"Owen?" Bret hesitantly stuck his head in the door of his youngest brother's room.

"Hi, Bret," came the low voice from behind the large mop of blonde hair by the window, which Owen was staring out of without turning around. Bret stepped forward, his brother-in-laws right behind. "I heard what happened, Owen; they made a mistake in firing you..." he began.

"I don't know anymore, Bret," Owen turned around and buried his face in his hands, "I've been trying for five years; I can't seem to get a break anywhere. Inoki said I'm a no-talent nothing just riding off the family coattails; sure, he hasn't given me much of a push, but maybe he's right..."

"Now Owen, you know that's not true..."

"What have I done, really?" Owen lamented, "I haven't had one good match yet, and I can't get in anywhere else other than Japan...!"

"Well I'm sure Bruce and Ross would let you in if you asked..." Neidhart offered.

"I already did ask, Jim; they turned me down flat; told me I'm too young and can't cut it," Owen had to fight to keep from breaking down, "My own brothers telling me I don't have it! And I can tell Mom wants me to stop as well; it's clear she doesn't want to see her baby hurt. It's not easy being the youngest, you know, the one they'll always think is too small and too...you know what I mean."

"Owen, listen to me on this," Bret bent down, put an arm around his brother, and looked him square in the eye, "Doesn't Dad always say that real talent always comes to the surface in the end? They'll give you the break in time, Owen; eventually they'll see you're the best one in the family..."

"You're the best one, Bret..."

"Only because I got the chance to work my way to the top; your day's coming, Owen; trust me on that," the Hitman took his brother's hand and gave him a confident look, "If you want, I can talk to Jack Tunney after Survivor Series and see if he can spare room for you; maybe you and Jim could team up if you need some time to break in..."

"Like I said at the airport, ace, not sure yet if I want to come back yet; I think I would, though," the Anvil reminded him.

"Or better yet, maybe the four of us together as a group," Davey proposed, "The four stallions, running wild and hard, for the honor of Canada and Britain..."

"Hmm, interesting thought there, Davey," Bret mused, a light coming on in his eye, "Not right away, of course, since I still have lots of Intercontinental matches to work off of, but maybe somewhere down the road..." he stared into the mirror on the wall, and the image of the four of them standing tall and proud, "...yeah, I think we all could do great things together. Too bad Tom isn't going to be around anymore to make it the five original stallions, though; it wouldn't be complete without him..."

"Ah, Hitman," Hulk noticed them as he and Savage were led past the door, "We're going to see the Dungeon; care to come along?"

"Uh, sure, be right down there; Dad," Bret greeted his father with a small wave as well. "Hey Owen, bring the tape of that kid from Edmonton," he told his brother with a grin, "I think they'll love to hear that one."

"Right," Owen's expression was already perking up as he dug an old tape recorder out of the drawer and followed Bret out the door. Davey and Neidhart exchanged knowing glances. "Owen'll be just fine," the British Bulldog confirmed both their thought.

"Yep, soon everyone'll know he's just as good as his brother," the Anvil agreed, "Maybe I will team up with him, at least at first, to..."

A loud barking rang out up the hallway, followed by a loud, terrified meow. "Oh no!" Davey slapped a hand to his face in frustration. "Mathilda!" he barked himself at his pet, rushing out the door, "I said stay away from the cats!"


"So this is it?" Hulk was awed as he descended down the stairs behind Stu into the fabled Hart Dungeon, "This is where all the dreams were made...?"

"This is it, Mr. Hogan," Stu groped for the light switch, illuminating the training area, with its numerous mats and weights. "Incredible," Savage, now with Elizabeth beside him, was equally awed.

"If these walls, could talk-or, more likely, scream-Randy, you'd be surprised what they'd have to say," Bret agreed, waving Owen down the stairs as well, "And more than a few people have indeed screamed. This one time," he had to fight back laughter, "We'd just finished a show in Edmonton, and this kid came up to us backstage. Said he wanted to be a wrestler, said he was already a pro, and then did this," he punched himself in the face and fell to the nearest mat, "to show he could 'act.' Dad agreed to 'take him on,' invited him over here, and then proceeded to personally twist him into a human pretzel to show him it takes more than 'acting' to be a good wrestler. In fact, we still have that session on tape, right Owen?"

He turned to his brother, who immediately hit the play button on the tape recorder. Within seconds, the most horrible screams imaginable rang out throughout the Dungeon. Even Hulk shivered at the thought of what the green recruit had been put through. "Well, uh, I see you still take your training quite seriously, Mr. Hart," was all he could manage to say.

"I demand the best out of my students, Mr. Hogan; I push them hard to get the best out of them," the legendary wrestler declared. "And I've still got the touch all these years later; I'll show you. Owen, come on down, my boy."

"I'm not sure, Dad..." Owen looked a little hesitant.

"Come on, Owen, it's just for demonstrative purposes," his father urged him. Owen shrugged and got into position with Stu on the mats. "Count us in, Miss Hulette," he told Elizabeth.

"Uh, three, two, one," the words were barely out of Elizabeth's mouth when Stu picked his son up and flipped him hard to the mat. Before Owen could fully recover, his father plowed into him, suplexed him, dropped four straight elbows on him, and twisted his legs into a particularly painful-looking Sharpshooter. Trying to suppress a clearly pained look, Owen quickly tapped out. "There we go, that's how the Hart Method goes," Stu declared victoriously, "What do you think, Miss Hulette?"

