Hitman My Real Life in the Cartoon World (54 page)

Ric still managed to mess up the timing for every fall. I was furious when Dave Meltzer wrote in The Wrestling Observer that Flair had carried me for the whole match when it was, in fact, the other way around.

There were some interesting moments at Royal Rumble later that month in Sacramento. Lex Luger was a former WCW wrestler whom Vince brought into his World Bodybuilding Federation, and then lured to the WWF by promising him the moon. It wasn’t working out so well. Luger was now called The Narcissist and, before every match, had to pose in front of a full-length mirror in the middle of the ring, tassels hanging from his white trunks. Although he was in fabulous shape and he was steroid-free, he looked small in the ring. To the fans, his new, conceited persona was as uninteresting as the faltering WBF. During Lex’s routine streams of people headed to the concession stands.

That night Shawn was defending the IC belt against Marty Jannetty, who showed up drunk and unkempt from an all-nighter. Wasted, Marty fumbled and stumbled his way through the match, but, much to his credit, the fans never noticed. Vince fired him as soon as he got out of the ring.

A new arrival to WWF was Memphis promoter and wrestler Jerry The King Lawler. He was Honky Tonk’s second cousin and had a similar build: soft and pudgy, with not a muscle on him. Lawler had a lot of heat with various wrestlers who’d worked for him over the years; to get even, several of them took the time to shit in his crown and left it for him to find in the showers.

I was glad to see former WWF World Champion Bob Backlund return for the battle royal. I’d never forgotten how, when I was in Japan in the early 1980s, he’d bought beer for all the boys on the bus.

The mark in me got off watching Flair and Backlund, two very different legends from the old school, working in the Rumble. Bob was as clean-cut as they came, whereas Flair loved to walk on the wild side—they were two of the longest-reigning champions of my era, from two different territories.

It was hard for anyone to complain about who they were working with after watching poor Undertaker carry Giant Gonzales, a seven-foot-six, very affable Argentinean who couldn’t work at all.

He was so skinny they couldn’t put him in trunks; instead he had to wear a ridiculous looking flesh-colored unitard with muscles airbrushed all over it.

As for my match with Razor Ramon, he was still so green I called everything. I was afraid that Scott could break my neck with his finish, The Razor’s Edge, a move where he’d press you up by the armpits and then fall forward, dropping you right on your neck. Instead I came up with a clever way to get out of it by dropping behind him and backsliding him for a pin fall. It turned out to be an up-and-down fight until I came up with the sharpshooter out of nowhere and he submitted. When I was handed the belt I saw Stu and Helen standing in the front row clapping.

And Yoko had won the rumble, so now he’d be the heel to face me at WrestleMania IX in Las Vegas in early April.

At the hotel, someone pointed out to me that Dave Meltzer was lurking about in the lobby, reluctant to come into the bar. Eventually, my mom introduced me to him. Meltzer was very polite and a bit nervous as I glared at him. I whispered to her afterwards, “He’s no friend of mine, Mom.”

On January 26, I flew out to Las Vegas with Vince, Pat and all the top boys to kick off the hype for WrestleMania IX with a huge press conference. Afterwards, Vince and Pat said that I had come across as humble and that was exactly what they were looking for to help project a wholesome image now that it was almost certain Vince would be indicted by the Feds.

I managed to get home for one day before dashing off to Madison Square Garden, and was saddened to hear that André had died. He’d flown to France for his father’s funeral only to be found dead in his hotel room the morning after. I pictured him walking through the Pearly Gates with a big smile on his face, for once not having to duck, saying, “Hello, boss!” There would never be another giant like André.

The last time I’d been in Europe I wouldn’t have believed it possible that I’d be returning as World Champion. On February 1, I arrived in Manchester, and Knobbs rang my room to tell me that he’d tracked down Dynamite. He’d phoned him to say he was coming over and invited me and Chief to go along with him as a surprise. Tom and The Nasty Boys had toured together in Japan a few years back.

Knobbs and Sags had been charmed enough by him to allow him to use the tops of their heads as ashtrays while they rode the bus.

We found Tom’s flat in a miserable, graffiti-stained ghetto on the outskirts of the city. The windows were boarded up and the charred remains of a car were smoldering out front. He answered the door in a T-shirt and blue jeans looking James Dean normal, with a V-shaped physique. It was the first time I’d seen him steroid-free since I’d known him.

