Straight from the Hart (24 page)

Unfortunately, another amazing season would not prove to be the case, as we soon would encounter an almost unbelievable stretch of bad luck. First off, my brother-in-law Ben Bassarab, who’d been tag teaming with Owen and was really starting to come into his own as a babyface, was stabbed in a barroom altercation and lost half of his liver in the process, which marked the end of his career.

Next, Nobuhiko Niikura, who along with Hiroshi Hase, had formed the hot heel tag team, the Viet Cong Express, suffered a brain aneurysm, which left him partially paralyzed and also marked the end of his career.

Only a week or so later, Scotty McGee, who was just coming into his own, suffered a debilitating stroke — kind of like the one my brother Bret had years later — which paralyzed him and also finished his career.

Shortly after that, Corporal Kirchner, who’d gotten over surprisingly well as a G. I. Joe type babyface, got into a barroom brawl, was arrested and charged with aggravated assault. After posting bail, he skipped out of the territory and wasn’t heard from again.

Next, Barry Orton, who might have been the hottest heel in the territory at the time, divulged to me that before he’d come to our promotion, he’d been
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involved in a car wreck in which his female companion had been killed. Initially, the district attorney had decided to not press charges, but the case had since been reopened and he was now being charged with vehicular manslaughter. He had to return to Arizona for the trial. He wound up getting sentenced to three years in jail, which, of course, put an end to the Zodiac persona and without him Butch Moffat’s Jason character lost much of its appeal as well.

As if all of that wasn’t enough, we next found ourselves having to contend with the 1988 Winter Olympics in Calgary, which were, at that time, probably the biggest thing ever to hit Canada. Making matters worse, we were kicked out of our regular building, the Stampede Pavilion, because it was being used for the Olympics. As a result, we ended up having to run for the months of January and February in this cramped bowling alley out in the industrial outskirts of town, which decimated our crowds; because the seating and lighting were so lousy, our ambience suffered big time.

Beyond not being able to run in our usual building during peak season, the Olympics proved to be a huge distraction: everyone in the country was caught up with Olympic fever, with wrestling relegated to the back burner.

By the time the Olympics were over, we then were beset with Stanley Cup fever, specifically the “Battle of Alberta.” Back in those days, as any hockey fan can attest, the two best teams in the National Hockey League were the Edmonton Oilers and the Calgary Flames, with the Oilers at the time the defending champions, while the Flames would finally dethrone them in 1989.

That spring, the Oilers would once again go all the way to the finals, in May, and win the Cup again, while the Flames proved to be their toughest challenge.

In any case, after having had to contend with Stanley Cup fever, the Winter Olympics and all the other aforementioned trials and tribulations, we were already halfway through the year and into June before things kind of leveled off and people were ready to get into wrestling again. Although we’d lost some good talent and had been through all kinds of unexpected losses, I nonetheless figured that, like any babyface worth his salt, we could make the big comeback.

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Just around the bend, there was another pothole on the highway to hell — this time, the great dinosaur debacle. In early June, we had a show in Drumheller, Alberta — which is called the dinosaur capital of Canada, because many dinosaur remains have been unearthed there. Whenever we were in Drumheller, as a rib on the rookies, the wrestlers would begin talking about this famous statue of my dad that was located there — making out as if it was Alberta’s answer to the Statue of Liberty. As we got closer to Drumheller, the rookies would be getting excited and when we finally got into town, we’d come around this bend and there it was — a thirty-foot high Tyrannosaurus Rex. The boys would then all launch into their Stu impersonations, while the rookies would enjoy a good laugh. The rib had been going on for years and had always been good for some harmless fun, and we pulled it that night on this big bodybuilder named Jeff Beltzner, who’d been sent to the territory by Davey Boy and Dynamite. At the time, everyone had a good laugh — no big deal, or so we thought.

In any case, the following Friday, Pillman and I, who’d driven down to the Pavilion together, pulled into the parking lot behind the building and noticed Davey Boy’s and Dynamite’s vehicles parked there — which was kind of strange, since both were in the WWF at the time and hadn’t been to any of our shows
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in several years. Pillman and I made our way to the dressing room, stopping, as we usually did, for a coffee on the way in. Pillman came into the dressing room first and before I could even enter, I heard this loud crash and saw Pillman hit the floor — the result of a sucker punch from Beltzner, the musclehead friend of Davey and Dynamite who we’d pulled the rib on. I endeavored to intercede, but Dynamite pulled a gun out of his jacket pocket and snarled, “Let them fookin’ fight.”

