Hitman My Real Life in the Cartoon World (18 page)

I thought the obvious solution was to make Stampede Wrestling pay its own way. I saw this as a pivotal time for all the Hart boys to pull together and save Stu’s business, and did my best to back Bruce up.

I was into wrestling now as deep as the razor cuts on my forehead. I worked a series of bloody matches with Duke Myers, doing well enough to carry the territory until some new talent came in.

The only other thing that was working was Bruce’s frustrating altercations with Alexander Scott. I wanted to do more for my dad, but all I could see was doom and gloom ahead. It didn’t help when I pulled up to my ugly house and yanked my bag out of the van one morning that August only to see the mangled remains of the orange notebook I’d given to Bruce scattered all over the floor, covered with chicken bones and garbage. Loose pages blew away right in front of me.

Julie and I were in deep now, but sometimes she’d lash out at me. I thought it was because I was gone so much, so I suggested that her little sister move into my house to keep Julie company.

Michelle got a job waitressing at a diner a couple of blocks away, but Julie never got a job, which might have got her out of the house and made her feel less lonely when I was away.

By October I finished a good five-week run with Duke Myers, who had turned out to be a hell of a good hand. I stood by the back doors as Bruce defended his World Junior belt against Dynamite, who was back from knee surgery. For the finish, Alexander Scott fast-counted Bruce, costing him the title.

Bruce became so enraged, he finally hauled off and decked Alexander. The pavilion shook with the explosion, and Alexander suspended Bruce indefinitely. Even Ed Whalen got all worked up and almost came to real blows with Alexander during their TV interviews.

Finally, by Halloween, we got the dressing room restocked with some fresh faces. David Schultz smiled as he pressed his hand firmly into mine. He was six-foot-four, with a curly blond Afro and a goatee, a slender upper body and big, thick legs. He looked fiery, but his Tennessee drawl was laidback. “Nice ta meet you, Brit. I’m Dave, but you can call me the Doctor. Doctor D.” According to Leo, Schultz was a top heel who could work and talk. For a while Schultz would tolerate taking a back seat to a heel ref who couldn’t wrestle, as long as he got his guarantee. And then he would contend with me for the North American belt.

I was working my first match with Iron Mike Sharp. I’ve dealt with some real crowbars in my time, but Mike was the stiffest wrestler of them all. Of course, he was six-foot-four and he weighed three hundred pounds, so there wasn’t a whole lot I could do about it. When he moved on to work with Big Jim, I was more than relieved.

J.R. and Iron Mike did an angle where they challenged Big Jim to a test of strength, with a set of weights that looked heavy but were in fact four-inch-thick circles of particle board encased in rubber. As they pretended to struggle with various lifts, Jim kept winning and J.R. kept scolding Mike.

Finally, when Jim went for an overhead lift, Mike attacked him viciously, knocking him backward onto the mat so the “weights” pinned him. Then he clubbed him with a series of forearm smashes that were brutally stiff—it was Jim’s turn to find out that Mike was no fun. Several babyfaces came to the rescue, and Iron Mike and J.R. fled the ring; a stretcher was called for, and Jim was carried out. I still laugh when I think about how one scrawny usher hoisted up the stack of bogus weights like pizza boxes and casually walked them back to the dressing room. He looked like the strongest guy in the world, but no one even noticed.

That same night, Kas came by to say good-bye. He told me his brother was going to donate a kidney so he could have his transplant. He asked me to keep an eye on J.R. for him and said he’d call as soon as he could work again. We shook hands. I told him, “Take care, Kas. You’ve always got a place here.” “I know.”

That same night the buildup between Bruce and Scott was almost complete. Bruce flew in a lawyer friend of his from Vancouver and gave him the made up name Tyrone McBeth so he could play the role of the President of the NWA. McBeth was planted in the audience awaiting just the right moment to make his move. Scott was poking Bruce in the chest, provoking and daring him in every conceivable way. Bruce was restraining himself, damned if he did and damned if he didn’t. The crowd was dangerously close to boiling over when McBeth suddenly climbed into the ring and not only disciplined Scott but lifted Bruce’s suspension and ordered Scott to face Bruce in the long-awaited grudge match next Friday. The pavilion went nuts!