“Fookin’ niggers did it,” he said, pointing at the car as he invited us in.

Tom took a seat on a shredded old couch, moving slowly as he eased his way into it, smoking a cigarette. He rudely referred to his girlfriend, Joanne, as a daft stupid cunt enough times that it embarrassed everyone except him, and she looked shell-shocked by his behavior. Chief’s face gave away his disappointment and disgust. When Knobbs innocently blurted out that I was the champ, Tom nodded and replied, “Intercontinental, right?”

“No, Dyno, he’s the World Champion now. He’s got the big belt.”

When I won the World Championship, I recall thinking, I’d love to see the look on Dynamite’s face when he finds out. I got to see it now. His first expression was one of disbelief and shock. Then, for only a moment, he seemed happy, like it confirmed his own greatness in some way. No sooner had I begun to see that he was maybe even proud of me, then his face turned sour: his look said, This is what things could have been like for me if I hadn’t become so broke and broken. Then, briefly, optimism seemed to wash over him: maybe somehow I could help him? But as the thought formed, he lifted his chin, indignant, his pride hurt—he didn’t want anything from me or anyone else.

While we were there, people drove by and threw things at his house, which, he explained, is why the windows were all boarded up. Tom was finding out that there was a heavy price for his bigotry. He still had a real sore spot about Davey, and for that I couldn’t totally blame him. Davey had trademarked The British Bulldog name before Tom or even Vince, and now he refused to let Tom—

the original British Bulldog—use his own ring name to make a living.

In the car on the way back to the hotel, Chief said he regretted that we’d gone to see him. Dynamite was one of his favorites, and now his memories would be forever ruined.

Tom showed up at the hotel that night. He’d thought things over a bit and was now blown away by my position and desperate for any kind of a lifeline from me. I’d already been talking to Chief and Vince about trying to do something for him. But when I told Tom, he shook his head. “Nah, I’ll never go back.” I left him in the bar with Knobbs and Sags, where he was soon crying in his beer. All our hearts went out to him. Dynamite was hard to love, but we did, and it was heartbreaking to see the best worker I ever knew finally reveal his inner agony at the mistakes he’d made and how things had ended up for him.

After the show on February 6, we all drank at Cookies, a rock ’n’ roll bar in Frankfurt that was always packed with Fräulein. I somehow ended up in Bammer’s room with two large German girls, and by 5

a.m. I was suplexing and Russian leg-sweeping one of them on the giant bed. I liked to think of it as training for my Mania match with Yokozuna. Then Bam Bam elected to pick the bigger one up over his back and give her a Samoan drop onto the bed. There was a loud crack as the bed frame broke; all we could do was laugh as he sat on his ass with the bed collapsed all around him. Bammer had been through a lot of ups and downs, but he had a great attitude now. We’d been working almost every night having fantastic matches.

After the final show of the tour, we bussed it to Düsseldorf and would head home in the morning.

That night Taker, Papa and I said farewell to Flair in the bar, it being his last day before he’d go back to WCW. After our last match, in Dortmund, Ric had clasped my hand and said, “My friend, you are truly a great worker.” I’d decided that Vince was right when he said that Flair wasn’t ruining our matches on purpose. He was just from a different era, when all the spots were called in the ring, and he was the one calling them.

Later that night, seeing that Flair’s door was open, I knocked, and he invited me in, waving me to sit down while he finished a phone call with some bigwig from WCW. Ric spoke highly of me and my work and described my popularity in Europe as being like Elvis. He also said some kind words about Taker. The way Ric put us all over just might come in handy one day.

On February 18, I heard that Kerry Von Erich had committed suicide—shot himself in the heart. Left a note that said he was joining his brothers in heaven. Owen and I were deeply saddened, but who could be surprised? As the son of a wrestling promoter, Kerry never found it easy living up to the hopes and expectations put before him. I’ve always thought that despite the closeness of the Von Erich boys, they were still so competitive that they thought topping one another with this final exit was the ultimate act of bravado.

