Just Business #27 - The Last Beat of a Broken Hart?

['Plan]

Just Business #27


The Last Beat of a Broken Hart?

Oh, hello. My name is ‘Plan. I was once given a challenge. I looked into the future and saw the Fate of a man that I wish could be. Sadly, it will not. I can but hope. What you are about read is purely a work of fiction. I was challenged to foresee a dream match of mine, to describe it move by move. I have expanded on that. I do not know if it will end today or if it will go on. That is for Fate to decide.

This is the story of the last beat of a broken Hart.


I truly believe that Bret Hart screwed Bret Hart, and he can look in the mirror and know that.

The year is 1997. The month is November. I’m sat watching and the words deafen me. I want to slam my hands over my ears and cringe. He’s nothing short of a banshee screaming shit. I wonder what the future holds. I wonder if the pang of bitterness in my mouth will ever disappear and I know truly it will do no such thing.

The year is 1997. The month is November. I’m stood in the bathroom leaning over the sink, eyes fixed on the grime crusted over the plughole. The light flickers with a faint buzz. Like a wasp. I run the tap and sip the water and sweep my hair back and I look, I look at myself in the mirror. And I ask what I know.

The year is 1997. The month is November. I lay in bed sweating. I can close my eyes but I can’t let the mind drift off. I ask myself where it all went wrong. I ask myself why it all happened. I listen for an answer, cringing as I strain to hear what noises the night holds for me. And I hear howling. Beyond the window there is howling, like a thousand voices laughing. Laughing all at me. Ridiculing and persecuting. I can’t get that sneering voice out of my head. That fallacy of a face stays imprinted before my eyes in the darkness. That putrid brown jacket in the dark room carved out of insincerity and lies. I hope to the tide turning. I hope to the future shifting fortunes and rolling snake eyes for the bastards that did it all. I hope to the possibilities of the advantage.


There is a time honoured tradition in this business…

The year is 1997. The month is March. I am ignorant of the future and its vile inconveniences. I think on the time approaching. I think on what it means to the industry. I think on what happened last year.

The year is 1996. The month is March. The body aches. Twinges of pain scythe through the muscle and the bone and the sinew. It is a cold day in the heat and the sweat of the ring. It is not a good night to be a man of Hart. A boyhood dream comes true that night, a fantasy stands realised; a fantasy tarnished by ungratefulness and the desire to placate the ego. Respect gets lost in the confusion of moments. The show of sportsmanship that never was. The tearful celebration of the man from the roof. The walk of bitter rejection by the man of the ring.

The year is 1997. The month is March. I taste a prelude to the bitter flavour of the coming annum. I think on favours. I think on excuses and the rejection of the give and take philosophy permeating the business. I think on lost smiles. I look in the mirror and see a face staring back at me I’d sooner blank out, a face of vengeance and entrenched vendetta.

The year is 1997. The month is April. I brace myself for the inevitably of an early return from a previously career threatening injury. I find myself looking at a smiling man and I frown back on him. I console my dislodged sense of pride and soothe the bruises of my ego by knowing the show had been stolen last month. I think on the future. It brings a smile of my own seeing a bastardised prayer and not a shattered heart.

The year is 1997. The month is November. I’m sat watching and the words enrage me, force me to take a break. I go to the bathroom and look in the mirror and think on traditions kept only when suitable. I think on the rigged roulette wheel.


I felt for business reasons…

The year is 1999. The month is June. I grieve.


The least I could do for Bret is to help him help himself.

The year is 2000. The month is October. I’m sat watching the television set. The endless drone of the static on the screen and the crackle of the temperamental reception are the only sounds filling the dark room. I force myself to accept it. I force myself to come to terms with it. It was all over. A concussion from a misplaced kick and it was all over. Twenty years with an exclamation point lasting twenty seconds. Less, perhaps. My head hurts.

The year is 2001. The month is irrelevant. It’s catching up and it’s obvious. It shows in the everyday things. The pain and the misery of the years of endurance, the spirit that never broke, the constant flogging is wearing the skin thin. It manifests itself in unwelcome greys on the scalp, peppering the youthful black. The hair grows brittle, the face more cavernous with every day. It looks like each second adds another line.

The year is 2002. The month is August. I think on the stroke. I think on the youthful exuberance that had once gone to the ring as well. Was it now replaced by a cripple? The victim of Fate at the table? A man faced with the inevitably of a lifetime of rehabilitation. Perhaps not literally, but a life of seconds moulding into minutes, minutes fading into hours, hours turning to days, days becoming one with the years where every step is a trek and every trek a nightmare? Has the fall from grace been so far?

