Day 2.3: The Gorilla Position
"Keep your hand over your mouth. Right now you look way too much like you're wearing a mask."
David, the staffer guiding me, said.
"Do I?"
The zip-up hoodie covering my upper face was fine, but below the nose it was painfully obvious I had a mask on.
"Cover it with this."
A spectator beside me handed over a flat card that read Lisa Rayple ♡ Miyu Sky.
"Oh. Thank you so much. Wait—who is this?"
"One of our people. We station them at key points as security and plants."
"Ah!"
"Does this kind of improvised scenario happen often?"
"Not often. Six or seven times a year, maybe."
"Seven still sounds like a lot. Seems like something could go wrong."
"This is WWO. Only proven talent. This much is basic."
Wow. David. This guy's pride in WWO was no joke.
I held the oddly worded flat card high enough that only my eyes showed and timed my entrance.
Alf was such a spectacle I finally understood why Selma found him so embarrassing.
He was belting out some bizarre nursery rhyme that sounded like a pig being slaughtered, while performing a traditional Hawaiian dance I'd seen on TV but couldn't name. And somehow, in the middle of all that, his hips spun with such ridiculous skill that the women in the crowd were screaming like they might pass out.
"Kyaaaah!"
"Alf! I love you!"
"Alf! Take me!"
I didn't even need to look to know Selma's expression. She was probably hanging her head, face flushed scarlet with mortification.
Brooks Reed and Brock Breaker took turns snarling, but Alf didn't so much as flinch—he just kept dancing. And right beside him, James was clapping along like a lookout.
A dream duo. No—a nightmare duo.
The more the two of them clowning around, the more the Visions' offensive rhythm kept stuttering, even throwing off their tag timing. Eventually Paulo Hackman, who couldn't take it anymore, stepped in.
"What the hell is this? You two aren't even part of this match!"
"Mister! We didn't do anything."
"We just danced? Aha! You want to dance with us, don't you? Want us to teach you?"
Wherever they'd planted the boom mic, their conversation carried across the entire arena, and laughter erupted from the stands at once.
"You little bastards!"
"Eheh! Pig mister! No need for the language!
We're Bibi Dudley's students.
We were taught never to just sit there and take abuse."
It was legendary that when Bibi Dudley got cursed out on Smash Down, he'd ordered five consecutive splashes onto a table. I'd been the one to signal something was coming with the run-in, but people would probably remember that night on Smash Down as the real start of the war.
Paulo's triple chin quivered with rage, but he was in no position to fight James himself. In the end he called for help from Brooks Reed, who was standing on the ring post.
"Brooks! Smash those assholes! I'm losing my mind!"
The moment Brooks vaulted off the apron, James bolted toward the ramp and Alf scrambled into the crowd. Brooks glanced at both directions, then chased the easier target—James, who'd fled up the ramp instead of the stairs.
"Charina! Now."
At David's cue I stepped up onto the barricade. Then I jumped—and drove a Double X Handle into the back of Paulo's head like I was trying to crush it.
It might have looked a little awkward, but with Paulo as the target, it couldn't be helped.
Double X Handle: both hands locked together in a jump, striking from high to low—usually aimed at the head.
"Uwaagh!"
Man, that scream was juicy.
Even from the crowd came a chorus of startled Huh? Huh?
I hauled him up, snared his throat with my right hand, and murmured quietly into his ear.
"Relax your body. You won't get hurt at all."
"Uh… okay."
I hoisted him into a choke slam—but slid my right foot underneath so his head landed on the top of my foot. His head on my instep, my left hand bracing his lower back. There'd be a little impact through the spine, but nothing that would injure him.
Thud.
"You okay?"
Paulo blinked in surprise, then caught his breath without a trace of pain.
"Huh. That's genuinely impressive. I'm fine. Go on—hurry."
I flipped back the hood and showed the masked face to the crowd.
"What the—"
"Wh… what?"
"Who is that? What is this?"
The voices around me hit my ears instantly. I turned slowly in a full circle, letting the audience see my face, then bolted back the way I'd come.
Once I was clear of the stands, I handed the mask and hooded zip-up to David, took the splint back, and slid it onto my right arm.
"I'll leave these at Gorilla Position."
"Yes. Just give them to Jane Kim."
"Get back to your seat quickly."
"Yes, sir."
I hurried back to my place and sat down.
"Good work."
"Yeah."
I answered Selma and patted her on the shoulder.
"What? Why are you doing that? I'm the one who's supposed to be beating you up."
"I don't know. After watching Alf, I just felt like you needed this. Pfft!"
"Ah, seriously!"
At that, all the colleagues around us burst out laughing.
"So Selma's been watching that mess for twenty years."
"Selma really is a saint."
"Don't be too hard on her. Boys are all like that. Heh heh."