Two days before Christmas that year, I silk-screened a bunch of T-shirts to give away as gifts. On the front was a drawing of Hart house and a caption that read, “United we stand, divided we fall.” Then I went to a mall and bought Julie a promise ring. I wasn’t sure whether I was promising to quit wrestling, stay home, marry her or all three. I’ve never seen Julie happier than when I gave her the ring that Christmas morning. Then we all headed up to Stu’s for turkey dinner.

The world was changing, turning colder, darker, hawks eating doves. John Lennon had been shot, Ronald Reagan was soon to be sworn in as the fortieth U.S. president, punk was changing to new wave and the Hart family was changing too. Ellie was now holding her firstborn, a beautiful month-old baby girl with huge brown eyes named Jenny. Dean was back from one of his Hawaii trips; he seemed different, detached and spaced out, but none of us paid that much attention. Keith had started at the fire department, Ross was still working in the office, Wayne was refereeing. Diana and Owen were growing up. Smith was dreaming of promoting a black Antiguan wrestler named Charlie Buffong into a big star of Stampede Wrestling. Our TV show aired in Antigua, and Smith’s plan was to launch a wrestling promotion there on Buffong’s back, the only trouble being that Smith didn’t have two cents to rub together; Antigua was dirt poor. And worst of all, poor Charlie could barely walk and chew gum at the same time. But over all the Harts were fairly happy that year, and my mom and dad beamed proudly.

Bruce was anxious about his big match with Alexander Scott on Boxing Day, and at Christmas dinner Ross led the charge from the business standpoint that it made sense to some-how let Scott go over.

The rivalry was simply way too hot not to capitalize on, and we could easily bring them back for another big show later on, when Bruce would go over. Bruce stubbornly resisted, but was eventually talked into it. The problem was that Alexander’s dreadful lack of wrestling ability would be difficult to cover up. Nevertheless, after a year of buildup, thousands of fans had to be turned away at the sold-out pavilion that cold Boxing Day.

Bruce had Sandy, whoops, Alexander, pull out all the stops, including nailing Bruce with brass knucks. Bruce was bloody and unbowed as he battled back. Then J.R. distracted the match ref, which allowed Alexander to boot Bruce in the groin and beat him.

The fans were stunned. I could feel the urge to riot hanging heavy in the air, and we were lucky to get Alexander out of the ring, let alone out of the building. It was as hot as it gets, and we were all proud of Bruce for pulling it off.

“Brit Hart, you punk, boy! You a dog. Your whole family’s dogs, gonna git your whole family, one-two-three at a time. I’m callin’ you names, boy, but you just sit back hidin’. I’m the greatest rassler to ever walk the face of the Earth, gonna keep walkin’ keep talkin’ till I walk all over you!”

That was the sound of David Schultz calling me out. Schultz was exactly what the territory needed.

He had an intense look that suggested a temper best left undisturbed. Unlike that of the majority of Southern wrestlers, his work was realistic. But his strongest asset was his ability to talk. With never a slip or a stumble, he just drawled right under the fans’ skins: “Listen here, Mr. Whalen, I’m the answer to every woman’s dream. I’m the Tennessee stud, Mama!”

I straddled a chair in the dressing room and offered to put Dr D. over any way he wanted. “You should leave me laying,” I said, but he shook his head.

“Brit, I won’t get no heat doing that. I get my heat by barely staying alive, just hanging on. Everyone in the building will know you whupped my ass. That’s when I’ll screw you. That’s how I’ll get heat.”

This was a simple lesson in ring psychology.

Bruce and I worked with Schultz and Dynamite on January 16, 1981, with Alexander Scott as the referee. The match consisted of Bruce desperately fighting back only to have Scott hook his arms so Dynamite could beat him down again. It was getting beyond embarrassing for me to stand in the corner looking useless while Bruce was dying in the heel corner. Bruce finally tagged me in, but not before erupting into his own comeback. I salvaged what I could, and together we hurled Dynamite upside down into Scott’s backside. The pavilion came unglued. Schultz and Dynamite both went down, selling, but Alexander was already up screaming at Bruce when I nailed him with a drop kick for another huge pop. J.R. tossed Schultz his thick walking stick and Schultz decked me and Bruce. I could see he hated to toss the stick back to Alexander, but he did what he was supposed to do.

Alexander whacked Bruce across the chest. Keith ran in and Stu was quick to follow, but all the Harts were soon overpowered. That was enough for the hard-core fans, having watched us Hart boys since we were kids: They hit the ring one after another.