Before he could even get the words out of his mouth, Pillman — who’d been an All-American linebacker at Miami of Ohio, showed his form by tackling Beltzner, driving him into set of lockers. Pillman began raining punches and kicks on Beltzner, in one of the most one-sided, utter shit-kickings I’ve ever seen. When the smoke had cleared, Beltzner’s face had been pounded into a bloody pulp with his cheekbone protruding grotesquely through his skin and both eyes swollen shut. I noticed Davey Boy and Dynamite — who’d been so keen on having them settle their differences — had also disappeared, probably disenchanted that their steroid supplying flunky had gotten his ass kicked.

My dad showed up shortly after and told me he’d run into Dynamite and Davey Boy in the parking lot and that, according to them, Beltzner had merely been defending Stu’s honor, because Pillman, Owen and I had been implying that he was a senile old dinosaur. I shook my head in consternation, amazed that something as harmless as the Tyrannosaurus rib could be taken so far out of context. Before I could even explain that to my dad, he informed me that I’d been relieved of my duties as booker and that Keith — who was pretty much retired from wrestling and working as a fireman — would be replacing me.

Within a few weeks, Keith systematically scrapped almost everything we’d done in the past two years, including disbanding Bad Kompany (which resulted in Pillman quitting and heading back to the States). Keith then converted Jason the Terrible, who’d been one of our most frightening heels ever, into this Shrek type baby face, which was about as lame as when the WWF took the mask off Kane and turned him into the bald-headed buffoon type he plays now.

Keith wasn’t finished though. Next, he took Mike Shaw (Makhan Singh), who’d been our lead heel, and had done an awesome job, out of the ring and
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tried to turn him into a Jesse Ventura type color commentator, which was a waste of his talent and my dad’s money.

His last master stroke was to take Kerry Brown, who’d long been a valuable midcard heel — kind of like a Val Venus or Arn Anderson type — and converted him into this working class type babyface, kind of like this lame character the WWF was endeavoring to introduce at the time named Duke “The Dumpster” Droese. Brown’s working class hero persona would get over about as well as some lowlife pinching a loaf in a crowded swimming pool.

After a few months of declining gates and wrestlers looking to jump ship, the novelty of being a booker seemed to wear off and Keith resigned. I was asked to take the book again.

All things considered, I probably should have given my dad the classic Johnny Paycheck line: “Take this job and shove it.” But because the promotion was on the brink of going under, I found myself back in the saddle again. It didn’t turn out to be a particularly enjoyable ride though, as most of the story lines and personas I’d put in place had been scrapped. It was tough sledding, trying to put the pieces back together.

I put Mike Shaw back in the ring and turned Kerry Brown and Jason the Terrible back into heels and gave Chris Benoit — who’d recently returned from a sabbatical in Japan — a pretty good push. I also recruited a few promising prospects from the States, including a highly touted big black heel named

“Lethal” Larry Cameron and set about trying to get things back on track.

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Just before Christmas, word came out that my old cronies, Dynamite and Davey Boy, had been fired by the WWF, after what one-time WWF manager Jimmy Hart referred to, in his book, as their “reign of terror,” which included Ex-laxing assorted unsuspecting rookies, allegedly date rape–drugging and sexually assaulting groupies, assorted barroom brawls, trashing hotels and missing bookings. The last straw had, apparently, been a violent backstage altercation between Dynamite and Jacques Rougeau, in which Dynamite had gotten several teeth knocked out and had threatened to shoot Rougeau in retaliation.

Since the Bulldogs both still lived in Calgary, had family ties and were still considered to be marquee attractions, my dad welcomed them back with open arms, seemingly oblivious to the potential problems they might cause.

On their first night back, we sold out the Pavilion and, as they’d been huge stars in the WWF for the past five years or so, there was a great deal of buzz surrounding their return. They were booked that night against Mike Shaw and Gary Albright (alias Makhan and Vokhan Singh — the Karachi Vice). Before their match, I came up to them in the dressing room to give them their finish.