Her mouth hanging wide open in shock from the spectacle she'd just seen, Elizabeth took a few seconds to answer, "Well, uh...that's, um, that's nice, Mr. Hart, but, uh...my training methods happen to be a little more, um...relaxed."

"Well, everyone has their own style," Stu conceded, helping Owen up gently, "You never know what can come out of a full contact training session; that's how I discovered the Sharpshooter, in fact."

"Oh really?" Hulk was intrigued.

"Yep. I was training this really big guy, forget his name already; he was giving me more trouble than I'd anticipated. He was slamming me, and grabbed his legs; he fell over me. I was partially pinned under him, but his legs were twisted into the basic form of the Sharpshooter. From the way he screamed and tapped out, I knew I was onto something, so I set about perfecting the Sharpshooter, and when I had, I made it my own move-and because it was so special, I knew that only immediate family could be trusted with it," he smiled at his sons, "So all in all..."

There was a knocking at the top of the stairs. "I'm home, Dad," came another man's voice.

"Ah, Keith, welcome home," Stu greeted his remaining son, still wearing his fireman's gear, "As you can see, Bret's friends arrived already."

"Pleased to meet you, yeah," Savage shook Keith's hand firmly, "Hitman here has found memories tagging with you in Stampede. Hard night's work?"

"Actually yeah, Macho," Keith sat down on a bench, winded, "No sooner did we put out the fire on Maple Street than we got another call at the abandoned petrochemical plant across town; we had to work overtime on that one, otherwise I'd've been home sooner." He wiped sweat from his brow. "Frankly, it seems a lot more fires than normal have been breaking out in this city lately; I'm beginning to suspect someone's setting them on purpose, although I haven't got anything close to proof yet."

"Well, as long as this house doesn't burn down, that's all that matters," Stu remarked, seeming a bit wistful, Hulk thought.

"I hope not, Dad; you know how a couple of those more recent fires were awfully close to our neighborhood," Keith reminded him. He glanced around the Dungeon. "And I'd hate to see this old place burn up; I have a lot of fond memories down here too. If I could train here regularly again..."

"Well maybe you could, for one day," Elizabeth's eyes had lit up. "I just had an idea," she told the others, "Since I was hoping to get one more practice in before the main event tomorrow with the Mega Powers Team, how about we hold it as a sort of special event for the kids, a match before the match, with all the Hart brothers reunited for one day only to play the Million Dollar Corporation?"

"Well, I don't see why not," Stu stroked his chin, looking satisfied, "Yeah, I could see that; it'll get some of the less active ones back in shape, too."

"Just down tell it to their faces that you think they're less active, Dad," Bret cautioned him, "You know how some of them can't take criticism well."

"Not to worry, Bret, not to worry."

"Well, before that, mind if I do a little lifting with the legendary Hart weights to get more ready?" Hulk inquired; he'd been looking forward to this all month.

"Don't mind it at all, Mr. Hogan. Owen, spot for the man," the patriarch instructed his youngest son. Owen flashed an expression that seemed to hint he was often asked to spot for others and preferred not to; nonetheless, he complied. "Feel ready for tomorrow, Hulk?" he asked the world champion once Hulk had set the barbels at four hundred pounds and started pumping away.

"Ready as I'll ever be, Owen," Hulk declared confidently between grunts, "Nothing's going to stop us now."


"That is an awful lot of sleeping medication you're buying there, mister," the drugstore clerk told Heenan with raised eyebrows, eyeing the almost forty containers of sleeping pills and liquids in his shopping cart.

"It's, uh, for my sister, she uh, has sleeping problems, really big sleeping problems, suffers from, uh, paranoid schizophrenia," Heenan rambled out.

"And what's that? I've never heard of that before," the clerk frowned.

"Oh, uh, schizophrenia with, um...paranoid delusions," Heenan explained quickly, "Don't worry, her doctor says it's OK for her to take this much; in fact, I'm stocking up for the whole month."

The clerk glanced over the shopping cart's contents. "You're the third person that came in here buying this stuff in the last half hour in big quantities," he mused softly, "Oh well. That'll be two hundred and ninety-eight Canadian dollars."

"Here, I'll charge it," Heenan handed the clerk his credit card. Once the man had turned his back to verify the card, the Brain quickly reached into the cash register and helped himself to a fistful of cash. He flashed an innocent smile as the clerk returned, handed the card to him, and told him in parting, "Have a good day, sir."

"Same to you, and happy Thanksgiving," Heenan told him, adding, "Chump," once he was safely out the door. He made for the limo parked nearby and dumped his wares into the front seat next to the confused driver. "Remember, and extra tip not to say a word about this to anything," he reminded the man.

The driver merely nodded in shock. Heenan slid next to the Sheik and Volkoff in the rear. "This phase complete; I think we've got enough sleeping medication here to put a whole herd of elephants to sleep," he told them, "How about the constipation stuff."

"Right here, Comrade Heenan," Volkoff held up several jars, "KGB interrogation surplus given to me by Moscow regional director to use when needed; I've been waiting for right time to use against opponent in ring."

"What a great convenience," Heenan mused thoughtfully, "Well, anyway, next stop, to get ourselves a whole load of pizzas for delivery to the Hart Mansion for lunch tomorrow."