Hitman My Real Life in the Cartoon World (29 page)

As I got dressed for my match, I was self-conscious about the way my pale white skin stood out against the tanned and overly muscular physiques that filled the dressing room. From here on, I’d have to hit the tanning bed and the gym religiously.

My second WWF show was in Dayton and was like the first.

On the third night, in Cincinnati, Pat told me I’d be the opening bout with a really green kid from Brooklyn named Steve Lombardi and just to do the best I could. I tried hard, and, all in all, that little match wasn’t bad. Pat was so thrilled with it that I soon realized that Steve was Pat’s boy. That had nothing to do with me, though. I found Pat to be friendly, good-humored and easy to deal with.

I was grateful to be working, mostly putting guys over or doing twenty-minute broadways. Clearly, at this point they had no plans for me. On the bright side, things were a little better with Julie, but it was often hard to talk to her at night. I roomed with another wrestler whenever I could to save money, and there’s things you’re just not going to say to your wife with a half-naked wrestler lying in the other bed watching CNN.

As the plane climbed over Atlanta headed for California, I reclined in my seat. Compared to rolling down the Trans-Canada Highway packed shoulder to shoulder with fourteen fullsized wrestlers and a couple of midgets, with no heat and the oil light on, even my coach seat felt roomy. The plane was oddly empty. Then the stewardess served me a delicious turkey dinner. “Happy Thanksgiving,” she said. My first American Thanksgiving.

When Pat handed me my check at the end of the tour, I thought my eyes were playing tricks on me.

For only four days in Canada at poorly attended shows and five cities in the United States, they paid me U.S.$2,400. I was blown away. When I called Julie to tell her, all she said was, “So I guess this means you’ll be gone forever now?”

“Julie, I’m not sure how long this is going to last, but I’m prepared to hang on here as long as I can.

Think of the babies.”

Silence. Then, “I think Dallas is crying, so I’d better go.” Click.

As my dad had predicted, the WWF was quickly becoming a well-oiled tank running over any and all competition, fueled mostly by the organization’s ingenious mass marketing of Hulk Hogan. My thinking was that it was better to be in the tank than under it.

Unbeknownst to me, there were big things brewing. In the summer of 1984, Vince McMahon had pitched a plan to his staff that was so ambitious no one thought it could be done. Vince wanted to make wrestling mainstream, to make it cool to like it. He wanted to manipulate the demographic of the WWF’s audience, targeting the niche created by the fledgling MTV network. He outlined a brilliant marketing strategy to marry rock and wrestling in a kitsch entertainment extravaganza oozing with glam, headlined by a bizarre mix of celebrities, with wrestling as the backdrop. He had a date and a venue in mind: March 31, 1985, Madison Square Garden. Tickets would go for an unheard of U.S.$100. Vince planned to put his spectacular out over closed-circuit TV, where it could be viewed in bars and theaters all across North America. It would be called WrestleMania. He believed in it so strongly that despite the doubts of some of his own staff, he was ready to roll the dice, and while I was on the road for those first months, plans were being made that would change the face of wrestling once and for all.

The buildings were nearly full or sold out wherever we went in the United States. The Kiel Auditorium in St. Louis turned out to be no different. Historically, St. Louis was the NWA’s key city, and the Kiel had been the home of pro wrestling’s greatest workers, including Pat O’Connor, Lou Thesz and Harley Race. I had a so-so match in a big ring as hard as cement.

After the show, a lot of the wrestlers were eating at the JoJo’s near the hotel. Chief sat down next to me—he’d been a respected worker in his day, but it was obvious that he hadn’t missed many meals lately. He asked me what the office had in mind for me, and when I explained what George Scott had promised, he seemed incredulous. “You believe that, do ya?”

I didn’t know how he wanted me to answer that, so I told him my only choice was to believe it.

Chief took a bite out of his sandwich and after considerable chewing and thinking he asked what I wanted Vince to do with me. I’d seen what they’d done for the Tonga Kid, an eighteen-year-old Samoan who got lucky when they teamed him up with a Polynesian Tarzan by the name of Superfly Jimmy Snuka. If they wanted, they could make a star out of anyone.

“It’d be nice if they gave me some kind of a push,” I said. “If I ever got the same push as Hulk Hogan, they’d be chantin’ my name next week. It’s all about who they want to make and break.”

