Kabuki Girls
The next day, Law's Troy McIntyre, Shaymoore, Hexa, Natalie, Stephen Bakker, Sayuri Sane, and the men's tag team Happy Day arrived at TPA.
With a show to put on the very next day, there wasn't even time to laugh and build camaraderie with the other wrestlers. They were just as busy, so it ended with simple greetings.
And then there was Sayuri Sane.
She'd missed the Chicago schedule the day before yesterday, so we decided to take a little time to talk and get to know each other.
"I heard you're booked against Miyu at The Live."
"Yes, that's right."
"Because she's Japanese?"
Sayuri's tone had a bit of an edge to it.
"No. Because she's a style of wrestler I haven't faced yet. Besides, I'm a second-generation Korean-American. I've never even been to Korea."
A blatant lie, of course — but right now I was someone with no passport who'd never set foot off American soil.
"If that's the case, then good. I've watched every one of your matches. You really are something. I can see why you blew up the way you did."
"Thank you."
Unlike her chilly first reaction, talk about the match scenario flowed easily.
"What if we build it as a back-and-forth, and I dodge your diving elbow drop at the end?"
"Our match is six minutes. That's too tight for that."
"Could we run it a little tighter?"
"No. My speed isn't what it used to be."
Asuna was forty-six; Sayuri was thirty-nine. Asuna's in-ring work had dropped off sharply around forty-two or forty-three. Charlotte Flair was still going strong at forty-one, and looking at Asuna's case, Sayuri was still young enough to be fully active — yet her aging curve had hit hard starting last year. She had the smallest frame of the Japanese trio, and it seemed like the lack of muscle mass was catching up to her.
"I'll take the first two minutes or so with kicks, dropkicks, and a DDT. You eat the remaining four."
"It might look one-sided. Are you okay with that?"
She smiled brightly, as if she truly didn't mind — but to my eyes, that smile looked strangely sad.
"I'm fine. When you work with Asuna, give her a real scrap. Do it for my share, too."
"But you've got the career and the name value. That doesn't feel right."
"I told you, I'm really fine."
When she put it like that, I couldn't not ask.
"Are you thinking about retiring?"
"I honestly don't know. I just want to stop being a long-distance couple."
She said it so brightly, even though it couldn't have been an easy thing to talk about, and that only made me feel worse. It was as if I'd already lost before the match even started.
It was only a six-minute match, and the only real signature move Sayuri used in that short window was a head scissors whip, so there wasn't much to drill. We walked through it once while talking, then adjusted and ran it a second time like a proper rehearsal.
"You're really good. You sure you've got no indie experience?"
"I'm not old enough to have that kind of experience."
"What are you talking about… Lisa Rayple was working the indies from the time she was fifteen."
"I really don't. There's a place around here that does great sushi. Want to go grab a meal?"
"Ooh! I'm totally in."
The next day, I met Mick Foley and Jack Cena, who'd come in as judges.
"This guy keeps saying he wants to meet you once."
"What? Why?"
"Hell if I know. Hey! Jack! What's on your mind?"
Unlike Mick, who was full of laughter, Jack opened his mouth with a serious expression.
"Charina. I hear you dream of becoming an Icon."
"Yes. That's right."
I'd shouted it at Gorilla Position, so of course the word had gotten around.
"You've probably heard 'take care of your body' plenty of times already… People talk about the 'Four Icons' or the 'Seven Icons,' but the names are different — the common thread is the same. Everyone except one. You know what it is?"
That one exception was someone who'd walked a slightly different path: Iron Cold. His time as a WWO wrestler had been incredibly short. Some said three years, some said about five. But the impact had been so massive that he'd become an Icon anyway.
"Consistency?"
Cena nodded at my answer.
"That's right. Consistency. Except for Iron Cold, every one of them had a long career. Five, six nights a week! Sometimes two matches a day. And they still lasted twenty years or more. These days, four matches a week is a lot, but… as a woman, and a young one at that, you'll probably work even fewer."
I'd heard that in the Victor McMahon era, four or five matches a week was nothing unusual. A truly murderous schedule. No wonder Bron Lesnar — a champion under a massive push — couldn't take the brutal itinerary, quit wrestling, and fled to MMA.
"Second. I don't know if you're interested in Hollywood or not, but don't even look at it until you're fully established. The second fans catch even a whiff that you're looking for an exit, they sense it like ghosts. And then your popularity vanishes like a soap bubble."
Mick and I both listened quietly.
"Third — you have to learn how to enjoy the fans' boos."
Mick jumped in immediately.
"Hey! You only turned heel for a little bit at the end. You were a face the whole rest of the time!"
Jack Cena snorted, finding it funny himself.
"Pfft. Early on, people called me a smug bastard constantly. And you know my skill level. How many times did I hear 'you're terrible, go practice more'? I just put on an iron face and kept going."
True enough — Jack Cena's technical work had been a mess. His selling was decent, and his power was real, so he could make it look convincing enough…
"And finally…"
"There's more?"
Mick cut in with the words I was thinking.
Jack Cena. Haa… this guy talks more than I expected.
"This is the last one, Mick! Finally — you need a rival. Just like Berserker Dagan had the Billion Dollar Man and the Last Warrior, Iron Cold had Victor McMahon, and I had The Stone and Bron Lesnar! Without a lifelong rival from your own generation, no matter how good you are, it's a wasted shot."
