Hitman My Real Life in the Cartoon World (40 page)

After the show, Owen, Jim and I chowed down on corned beef and cabbage at a Manhattan pub called The Blarney Stone. The place was filled with cats, which reminded us of Stu’s kitchen. Owen, who really hated that there were so many cats at Stu’s house, winced in disgust.

“C’mon, Owen,” I said. “This many cats means there aren’t gonna be any rats, are there?”

Since starting in July, Owen had gone by different names: The Blue Angel, The Blue Demon and The Blue Laser. Vince hadn’t delivered on the costume or the name he promised, and Owen wore gear cheaply made by a friend of Martha’s. I urged him to spend a few bucks on a better outfit, but he confided that if he did it would hurt Martha’s feelings. The topic of conversation moved to The Bulldogs, who’d stunned us all by giving their notice. They were going to quit the WWF as of the Survivor Series in November. Tom had decided that they’d go back to Japan and Calgary, even though Stu’s territory was on its last legs. I wondered what the two of them would think, being back in the van in forty below zero weather, driving past that giant green statue of Stu on their way to Saskatoon. I did envy the fact that they’d finally be home.

Jimmy Hart had worked on some entrance music for The Hart Foundation, a repetitive guitar riff that sounded like a powerful locomotive going down the track. And a marketing suit had handed me a pair of silver Mylar wraparound shades that I would wear every night and that they would sell in the arenas. I was asked to give a pair to one lucky kid at the start of each match. At first the kids would back away: They still remembered me as a heel. After a couple of months of TV, though, it was like feeding squirrels in a park: There were more than enough kids hoping they’d be the lucky one. This little ritual would become a big factor in my identity as a babyface.

Despite these signs of life, business wasn’t what it used to be, and payoffs were down unless you were on Macho’s cards. Vince decided that he could no longer afford to pay the wrestlers’ air fares home; he’d only pay for a one-way ticket, and then we’d have to pay our own way back. The majority of the wrestlers lived in Florida, a cheaper flight than heading back to Calgary. As a result, on my three days off between tours, I often couldn’t afford to go home. Instead, I stayed in a hotel and saved up my flights for the next break. There I was caught between a financial rock and an emotional hard place: Julie knew in her head why I wasn’t coming home as much, but neither she nor the kids liked it. Then again, neither did I.

Curt Hennig, whose moniker was Mr. Perfect, was a second-generation wrestler with curly blond hair who was new to the WWF. Inadvertently, he set off the chain of events that turned out to be Tom’s undoing. Hennig, a great worker, was an equally great ribber. He put several heavy steel locks on the handle of Jacques Rougeau’s suitcase to make it heavier than it already was. Jacques wrongly assumed The Bulldogs had done it, and told Hennig that if they did it one more time he would take it up with Vince. Curt, still ribbing, went directly to Tom and told him what Jacques had said. Tom was furious that Jacques was going to rat him out for something he didn’t even do, and barged into a dressing room where Jacques was playing cards and slapped Jacques across the head from behind, knocking him off his bench.

Jacques never pretended to be a tough guy, but he had enough balls to stand up for himself. He lunged at Tom, who snatched him in a front face lock, choking him down to the carpet. He let him up, only to have Jacques charge him again. Tom cracked him in the mouth before taking him to the floor again; this time Tom cinched up on him until Jacques tapped his hand on the floor in surrender.

Brother Ray arrived on the scene just then and politely asked Tom to let Jacques up. Tom did, and told Jacques not to be stooging to the office and blaming him for stuff he didn’t do.

Ray Rougeau was a former Golden Gloves boxing champ and despite his less-than-threatening appearance he was respected for being legitimately tough. He’d injured his knee a week earlier working against me and Jim, and he’d been icing and wrapping it every night. Tom, forever the bully, had an audience of wrestlers around and couldn’t resist taunting Ray.

Ray meekly offered, “I’ve hurt my knee.” Tom replied, “Yeah right, Ray. You come and see me when yer knee’s better. I’ll be waitin’ for ya.”

Since The Foundation was working nightly with The Rougeaus, it was hard not to notice that they were simmering over these insults. And every night Tom made a point of asking Ray how his knee was. I warned Tom to ease up. Then at the TV tapings in Toledo, Tom was wrapping up a conversation with Pat Patterson. They were the last two in the lunchroom. As they got up and walked out the door, Jacques sucker-punched Tom, knocking all his front teeth out. As Tom was bent over, dazed and stunned, with blood pouring out of his mouth, Jacques drilled him until Bad News intervened to save him. Meanwhile, Pat jumped around like a hysterical woman. The Rougeaus had their bags waiting by the back door and bolted before Tom even realized what was going on.