Chief barked out, loud enough for the other wrestlers to hear, “So you think you’re Hulk Hogan, do ya? I can’t believe you! Hey, did you hear this? Young Hart here thinks he’s better than Hogan.” I tried to explain, but Chief wasn’t interested in listening.

Late one night that November, I walked into a café near the Holiday Inn in Oklahoma City and saw Sergeant Slaughter sitting quietly by himself. Sarge was a huge draw, almost as big as Hulk Hogan at the time. His storyline grew out of the Iranian hostage crisis: With The Iron Sheik as his archrival, the once despised drill sergeant was now a great American hero. He even had his own G.I. Joe action figure. Wrestling storylines have always exploited wartime animosities: first the American good guy versus the Germans and the Japanese, and now it was the Russians and the Iranians.

Sarge invited me to join him; we talked about his family, his time in the business, his career as a real soldier—he left the army for wrestling. He was kind enough to listen to me too, and he had some advice: “One thing I do know is, watch your back. Vince is a ruthless guy. He’ll tell you whatever you want to hear, so what he says doesn’t mean much if you ask me, but good luck, kid.” He left a tip on the table and walked across the street to the Holiday Inn.

He was a thoughtful, decent guy who, it seemed to me, would be far happier doing something else.

But after Hogan, he was the biggest star in the company, and nobody walked away from the kind of money he was making.

After I finished eating, I plopped myself down in the hotel lounge, where a stunning blonde came to sit next to me. I took a sip of my beer and said hi and she said hi back. The Tonga Kid’s tongue slid out over his lips like a Komodo dragon, and he didn’t waste any time coming over to make a move on her. Jimmy Snuka stopped him. “Young Stu Hart here is doing just fine, brudda.”

I kept telling myself that I wasn’t trying to pick her up, yet all I was doing was trying to pick her up.

Soon she was telling me that she was involved with a married Oklahoma state trooper who promised he’d leave his wife but never did. That night she’d got tired of his bullshit, got mad and ended up at the bar. She had a tight, hard, athletic figure, so I asked her whether she worked out.

“Sure do, with my boyfriend. He’s as big as a truck, all ‘roided-up’ ’n’ all. Sometimes I even load up his needle and give him his shot.”

“Do you, ah, think maybe you could give me a shot?” I asked shyly, immediately embarrassed at the absurdity of the comeon.

A little while later, she sat on the edge of my bed carefully draining the serum into a syringe, snapping the needle with her fingers like a pro. She asked me to drop my pants, jabbed the needle deep into my butt and then rubbed me with alcohol. I made a half-hearted attempt to hike up my pants, but she pushed me slowly down onto the bed. I thought, It’s not like anybody’s ever going to know. I half expected a big, angry Oklahoma state trooper to kick in the door with his gun blazing, but then that thought vanished, replaced by a much better one.

Less than two weeks later, in Toronto on December 9, 1984, George Scott gave Sergeant Slaughter his walking papers. I couldn’t believe the WWF let him go, but soon they were grooming an unskilled jobber named Corporal Kirchner to do his gimmick. The message was clear: We were all expendable.

It turned out that Sarge’s action figure got him fired. The WWF had launched its own line of merchandise, including action figures, offering their wrestlers 5 percent royalties. Sarge had got an unprecedented deal for himself, and Vince wouldn’t stand for it.

As a little fish I found myself swimming as hard as I could. In thirty-seven days straight I’d covered ten states and four provinces. If I was honest, I was riddled with awe and amazement, mesmerized, reeling, unable to comprehend the enormous scope of all I’d seen. The whole time I was away my heart longed for home: If the money had been no good, or if they’d fired me, I would have been gone in a flash. Instead, America pulled me into her embrace and wrapped her arms and legs around me. I was confused and I stayed confused, because as much as I wished that it would all end, with every short break, I couldn’t wait to start back again.

Word of Vince’s grand vision WrestleMania had finally trickled down to the dressing room. A lot of the boys were nervous because so much was being gambled on one big show: If it was a failure, it could mean the premature demise of the WWF.