The year is 1997. The month is November. A career just got ended. Blink and you’ll miss it. Over twenty years of working an ass off amounting to a tarnished reputation overshadowed by antics best left to the private lives of the sinners giving vehicle to sin.


I’d be the very first person to congratulate you, and I was.

The year is 2006. The month is February. Recognition has come. Was this the end of it? Were by gones now by gones? Up there, on the stage, it seems clear a corner has been turned. Perhaps the bitter taste in the mouth has gone. Has the last bite of the lemon been had? Has the tree been picked bare? Perhaps not. A conciliation prize? Well done friend, twenty years of hell and a legacy overshadowed by tarnished interests and egotistical greed. Here’s a pat on the back for a job well done so take your plaque home, put it on the mantle and give it a long hard look before going to bed on the bad back that screams at you every night and hates you for every second you spent doing what you love. Don’t forget to ignore the dizziness in your head and sting in your knees while you’re there.

The year is 2006. The month is April. Recognition feels good. Relief. The mouth isn’t so bitter now and the craggy face looks a little younger. Was this the last appearance? Could it only end here? The next night confirms time does not heal everything. But the recognition feels good. Even emptied of any meaning it feels good.

The year is 2010. The month is February. The world stands in shock.


I would welcome Bret back.

The year is 2009. The month is December. Invited once more to put paid to the demons that nag at the soul. It’s an offer that can not be refused, an opportunity for a moment to end the decade of the torment and those howling winds. But he could not be there. It would achieve nothing if he were there. Being convinced was not an option.

The year is 2010. The month is April. Did it work?

The year is 2010. The month is January. The plans are being put in motion. The wheels begin to turn, gaining ground to the light at the end of the long dark tunnel that has had one single resident inside wallowing in self pity and remorse for ten long years. Blue lights illuminate the way forward. Programmes are laid out; family honour and the war of names.

The year is 1999. The month is June. I grieve.

The year is 2010. The month is January. An opportunity for the ultimate memorial. No one match on a television show doomed by Fate to sink into the depths of limbo and forever be tarnished by the victorious gladiator standing opposed. No. A month and a match and the days no longer merging seamlessly into months. Purpose is found again and a dedication made to the dearly departed. The ultimate chance of forgiveness offered by the man clad in sharp suits and hiding the bedevilled sins of corporate business, looking to forgive and forget.

The year is 1997. The month is November. A conversation unheard to others takes place vowing to never forgive and to never forget.

The year is 2002. The month is August. Suddenly things are given perspective. The bitter taste on the tongue seems needless and pointless. A mind changes and a vow is broken.

The year is 2010. The month is February. Weeks of doing what has been missing for an eternity too long and more. Exchanges with a character unable to speak English and the promise of safety and a last hoorah. The taste buds are being tingled, slicing through the caked over layer of bitterness on the tongue. I look at the watch on my wrist. Hours to go. I ponder on what could go wrong. I say a prayer and assert the confidence once coming hand in hand with the walk to the backstage curtain. I cast an eye to the opponent; a hulking monster from another first family from Samoa.

The year is 2010. The month is January. There will be more than just a win at stake. There will be more than just a tributary memory at stake. There will be more than just national reputation at stake. There will be the salvation of my soul at stake and the desire to stop those dogs gnawing away at it to unravel the mess that is.

The year is 2010. The month is February. The walk down to the ring is a long one. A nervous one. One not of butterflies in the stomach but doubts in the mind and second thoughts in the soul; was it the right thing to do? Or a risk needlessly being taken to make room once more for sleep, peace of mind and respite? The mind turns to leaving. Would it be on a stretcher? Would it be on my feet? Would it be?


I would hope that Bret’s story would be a dramatic one.

I look deep into his eyes. His mass is like a brick wall; imposing and inevitable. It feels strange being back in here. It feels strange seeing the masses around me. It feels strange having them chanting my name. In the seconds before the bell sounds its chime my mind wonders in an eternity thinking on if my body can stand up to this punishment again. I try to reassure my mind, telling myself it will be short, it will be sweet, it will not be too physical. If it is…the ringing interrupts my grim thoughts.

The inevitable destruction lumbers towards me. I have to assure him I can go. I feel my forearm drive hard into his jaw time and again. The fans take to it and latch on to me. He makes a call. He pushes me backwards. I duck the trunk arm swinging rapidly at my face. Time to tell a story. As planned, I target the legs. A chop block sends the mass to his knees. A forearm to the jaw. He pushes me away. He gets up. I narrowly avoid being slammed in the jaw by the same move that concussed me.

