Sign-Ups, Show-Offs, and Future Suplexes

CHAPTER FOUR

The smell of cheap deodorant, stale nachos, and ambition filled the Eastwood High gymnasium.

Long folding tables were set up under a crooked banner that read:

"Eastwood High Wrestling Invitational — Where Legends Are Kind of Made!"

A line of would-be wrestlers stretched out across the gym — some jittery, some cocky, all wearing that deadly combination of teenage arrogance and energy drink buzz.

Malik adjusted his battered duffel bag on his shoulder and stepped into line, trying not to grin too hard.

He was eighteen again. With knees that didn't sound like popcorn.

And in two weeks? He was about to break the internet... one badly executed suplex at a time.

Ahead of him, a few students were already making a scene.

First up was a mountain of a kid, all muscle, no neck, flexing so hard it looked like he might spontaneously combust. His shirt read "PAIN = GAINS."

"Name?" the bored-looking coach asked, clipboard in hand.

"Randy Baxter. But everyone calls me 'The Meat Grinder,'" the kid growled.

Malik snorted into his sleeve.

Behind Randy was a wiry kid with glasses thicker than bulletproof glass and a chest that could best be described as... optimistic.

"Name?"

"Caleb 'The Technician' Thompson!" the kid chirped, adjusting his oversized elbow pads.

"Height?"

"Five foot four!"

"Weight?"

"One-twenty soaking wet!"

Coach sighed. "Alright. Go try not to die."

Malik finally stepped up to the table.

"Name?"

He smirked. Time to start building the brand early.

"M.K. Jr."

Coach raised an eyebrow. "Full name?"

Malik leaned in. "It's M.K. Jr. Trust me, you're gonna want to remember it."

The coach scribbled it down with the same enthusiasm someone might use to write a parking ticket. "Yeah, sure. Height?"

"Six foot."

"Weight?"

"Two-forty-two. And it's all prime suplex-grade beef."

The coach gave him a dead-eyed stare and pointed to a nearby table labeled 'Weight Classes & Tournament Brackets'.

Scoping Out the Competition

Malik strolled over to the sign-up wall, eyeing the competition. A few names jumped out immediately:

Randy "The Meat Grinder" Baxter — obviously the heavy hitter. Caleb "The Technician" Thompson — all heart, no mass. Tommy "Twist" Delgado — a wiry kid known for pulling submissions out of nowhere. "Sweet" Danny Rollins — a scrawny drama kid trying to merge WWE with interpretive dance moves. Vanessa "Viper" Cruz — small, fast, and already intimidating three guys twice her size.

And then there was Todd "Double Trouble" Masterson, who signed himself up for TWO weight classes by accident, but nobody wanted to tell him because he looked like he hadn't blinked since '02.

Malik grinned, feeling the blood rush in his veins.

Yeah. This was gonna be fun.

A Few Early "Meet and Greets"

While checking the brackets, Malik accidentally bumped into Randy "Meat Grinder" Baxter, who looked down at him like he was a chew toy.

"You better hope you're not in my bracket, old man," Randy growled, cracking his knuckles.

Malik smiled politely. "You better hope you brought more than protein shakes and bad tattoos."

Randy blinked. "What tattoos?"

"Exactly," Malik said, winking as he walked off.

At another table, Caleb "The Technician" Thompson was demonstrating a complicated wrist lock to no one in particular, narrating every move like a National Geographic special.

"And this is called the Rolling Armbar of Doom. Very rare. Only used by, uh, like three people ever."

Malik nodded respectfully. "Solid technique, bro."

Caleb beamed. "Thanks! Hey, are you new here? I don't recognize you."

Malik shrugged. "New-ish. Just here to kick some butt and eat some cafeteria pudding. And I'm all outta pudding."

Caleb gave him a confused thumbs-up.

In the corner, Vanessa "Viper" Cruz was practicing lightning-fast takedowns on a stack of old wrestling mats, moving like a snake with rocket boosters.

Malik made a mental note: Avoid her if possible. Or bring body armor.

Later — Locker Room Vibes

Malik sat on a bench, taping his wrists, mentally going over the plan.

Two weeks to get sharper, faster, stronger.

Two weeks to prove he wasn't just some washed-up joke from the future.

Two weeks to remind the world — and himself — who M.K. Jr. was.

The STATUS icon pulsed at the edge of his vision again, and this time a new mission popped up:

🛡 **Micro-Mission: Make an Impression at Sign-Ups!

Goal: Stand out to the coaches, scare the competition. Reward: +3 Charisma, +2 Intimidation.**

Malik smirked. Easy.

He stood up, threw his duffel bag over his shoulder, and walked through the gym like he owned the place, tossing a casual flex toward the gathered wrestlers.

"You better train hard, y'all," he called out. "Because when the bell rings, it's Suplex Season."

The gym fell silent for a beat... then buzzed with mutters, stares, and a few not-so-quiet insults.

Perfect.

Exactly the reaction he wanted.

Malik grinned wide.

This tournament was about to get a whole lot more interesting.

[End of Chapter 4]