But the masterfully orchestrated media hype in the months leading up to WrestleMania was already resulting in sold-out shows every night, whether Hogan was on them or not. Wrestling was becoming huge. Vince’s timing couldn’t have been more perfect. While seizing power was a ruthless move, it was also a bold and brilliant one. He barged into any city or town regardless of who the promoter was. In particular, he stuck it to Verne Gagne in Minneapolis by staging well-run shows in Verne’s backyard with his own former stars. He did the same to Ole Anderson in Atlanta. Decent promoters were powerless to stop Vince as he looted their talent rosters. While it was bad for the promoters, it was good for the boys: It looked like the old nickel-and-dime mentality was giving way to the future—pro wrestling was going national under the direction of a guy who seemed to have what it took to make everybody into bigger stars than they’d ever dreamed they could be.

I was grateful to be aligned with the conquering army and was especially glad that McMahon had chosen to broker a deal with Stu rather than forcibly taking his territory. To the best of my knowledge, offers were extended only to my dad, to the LaBelles out of Los Angeles and to the Tunneys in Toronto, because Vince liked and respected them. McMahon intimidated me, yet at the same time I respected how he had treated my dad.

George Scott had talked to me in Toronto, right after he had fired Sarge, telling me to keep up the good work, and also asking me to sound Tom and Davey out—Vince wanted to bring them in. Then he threw me a curve: “What’s this I hear about your brother Bruce trying to get a wrestling license to run against us in Calgary?”

What are you doing, Bruce? I thought. Then, What are you doing to me? I said, “I don’t know anything about that, George, and I certainly don’t have anything to do with it.” But I was going to find out.

When I arrived at Hart house on Christmas Day 1984, the entire family was there except for Ellie, Jim and their three baby girls. Jim was working the Memphis territory, managed by a guy named Jimmy Hart. Stu was eager to hear about my trip, and I was just as eager to tell him.

After I’d brought Stu up to date, we talked about what to do with Bruce. When Stu had questioned him on whether he’d applied for a promoter’s license, Bruce had vehemently denied it. Stu didn’t believe him and was worried that Bruce would queer his deal with Vince, and that I’d be a casualty too.

Later that day I found a moment to ask Bruce for myself, and he swore up and down that there was nothing to the rumor. But he also said that he thought that the WWF wouldn’t be around long and that he didn’t think it was any crime to be ready when it folded. I told Bruce I’d seen Vince in action, and that he was wrong: The WWF was only getting bigger and stronger. I pleaded with him not to do anything that would appear to Vince to be underhanded because it would jeopardize Stu’s deal and my entire future. Just then Bruce’s young wife, Andrea, called him away from our conversation, and he seemed relieved for the excuse.

She was sitting in the living room talking with Michelle and Julie, all of them with babies in their arms. Julie was in a sulk again, though she always apologized for her bad behavior after the fact. I’d built up a nest egg and, with bountiful checks coming from the WWF, I made the decision to sell the dilapidated house in Ramsay and move to a neighborhood better suited to raising a family. Guilt over my unfaithfulness was like a flashing light in a dark corner of my conscience: I just wished that something I did could help make Julie happy.

There were more undercurrents that Christmas. Tom and Davey were huddled by the picture window in the living room, a snowscape of the city in the background. Davey had recently been found guilty of assaulting that Calgary cop, but much to everyone’s relief, he hadn’t been thrown out of the country or sent to jail. Instead he was fined and put on probation.

I let Tom and Davey know that Vince was drooling over the idea of hiring both of them, but Tom said if the way the WWF was using me was any measure, he wasn’t interested. But both of them were acting strange. When I asked whether something was up, they said no.

A few minutes later, Ben pulled me aside to tell me that Tom and Davey had just double-crossed New Japan, who were partnered with the WWF, and jumped over to All Japan. Each got a signing bonus of U.S.$20,000 and a $10,000-a-week guarantee. (I later found out it was really $6,500 a week.)

That evening, I asked Tom again whether anything was going on. He said, “Gabe, fer fook’s sakes, nothin’s up.” It was the first time in years that he completely kayfabed me. It hurt that I was trying to watch their backs as best as I could, with no consideration from them for mine. Because of the strong relationship between the WWF and New Japan, I’d been allowed to work both companies, but now New Japan would surely fire me—as a direct consequence of what Tom and Davey had done.

I watched them tossing back beers as they chatted with Stu, who was clueless about all the machinations. Across the room Bruce was talking with Ross, Owen and Owen’s girlfriend, Martha, and I knew something was up with Bruce too. We were all out for ourselves.