The year is 2000. The month is June. The world is a blur.

I’m thrown into the corner chest first. I forget how much it sends the air from my lungs as I fall like a lifeless lump onto my back. I wonder what the hell I’m doing here. A fierce grip yanks on my hair and I have no choice but to follow it to my feet. A hand thrusts into my throat and as planned I fall through the ropes hard to the floor and begin to crawl. The Bulldozer follows me out. My mind thinks on his future, his career, his potential. Feelings I had a long time ago before it all went to pot.

The ring post always hurt more than most things. I find out grimly it is still the old friend it once was. Its cold pain had not warmed up in the years I was gone. I struggle to find my breath. I’m too old for this. He grabs me and I tell him I’m struggling more than I had imagined. He makes a call and feeds me a leg. Inside leg trip. That’s what he wants. I just about manage to do it and lean on the barrier for air.

The year is 1992. The month is October. An arm raised in victory sees a new first time champion crowned and the beginning of an epic career.

I drive a foot down on the leg. I realise the basic rule of thumb had slipped my mind. I break up the rising count narrowly and lie on my back flat trying to convince myself I can do this.

The year is 2008. The month is March. A legend well past his prime wrestles a final match, a match of the year.

I grab the recovering Samoan by his dreadlocks and pull him into the ring. I boot the leg hard and he goes to his knees. I decide to pull a trick out of the sleeve and make the call. Side Russian leg sweep. I hear the fans roaring in appreciation of the old school move. I feel my heart thumping. I realise I had forgotten how good it felt. It was a drug. My head hurts.

I grab him by a leg and drag him to the ropes. My entire weight drives down across it once, twice, three times. He moves away and I chase. I grab him by the ankle and yank the leg away. He kicks me back into the corner. My back hurts. My lungs are still searing for breath. I can’t help but fall to my knees hoping and praying for something more than this. Hoping this was not one big giant mistake. Another demon to contend with.

He crushes me under his weight sensing a need to change the pace. I look up to the heavens and ask for a helping hand. I make a mistake. My mind was preoccupied. I wasn’t prepared for his wrecking ball driving into me. The world spins. I can’t see. I cough. He distracts the crowd. I tell the referee I’m fine. I crawl forwards and that grip leads me again to my feet. He holds a thumb out. He tells me I can not go for this. I have one second to make the decision.

The year is 1999. The month is June. I grieve for a lost brother. I wish I had been there when it happened.

I duck the swinging arm. I grab it. I take him down. Now where? This wasn’t part of the plan but I tell him I need to do this. For peace. We put over the monster strength as he throws me off and charges. I manage to roll the thick frame up. He kicks out. The fans are on the edges of their seats. I go to kick him. He agrees to catch it. Enziguri. We both take a moment to rest on the mat.

The year is 1994. The month is March. We steal the show.

We are both up. He runs. We go to the outside through the ropes. He asks if I can take a bump. I tell him my body won’t hold. I can risk dealing one. He agrees. He goes to the announce desk.

The year is 1995. The month is November. I’m the first man to ever take the infamous bump.

He grabs me and I feel my head drive hard into the desk. He chokes me. I tell him I will go for the elbow drop. I kick him in the leg and he staggers away. I throw him into the announce desk. He calls for a chair. The cold steel feels strange in my hand again. I must get used to this grip. Can’t injure him, not now. I won’t start now. He turns and takes it without getting his hands up. He collapses on the desk and lies there. I go to the apron. The fans are all standing. Thousands roaring for the violence.

The year is 1997. The month is March. I look at the pool of blood on the ring mat and hear them turn against me.

I measure the distance and have a silent conversation with the heavens. All or nothing. I spread the wings and I fly. And I fall. The tables lets out a loud crash. A wave of relief swamps my soul as the momentum rolls me onto my back against the barrier. The roaring is louder than ever. Now the adrenaline really was pumping, the head spinning more. Over the deafening roars he asks me if I’m ok. I tell him I feel fine.

What feels like an eternity passes. No. Not an eternity; longer. But soon I struggle to my feet. My lungs are searing on fire. But I ignore it. I limp heavier than I want to the ring and slide inside. I take the time to regroup, to gather my senses, to desperately force myself on. I need this to work. I need this to be over. I see him sliding back in the ring.