At first I was upset, and contemplated getting involved. But the more I thought about it the more I realized that Tom had been asking for this for years and that everyone who’d been bullied by him would rejoice at the news. I decided this wasn’t my fight.

The Bulldogs had to leave the next day for a WWF tour of France. Vince called Tom in France and offered to pay for his dental work, but he insisted that when they came home he wanted both Tom and Davey to meet him in his hotel room at the San Francisco TV tapings. He’d have The Rougeaus there along with Pat and he wanted them all to make peace. He told Tom that if he and The Rougeaus carried on feuding, he’d hold back his royalty checks, his pay-per-view checks and his pay for the French tour. Tom grudgingly accepted Vince’s orders. It was a sad surprise to most of the wrestlers when Tom, our legendary pit bull, basically had his balls cut. Those of us who really knew him realized that getting his teeth punched out was the beginning of the end for him.

Dynamite was good for his word when he shook hands with The Rougeaus in front of Vince. On November 24, he even sold for both of them at The Bulldogs’ last WWF match at Survivor Series and worked a couple of high spots with Jacques. He simply couldn’t afford not to. But he brooded terribly.

I played no serious role at Survivor Series. Vince had his cast of superstars, and I wasn’t one of them.

In fact I was lucky to still be in the WWF, considering the way they were lopping heads off: They’d just fired Muraco; J.Y.D.; the released jailbird Ken Patera; and The Killer Bees. I don’t know about the others, but I suspect The Bees were let go because they’d been talking union with Jesse Ventura.

During the show, Owen mistimed a leapfrog on Greg The Hammer Valentine, who drove his head straight into Owen’s groin as he tried to run underneath him. Owen somehow managed to not only finish the match, but even dove off the top rope onto Valentine for the finish, only to have him move. I didn’t find out until the next day that one of Owen’s testicles had swollen to the size of a softball and he’d gone home in horrific agony fearing they might have to remove it!

On December 6, I had a TV match with that old warhorse Valentine, and we worked an angle where Honky came out and interfered by smashing me over the head with his gimmicked guitar. Jim got a big pop coming out to save me. Despite all the praise, all I had to look forward to every night was doing the honors for Honky. And little did Honky realize that by being matched with me, he’d been demoted to the undercard. With his skinny arms and bandy legs, Honky’s punches and kicks looked like they couldn’t break an egg: he was just so damn phony. The old-school boys, who prided themselves on realistic matches, had all but been eradicated. I was beginning to feel like one of Stalin’s generals waiting for my turn to be executed as the ranks swelled with even more ripped and muscled freaks, most of whom had no real talent to work. The Ultimate Warrior was going to be Vince’s new superstar. Characters such as Ravishing Rick Rude, Big Boss Man and Hacksaw Jim Duggan (back from being fired) had replaced the Steamboats, Muracos and Pipers.

Back in Calgary, Owen was recovering from his injury, which luckily did not need surgery. Not surprisingly, The Bulldogs, now back in the Stampede Wrestling fold, sold out the Pavilion. But then Stu and Keith gave the book to Tom because he’d always been good at coming up with finishes.

Unfortunately, he was incapable of writing a legible format every week and couldn’t handle the task of booking. Pain and painkillers and vodka had already played havoc with him, and the Rougeau situation sent him further down the path of the bitter, abusive drunk. He blamed Davey for whatever displeased him rather than acknowledging to himself the now unavoidable failings of his worn-out body.

Davey lamented to me that it was a big mistake to have left the WWF and that he was sorry that he had. Meanwhile, Tom, all ’roided-up and on painkillers, hot-shotted the territory with gimmick matches filled with blood. It worked initially, but after a few weeks it completely killed Stu’s business.

I called home a lot, longing for love and support, confiding my fears and doubts to Julie. But she was again talking about leaving me. I knew it was hard for her, but I also knew I was working hard to do the best that I could for her and the babies. Alexandra Sabina, whom we all called Beans, was already walking and had four teeth.

It was time to build for WrestleMania V. Hogan and Macho had paired up as The Megapowers, but they were now split up so they could build to compete against each other for the world heavyweight title. I was anything but optimistic about being given any kind of spot, and my doubts were confirmed when they put The Foundation with Honky and Valentine, now known as Rhythm and Blues, at the house shows leading up to WrestleMania. The four of us tried to pretend that it might mean something on the big show, but we all knew that it didn’t.