I remembered my mom telling me about the first Von Erich son who’d died. Little Jackie Jr. had played with Smith and Bruce back in the late 1950s when Fritz worked for Stu under his born name, Jack Adkisson. A few weeks later, the Adkissons were living in Buffalo, where Fritz was wrestling, and Jackie was electrocuted by a power line at a trailer park. I also couldn’t forget that cold day in February 1984, when Dynamite, Davey and I were working over in Japan and heard that Kerry’s older brother, David, who was in Japan working for Baba’s promotion, had just died of a drug overdose.

The same thing took Mike Von Erich on April 12, 1987. He was high when he zipped himself inside a sleeping bag that he filled with rocks and rolled himself out of a small boat and drowned. And the youngest brother, Chris, had shot himself on September 12, 1991.

I just wished there had been something I could have done to help Kerry. We all did.

On February 22, Owen and I flew to Texas for Kerry’s funeral, held in the local Baptist church. Fritz and Doris had recently divorced, but they put on a unified front, stoic in their acceptance. Of their six sons, only Kevin remained. I could see that it meant a lot to Fritz that two of Stu’s boys were there.

When they lowered Kerry’s casket into the earth, I couldn’t help but think, We’ll see you at the gates, brother.

When I read my booking sheets, I realized I’d see Hulk at TVs in North Charleston, South Carolina, on March 8. Even though he’d been making the odd appearance on various shows since December, I hadn’t laid eyes on him since WrestleMania VIII, when I’d given him his drawing. I really thought he’d be proud of me, so when I pulled up to the back of the arena, I went looking for him. I didn’t have to look far. He was standing chatting with Beefcake, leaning against the wall on the ramp. His appearance had changed drastically: He looked like a lean old walrus. He was tanned and wore red spandex tights, big white boots and a bandana covering his balding head. I approached with a huge smile and my hand extended in friendship. Hogan gave me a dismissive nod and wouldn’t shake my hand. I withdrew it and walked away. I figured that because I was champion now, he saw me as the competition. Hulkamania had run so wild that it had burned itself out like a grass fire, and here I was, one of the new, brightly colored flowers popping up to haunt him.

The day only got worse. Owen was getting a push, working with Bam Bam. While springing up to the top rope for a back somersault, he slipped coming down and tore a ligament in his knee, injuring himself so badly that instead of being given a push, he was pulled out of the ring and taken to the hospital. He was expected to be out for a long time.

The only positive thing that happened was that I managed to talk Yoko into lying on the dressingroom floor where, much to his surprise, I crouched down atop his twisted thick calves and was actually able to put on the sharpshooter. I didn’t picture beating him with it, but none of the fans would think it would be possible for me to turn him over; the move had the potential to be a great spot for WrestleMania IX. Vince was having him destroy all his opponents, and I was shaping up to be a huge underdog.

Wrestlers’ deaths continued to come in threes. After André and Kerry, the boys openly wondered who’d be next. It was Dino Bravo, only forty-four years old.

On March 10, Dino was found dead in his home near Montreal. He’d been shot seventeen times, so that the precise shots formed a circle in the back of his skull. Rumor was that he had double-crossed the Mafia in the trafficking of contraband cigarettes. A nervous Dino had recently confided to close friends that his days were numbered.

On April 2, 1993, I brought Stu and Helen with me to Vegas for WrestleMania IX, where my mom was also going to have a family reunion with her four sisters. Stu beamed at once again finding himself the center of the sisters’ attentions, as he had been when he first fell in love with all of them in the 1940s in Long Beach, New York. I left them to reminisce and went to my room just in time to answer a call from Vince, who asked me to come to his suite to talk. I knocked on his door and he answered it with that goofy grin. We sat down, and Vince said, “This is what I want to do. I want you to drop the belt to Yoko tomorrow.”

This was not what I had expected. I sat there dumbstruck as he went on to explain how Fuji would screw me by throwing salt in my face, blinding me. After Yoko was handed the belt, Hogan would rush to my aid and in some kind of roundabout way Hogan would end up winning the belt from Yoko right then and there!

Like I was handing Vince my sword, I told him I appreciated everything he did for me and I’d do whatever he wanted.

Vince said, “Don’t get bitter. I still have big plans for you.” Sound bites flashed through my mind of Vince assuring me that I was the long-term champion, and not to worry about Hogan, who still hadn’t even spoken to me yet.