I'd thought about that myself. Looking ahead to the future I knew two years out, no new face had really broken out. Lisa Rayple was thirty-one; Tashani Stratton and Sol Luna were twenty-eight — still young, but a bit of an age gap for a lifelong rival. That was why I'd hoped Selma would become mine.
"Thank you for laying it out so carefully."
"Tsk. Why didn't you debut three years earlier? We could've at least done a mixed tag once… What a shame."
"Couldn't we do a special match just once?"
Jack Cena shook his head hard and answered in a firm voice.
"No. If I did that, I'd really want to come back full-time. So no."
"Heh heh. I know that feeling well."
After talking a little longer with Mick and Jack, I withdrew to the waiting room to prepare for my match with Sayuri.
A short while later, I walked out to the stage as the third match of the show.
Ziiing. Ziziziziing. Ziziiing.
Woooaaaah!
Charina!
Charina, hooray!
Charina, I love you!
The crowd welcomed me even more fiercely than before. This was my first match on a TPA stage since the one against Anne — over a month ago, so it had been a while.
I rode the board up the ramp at a deliberately slow pace. Plenty of people were wearing my T-shirts; plenty more held signs cheering me on. I high-fived fans as I passed and stepped into the ring. After circling the ropes and greeting the crowd, I lay back against the top rope and looked toward the stage.
Sayuri Sane appeared in a pirate hat and a flamboyant outfit. A mixed reaction of boos and cheers — not particularly loud, a little half-hearted — rose as she entered the ring.
Hailing from Orlando, Florida, standing five-five and weighing one hundred ten pounds — Cha~ri~na!
From Tokyo, Japan, representing Law — Sa~yuri Sa~~~ne!
Whether the boos came or not, Sayuri beamed and blew kiss after kiss toward the crowd.
Before the start, referee Nancy Connors called us to the center.
"It's a six-minute match, so I'll give you the call at four."
"Got it."
"Understood."
Ding ding ding.
The ring bell sounded and the match began.
We circled each other, eyes locked. Then the lock-up — arms tangled — and Sayuri drove a knee into my stomach.
"Ugh!"
I dipped my head slightly; she immediately grabbed me, sent me into the ropes, spun, and cracked an elbow across my face.
Thud.
"Ah!"
Thump.
I went down with a short cry, then pushed up with just my upper body. She stomped my back in rapid succession.
Thud. Thud.
Each time, my torso folded toward my ankles and rebounded back into place. Sayuri charged the ropes, bounced off, and hit me with a low dropkick to the face.
Ohhh!
She followed with another leg drop on me as I lay on the mat, then climbed to the top rope. She didn't jump right away — she milled her hands, working the crowd for a reaction, buying time — and I got up and went after her.
"Ah… no."
I hoisted her onto my shoulders from the front like an electric chair, then dropped straight back. Electric Chair Facebuster. Sayuri hit the canvas face-first, screamed, clutched her face, and rolled across the ring.
"Aaaagh!"
I grabbed her by the hair and hauled her up. I tucked her head under my arm and went for a suplex — she twisted her body and countered with a head scissors whip. I rolled with her motion and hit the mat.
Thooom.
She tried a standing splash onto my chest; I yanked both knees up to my chest.
"Aaaagh!"
Sayuri dropped onto my knees and screamed again.
That put us just past the two-minute mark. About four minutes left.
I hit the suplex I'd missed earlier, then a clean Lion's Sault. I worked the crowd a little myself, too. Sayuri had said she was fine with it, but I didn't want the match to look completely one-sided. So this was the scenario I'd built.
As I turned back from looking at the crowd, Sayuri fired another dropkick. My body bounced off the ropes and lurched forward. She grabbed my neck and thigh, rolled, and hit a sudden roll-up.
One—
Two—
I kicked out right at two and flopped onto my stomach.
"Four minutes."
The referee's quiet call. Sayuri immediately draped across my back and locked in a crossface. We were close to the ropes, so I thrashed and crawled forward until I grabbed one.
"Rope break! Sayuri! Break it."
"Tsk! Hmph!"
Sayuri let out a short, frustrated sound and backed off. I took a beat before getting up; she turned her body horizontal and crashed into me with a crossbody. I caught her like a ball.
"Wha— wha—!"
I spun her thrashing body ninety degrees so her head pointed down, then sat out as I drove her into the mat. Something close to a sit-down powerbomb.
"Aaaagh!"
Sayuri rolled, clutching her lower back. I stomped the back of her head, then dragged her to the center of the ring.
I looked out at the crowd, winked, and tried the Spot Call skill.
Let's see just how good this skill really is.
Spot Call
As if it had read my mind, the crowd's roar suddenly swelled.
Charina! Charina!
I set both of Sayuri's feet against my hips, gripped them, and slowly turned her body a full one-eighty. My own submission — the Boston Crab. The Walls of Charina.
"Kyaaaaagh!"
At the sudden back-bend, Sayuri screamed like she was dying and propped her upper body up on both arms like a push-up. I gave a little bounce through my knees, selling the pressure.
"Uuurrrgh!"
The scream got quieter, but Sayuri strained with everything she had, trying to reach the ropes. I dragged her farther — right foot, left foot, one step at a time. The ropes got farther away.
Then Sayuri slapped the mat rapidly with her palm.
Ding ding ding.
The winner of this match, by submission — Charina!
The ring bell sounded, and the ring announcer declared the match over.
Charina! Hooray!
Charina! Hooray!
Rina! Nice work!
I love you! Marry me!
I stretched both arms high like a victory salute and smiled out at the crowd.