We all got a good laugh out of the March 1989 issue of Mad magazine, which inserted WWF

superstars into the lead roles of current big movies. Jim and I found ourselves starring in the Mad version of The Untouchables, in which Honky Tonk did me in with a guitar. Funnier than the cartoon was how mad Jim got because the artists had drawn him with a meek face and small shoulders. It really bugged him a lot.

I brought Jade and Stu to Atlantic City for WrestleMania V, since both Owen and I were on the card.

Stu roomed with me and Jade and told me with perfect recall of the times he’d been to Atlantic City in the 1940s, when it was a swinging seaside resort town.

On the morning of WrestleMania V, a call came for Stu, who stood in his long, striped nightshirt talking with a big smile on his face.

“Yeah, Reg . . . how the hell are you?”

Reg Park had been a respected bodybuilder once upon a time. He was an easygoing guy and the conversation started out friendly, but Stu couldn’t believe his ears when Reg suddenly said, “Stu, you were always afraid of me. You never had the balls to try me, or I would have shoved your head up your ass!”

Stu was pacing the room with the receiver pressed hard against his cauliflower ear, his jaw set like granite. “Reg, if you wanted to try me, why didn’t you try me?” Even the veins in his sturdy white legs seemed to swell with rage—I was sure Stu was about to head downstairs and face off with Reg right there in the lobby! Jade was wide-eyed, wondering why Grampy was getting so upset.

Then Stu abruptly sat on the bed and slammed the phone down. A shy, almost embarrassed smile broke over my dad’s face. One I’ll never forget.

“That was Owen. The little bastard got me!”

Owen, now under a mask and cape as The Blue Blazer, worked with Curt Hennig, who was fast becoming the best wrestler in the company. Owen had recovered from his injury; he anticipated an action-packed match with Curt, but they were only allotted eight minutes. Curt was good enough to give Owen more than his fair share; he respected both me and Owen for our workmanship.

I managed to get Randy and Liz to watch Jade, who totally idolized Liz. A couple of female fans I knew from the area had taken Jade to a beauty salon and had her hair all done up and got her a fancy dress so that she looked just like her idol. My match went fine. Afterwards I stood with Jade in the back watching Hogan win the World Heavyweight belt back from Randy. When it was over I knocked on Randy’s door and told him and Liz that I thought he’d been a great champion. He and Liz had worked hard for all of us.

I had so much more respect for Randy than for The Ultimate Warrior, who was getting over more every day just because of his look. His matches, however, consisted of him quivering and shaking as he gripped the ropes with his twenty-inch, tasseled arms. He never really sold anything for anybody as he tripped around waiting for the gods to energize him. Eventually he’d explode into running clotheslines and, as a finisher, pick his opponent up over his head, drop him hard to the mat and then race across the ring three or four times as if it somehow added to his momentum before he dove on top of the downed wrestler for the one . . . two . . . three.

What Warrior never appreciated was that it took a dressing room full of people to make up for his shallow performances night after night; workers such as me, DiBiase, Hennig and Rude, who made bums like Warrior look like gold. Vince had to be pushing Warrior because he was thinking that Hogan was losing some of his shine.

I arrived in Milan on my first WWF tour to Italy on April 8, 1989. I was exhausted from the long flight when I walked into the dressing room and ran my finger down the lineup posted on the wall. I was startled to see that I’d be wrestling André! Being a technical wrestler, I didn’t have a clue how to wrestle a giant. I think André must have smelled my fear. He laughed and said, “Don’t worry, boss, I’ll call it out there.”

I walked out to a nice round of applause and tore right into André. I was as surprised as the crowd was when he fell back and tied himself up in the ropes. I hit him with punches until he told me to take off into the ropes, where I promptly ran into his huge foot. I was thrilled to hear the crowd behind me. At one point as I lay under the bottom rope, André put one foot on my chest and then the other on my stomach. I took a deep breath thinking I could support him, but all the air left my body. It felt like I’d been jacking up a truck and the jack fell. This was André’s way of reminding his opponents that if he wanted to, he could kill you as easily as fall on top of you. A wrestler found out fast if André didn’t like him. He stepped off, and I could breathe again, but it wasn’t long before I saw him lean like a house, then collapse on top of me with an elbow drop. If he’d been off by an inch or two . . .