While we laughed and chattered, the "unconscious" Paulo Hackman was carried out on a stretcher. It had always been a losing scenario, but once the Inquisitors scrambled everyone's focus and Paulo got carted off, the Visions collapsed in an instant. I couldn't know what the original finish was supposed to be before the run-in, but this version had to be far more coherent and solid.
When the third match ended, Alf and James came back too.
"Hey! If you two start dancing and singing in the locker room, I will kill you."
"I knew he was tone-deaf, but how is anyone that tone-deaf…"
Before the women could even say anything, the male wrestlers were already laughing and scolding them.
"Hey! We were deliberately singing badly, okay? Same with the dancing!"
"Selma already told us. She said you're tone-deaf for real."
"Slander! Fabrication! Character assassination!"
Alf sat down brazenly, lying through his teeth.
In the women's tag match that followed, Smash Down wrestlers took the ringside this time—Jamie Cargill and Brianna. Immediately, Melanie Jordan and Lucy Legend from NEXT came sprinting out to stand ringside as well.
"Weird. Think there's going to be a run-in?"
"More like a fight outside the ring, I'd guess."
"Shouldn't we be going out to help NEXT, though?"
While we were talking among ourselves, David from WWO found us again.
"Director Karl Overdia says everyone is to come out into the corridor after this match ends."
"Yes! Something's happening."
"Of course. This is how it should be."
"I'm glad, but they're throwing so much at us so suddenly my head's spinning."
In the end the match dissolved into a brawl among the ringside wrestlers under the ring, and the referee ejected all four of them. As the bout headed into its final stretch, Smash Down wrestlers sitting a little farther off began rising one or two at a time and slipping out of the stands.
"They're clearing out too. Let's go."
When Anne said that, Michael and Dorothy added,
"People in the middle seats leave first."
"Heads down. Alternate men and women."
Selma and I were on the end, so we reached the corridor quickly.
Our director was already there. About ten meters away, Smash Down's director Nikki Elders and her wrestlers had gathered as well. Our side and theirs were both very aware of each other. We stood there, glancing back and forth—like soldiers waiting for the next battle.
"This is kind of funny… right?"
"Yeah. It is."
Selma seemed just as bemused, staring at the other group.
Two or three minutes later, a roar that could have lifted the roof of the arena rolled out from inside. The match must have ended. Anne, Olivia, and Heritage came out, then Dorothy and Michael.
"Director. We're the last ones."
"Everyone's out."
"Good. Excellent. All of you are running in on the eighth match.
Today ends with the eighth. The final match is cancelled."
The director said that, then briefly outlined how the eighth match would play out.
"What if we mess up?"
"Just pretend to fight and take the beating. You can manage that much, right? Is that hard?"
"No, sir."
"Good. Everyone head to the locker room and get ready.
I'll come by shortly with more specific instructions."
"Yes!"
"Understood."
The wrestlers answered with voices full of resolve, and I started to follow.
"Charina! You wait."
"What?"
"You're officially injured. Arm injury."
"But I've got the Iron Cold. Can't I go too?"
"No. You wait."
The director's tone was absolute.
"Rina! Bye-bye!"
"Just watch the bags."
"We're going to have a blast."
Selma, Olivia, and Anne waved and teased me as they left, glancing back at the one the director had held back.
"Haa… Director, so what am I supposed to do?"
"Paul's orders. Go to Gorilla Position and watch how the show runs."
"Gorilla Position?"
I was genuinely startled. I'd heard that veterans like Berserker Dagan or The Stone had occasionally gone in to call the shots. I'd also heard that Corey Rhodes had taken the baton when he was in EAW. But a rookie like me had absolutely no business sitting in there just to watch.
"Rina. This is not an opportunity they hand out to just anyone.
Watch carefully how the show is structured this time."
"Yes. Thank you."
"Thank Paul. I was pretty shocked myself."
I walked quickly to Gorilla Position.
"Come here. Sit right here."
"Yes, senior."
Jane gestured, and there was a chair beside her. Paul looked busy talking with John, so I slipped over quietly without greeting him and sat down.
"First, take your clothes."
Jane handed me the hooded zip-up and mask I'd worn.
"Yes. Thank you."
"Just sit quietly and watch from here.
Don't try to memorize anything. Try to read the flow."
"Understood."
Sitting in silence, I could see the previous match replaying on the monitor right beside me, while others showed the crowd or the judges. The murmur of the audience carried so loudly through a single wall it almost felt like we were still out there. But the air inside this room was strangely calm.
Paul and John were scribbling furiously on sheets of A4 paper, talking nonstop, and Jane—who'd sat me down and then cut in—was offering her own opinions. The PD's mouth never stopped moving into the headset mic, and the person in the highest seat sat with arms crossed, frowning at the monitors.
It was far colder than the ring—and at the same time, far hotter.