I move forwards and he makes a dangerous call. I take the risk. I pray. The air rushes past my ears. I close my eyes and the mat comes quicker than I’d like. The pain is horrific. It never looked that bad on television. On television, everyone looked younger. My head is spinning even more. I need time. Again. I never used to need this much time. He gets some heat.

Time to pull another trick from the sleeve. I make the call. He goes to the outside and goes high. People rise to their feet. They want the diving headbutt from this monster. But they won’t get it. Time to go old school. I fall over theatrically against the ropes. He takes a blow to his manhood. I feel like this match may prove to be a blow to his career. But no. I won’t feel sorry myself. No time.

I climb up after him. The fans again rise up as one to their feet. I don’t think I have the strength in me. But we’re in a corner. We’re committed. He helps out. The superplex off the top rope once more and I feel at home. But then the mat introduces itself to me again and the lungs burn harder.

The year is 1996. The month is March. I feel exhausted. More now than ever in my life. But it’s near the end. Time to wrap it up.

I throw an arm on his broad chest but to no avail. It gets the fans behind me more. I get to my feet. So does he. I charge. He grabs me by the throat like we practiced. It’s been years since I’ve had to remember something like this. I duck the thumb and take him down by the legs. I step through and cross them over. He struggles. We tease them. I get it. They roar.

The year is 1976. I get my first taste of what will come to dominate my existence; my family, my friends, my soul, my heart.

After minutes of dragging him back to the middle, after minutes of him dragging me to the sides, after minutes of the crowd roaring exhaustedly it’s over. That bell rings. I collapsed forwards and bury my head in the ring canvas with a smile.

I survived.


Not doing the right thing for the fans and the performers and the organisation that helped make him what he is today.

The year is 1997. The month is November. It wasn’t the last match they’d remember me for now.

As the occasion had called for I had defended the family name. I had defended the country. I had earned myself, Smith, Bruce, Keith, Wayne, Dean, Ellie, Georgia, Alison, Ross, Diana, Jim, Daveyboy and Dad and Owen the right to be the First Family of Wrestling. Just a story? No. Not for me.

Someone says a job well done as I limp backstage feeling more tired than ever in my life. This was not a job. It was a necessity. Now I can forget.

I unlace the boots. I change from the singlet. I shower. I pack my bags. I thank Edward and he thanks me back. I limp towards my car and see him. The man that started it all. But I can forget now. We shake hands and he tells me we did good. I thank him. He asks if I will change my hand about next month. About Wrestlemania. I tell him no. He tries to pull on the Hart strings, says it’s in Canada, tells me I’m a hero there. I tell him no. He says he wants to give me a chance for redemption. I tell him no. I already have that now. He says he wants to even an old score. He asks for me to work one more time with him.

I see him.

The year is 1996. The month is March. He tells me to get out of his ring.

The year is 1997. The month is November. He screws me.

The year is 2010. The month is March. The place is Wrestlemania 26. The location is Montreal, Canada. The match is Bret Hart vs. Shawn Michaels III?


Thanks for reading peeps. ‘Plan.

[The Maz]

Well I get the honour of being the first to give this feedback.

After the initial thoughts of WTF are you trying to do, by the second paragraph you had made me a believer.

This was absolutely tremendous and whereas most of SkitZ' challenge turn out to be pointless, he drew an excellent column out of you which was delivered in a way absolutely nobody saw coming. I loved this and despite all the research I have done on Bret over the last week, this finally made me feel exactly where he was coming from.

Excellent job which deserves magenta feedback.

[cicero]

Maybe I'm just tired but this was rather zzzzzzz....
Or maybe I just don't much care for Bret hart...
Perhaps it is to do with my dissmisive opinion of Flair's final match...
Or perhaps the clique' feel of this column put me off...
Though I'm going to guess it's because you started a sentence with 'And'; which, as far as I am concerned, is a sin punishable by death.

Translation: good/not my cup of tea.

[Martin Riggs]

Awesomely engaging stuff, a real treat to read.

The match itself was superbly written, and it was playing inside my head while i was reading it, a compliment to your storytelling!

Very good work, keep it up!

[Cult Icon]

this was great. you have awesome writing skill, so much you could write a book or something. it was very engaging, and as a bret hart fan, it almost brought a tear to my eye (not literally of course). you should do another one of these down the road, spread them out over time. they make for a great read.

outstanding job dude. ill read you again for sure.

[Leonard]

I read the first section and had no idea what to think. Then I went on to the second section and suddenly couldn't stop reading. While you didn't have me hooked from the get-go, you quickly convinced me. This was a unique column, and, as mentioned above, would like to see this method of attack tried again, as I think you can pull it off. Wonderful work.