Suddenly it all got very real. Dynamite drilled one fan squarely in the eye, lunging at him like a pit bull. Schultz was a flurry of fists, seizing the stick from the terrified Scotsman and clubbing fans over the head with it until it broke in half. The Harts fought the heels off, the ushers shielded Alexander, while Dr. D. and Dynamite stood back to back using what was left of the stick to fend off the mob!

By the time I got to the dressing room, Sandy was white as a ghost and a pissed-off Schultz was telling Stu that if Bruce potatoed him one more time, he’d knock his lights out. It was plenty hot both in and out of the ring! I felt bad about the fans getting hurt, but as far as the heels were concerned, they were only acting in self-defense.

That fall Tom had moved in with Wayne, who’d bought into a fourplex only three blocks from my house. Wayne moved into the basement and rented Tom the more spacious upper level. The new place was conveniently only one block from the diner where Michelle waitressed, and Wayne and Tom took to eating there regularly. All it took was one look at Tom’s face as he gazed up at Michelle to see he wasn’t there for the food. As I gave Wayne a lift home one night, he let slip that seventeen-year-old Michelle was coming around to their place to see Tom.

When I got home I told Julie, who became distraught, since she was fully aware of Tom’s proclivities.

She was afraid Tom would use Michelle and then toss her in the discard pile. Before I knew it, I was standing on Wayne’s doorstep in the cold of night ringing the bell, while Julie waited in my car.

When Wayne answered, I could see Tom and Michelle sitting together on the couch watching TV. I met Tom’s stern look with one of my own, and we had a heart-to-heart on the porch. When he told me he really liked her and his intentions were good, I believed him.

Tom was looking as fit and strong as I’d ever seen him, 210 pounds, with hard ripped muscles that twitched as he laced up his boots. Now that his knee had healed, he was getting ready to reestablish himself in Japan. No matter how good he was, Dynamite suffered horribly from small-man complex: He was touchy about his position and always eager to make the point that he was the toughest and meanest of us all. And he was jealous of the attention that Alexander was getting from the fans.

So Tom had Sandy over for dinner and spiked his hot chocolate with exlax. By Monday morning our top heel was too sick to travel, and he phoned Stu and told him that Tom had shooflied him. Tom was furious that Sandy had grassed on him. Two days later, when Sandy was getting into the van, Tom drilled him in the mouth, breaking his false teeth. More hurt than angry, Sandy blinked back tears, got in his car and drove off. Sandy never got over being attacked by Tom, and within a few months he was gone from the promotion, never giving Bruce his rematch.

Physically, Tom ended up coming out much worse than Sandy, breaking two knuckles in his right hand. As well put together as Tom was, he had brittle bones.

That night in Red Deer, Schultz was in a jovial mood after decisively beating almost everyone in the dressing room at arm wrestling, even Iron Mike and Big Jim. Then Tom casually flicked a cigarette across the room and said, “I’ll try ya, David, but it’ll have to be left-handed.” Some of the world’s ugliest mugs circled the table as Tom and Schultz took forever posturing for a fair grip. “Go!” J.R.

shouted. Their faces twisted red, blue veins popped, flexed arms locked in struggle. To everyone’s disbelief, Tom slowly forced Schultz’s hand to the table. Schultz begged him for a rematch, but I could tell by the smirk on Tom’s face that it would never come.

The following week, I was standing at the dressing-room door watching the matches with Stu. A tall, wiry kid from Edmonton came up to him and enthusiastically inquired whether Stu would consider teaching him to wrestle. Stu sized him up and actually took some interest in him. The kid went on to explain how he knew he had what it took, and then, out of nowhere, he wound up and drilled himself right in the face, collapsing to the floor in front of us, catching both me and Stu off guard!

Just as suddenly, the kid jumped back up to his feet grinning, “See, I can act! I can really act!” From the way he licked his lips it was obvious that Stu would love to get his hands on this smartass.

“If you’re interested,” Stu said, “you could come see me in Calgary.” The next day that’s exactly what the kid did.

After Stu, Ross, Bruce and I had wrapped up the usual Sunday booking session, I headed to the basement, where I found Tom working out. Just then Owen brought the kid from Edmonton down to the dungeon, and Tom and I immediately kayfabed each other. I backed away from Tom, making it clear that I wasn’t about to turn my back on my old enemy, but that sometimes enemies do cross paths. Things as subtle as that were all it took to keep a mark from getting smart.