whoa. What are you doing here this early?"
"Came to see you. It's been a while — practice with me. You free?"
"Sure. How's training going, by the way? Hammering any better?"
"Getting there, more or less. Problem is, nobody's really attacking me properly. The guys are all swamped too."
Olivia usually leaned on the male roster for selling practice. Apparently they were too buried right now to help.
And she wasn't the only one.
"Honestly, working with you is just the most fun."
Dorothy!
"We've only been drilling hardcore. Let's do some regular-match work too."
Anne!
"Aren't you practicing with the same people too much? Try me once."
Even Elizabeth Walker, the IC Champion I'd always been polite-but-distant with, showed up.
"Elizabeth, I'm sorry — today's pretty packed. A few people got to me first."
"Tomorrow, then? You coming in tomorrow?"
"Yeah. Same time as usual."
"Then tomorrow at nine, you're with me. Consider it booked."
"Deal."
Once Elizabeth broke the ice, the rest of the roster started lining up, and I ended up logging time slots in my phone's notes app. Not that I was complaining. I'd been getting a little tired of drilling with the same partners myself. And those practice matches with Charlotte had delivered a rush I still hadn't forgotten.
"Rina. You're not posting a bikini shot?"
"Me? I've got a selfie I took before a show. That'll do."
"So you're not doing anything else?"
Selma's tone made it sound like she had something she wanted to do with me.
"You got something in mind?"
She answered like she'd been waiting for the question.
"Let's shoot a dance Short together."
"Hey — you're tone-deaf and you can't dance."
"That's why I'm doing it with you. I'm riding your coattails. You'll do it, right?"
"Fine. Find something you can actually handle and send it over. We'll practice separately, then shoot it together later."
"Okay. Okay."
"What about Alf?"
"Alf's obviously pairing with James. Heritage is doing something with them too, apparently."
Everyone was grinding. I'd already put out a lot of high-impact content, but sitting back and coasting clearly wasn't an option. I needed to stay sharp.
So I spent the days practicing with my colleagues and the nights working on the dance, and that was the weekend.
Then on Monday, after every possible false start, we finally shot the Short and posted it to both Selma's Star and mine. It wasn't that hard, and Selma did fine — but something about the timing just wouldn't lock in.
"Selma. Next time we shoot separately."
"Yeah. That's better. We can't even sync thirty seconds. How do people do sharp group choreography?"
"No idea. At this rate, I'm starting to wonder if our tag-team chemistry is going to be off too."
"Wouldn't shock me."
The weekend vanished like that, and the week that followed passed without a single invasion — not on Law, not on NEXT, not on us.
Then Thursday night, the director announced the battle royal roster.
Elizabeth Walker led the list, followed by Natasha Blancherd, Olivia, Tainae, and both members of the tag team Wild Cats — Hilder and Sharon. The last spot went to Selma.
Anne, Dorothy, and I being left off hit harder than I expected. On the men's side, both members of the Inquisitors were cut. With far more male talent in the pool, the competition was simply fiercer — and the Inquisitors still weren't deep enough to muscle their way in.
"It sucks, but it is what it is."
"Everyone else has way more experience."
"They said the ones who didn't make it get another shot later. Just wait for that."
"Yeah. Okay."
James and Alf turned out to have much thicker skin than I'd given them credit for. I'd been worried Selma making the cut alone would crush them. Completely unnecessary.
The two of them locked eyes, burning, and shouted at each other.
"Fine! Six a.m. call starting tomorrow! How about it, Alf?"
"Let's go! Six a.m. call!"
Then they crossed arms like some kind of ritual.
Where do they even pick up this corny stuff… tsk tsk.
The finalized roster left early Friday morning for Washington, where Smash Down was running. And I'd been cleared to watch live, so I headed to Washington with them.