--Leonard

[Roger Murtaugh]

This was a good column that should have been great. I might me in the minority here but I found the "the year is....the month is" parts to become absurdly repetitive almost to the point where it bordered becoming annoying.

The inner struggles of the Hitman and his desire to return to the business that he wasn't ready to leave; as well as the company that he's more famous with newer fans from his exit than his stay, was awesome.

It's a shame that the Bret Hart story had to close the way it did, and this is coming from someone who was never a Hart fan growing up. That's not to say I don't respect his ability I just never got as behind him as I did HBK and the Kliq.

Catch you next time



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Now playing: Faith No More - From Out Of Nowhere
via FoxyTunes

[James_A]

'Plan, this was awesome.

This, to me, is a perfect example of a simple challenge taken to the very next level. I loved the time lapses and the moments of Hart's career remembered during the match. That was a great touch. The way you captured Hart's emotion added a third dimension to what would otherwise be fantasy booking. This read like "The Wrestler" in way which definitely is not a bad thing.

The only problem I had was that you got your last date wrong. Wrestlemania 26 would take place in 2010 and Wrestlemania this year falls in April. Sorry to point that out!

In any case, good stuff man. Back this up with some more engaging reads.

[MyLeeCyrus]

Awesome, mate. Truly awesome. Really enjoyed it, and I see exactly what the others mean when they say they saw the match in their heads...

Although inexplicably, the ring ropes in my mental picture were of One Night Stand...

['Plan]

Hey everyone. Just to let you know I shall be feeding columns back as soon as I'm finished up in the CSI, including those written by all you peeps who have been kind enough to feed back here!

Mazza ~ Yay! Magenta feedback! It's pretty awesome that it was my column and not necessarily your research that made you see Bret's point of view. It fills me with a ridiculous egotistical amount of pride! Glad you enjoyed the column and thanks for feeding back.

cicero ~ It's unfortunate this wasn't your kind of thing but thanks for reading through anyways. Can't ask for much more. And rules of grammar were made to be broken. Thanks for reading and feeding back.

JohnnyBoomerang ~ Great story telling eh? Yay! I take after Bret! I'm glad it was engaging for you and as always thanks for reading and feeding back.

Cult Icon ~ Bret fan, eh? We should start some kind of club.... Writing books, being a novelist is my true dream in life so maybe one day I'll acheive it, you never know. I may do another, I may not, it depends if I can find a way to make it fresh and make it work all the same.

lenjr04 ~ Looks like this method was quite a success. I'm becoming more convinced to try it again sometime with each passing comment! Next time I'll try and hook the reader in from the get-go so thanks for pointing that out. Thanks as well for reading and feeding back.

Dr. Monkey ~ Yeah, I was worried the refrain may become irritating. I hoped to try and avoid it but beyond deciding to use it there wasn't much more I could do. Heheh. It's not to everyone's taste and if it took away from the quality I'll try a slightly different approach to it next time. Shame on you for getting behind that blasted Kliq!!! Thanks for reading and feeding back.

James_A ~ Ooo, The Wrestler, really? That's pretty darn awesome. I'm also extremely happy my method of putting flashbacks into the fantasy booking worked. I was determined to just not write an imaginary match. Thanks for pointing out the error at the end. It has been corrected already. More engaging reads? I'm trying my damnedest to find a method for my next CSI effort but I'll be damned if I get it!

MyLeeCyrus ~ One Night Stand? Heheh. I was aiming for No Way Out more to be honest! I'm glad you thought it was a great column and thanks for reading and feeding back.

[Rated]

I really dont knw what to say about this. Its either a work of genius with excellent execution or random mumblings of pink. Maybe its the pink. All I can say is .....my eyes hurt.

[XanMan]

I decided to resurrect this, because it was fucking awesome. Great job, Plan. I could see all of this enfolding as you wrote, and that's something truly wonderful. Please save this so that it can be reposted in the retro thread when the boards are re-set.

['Plan]

Rated ~ Thanks for reading and feeding back dude. I've cut down on the magenta in my new column. And would that make me "tortured genius" or "rubbish columnist"?

Xanman ~ Fret not my friend, all my columns are saved and safe on my computer, everything from JB #1 to JB# 28 (up now! ) as well as my At The Fireside's and collab pieces too! I shall repost this in the far flung reaches of the future perhaps. I'm glad you could picture it clearly; shows I did my job! Thanks for reading and feeding back.