"Here we are, Comrade Blassie, sleep-inducing and bathroom-inducing pizzas," Volkoff proclaimed, holding up several stacks of the tampered pies on the sidewalk in front of the fancy restaurant Chez Caribou.
"For once, good work, Nikolai," Blassie commended him, "Now, you and the Sheik head on to the Hart Mansion; it's at this address," he wrote it down and handed it to the Russian, who, like his Iranian partner, was wearing the fake pizza delivery uniforms, "And don't screw up this part."
"Right, Freddie," the Sheik nodded firmly, "So, after lunch..."
"Right now!" his manager ordered him, "I want this taken care of now before the match!"
"All right, all right, Freddie! Come, Nikolai," the Sheik waved his partner towards their limo. "Now Nikolai, in case they get suspicious, let us go over the basic questions they might ask," the Iranian grilled him, "Size of order..."
"Forty cheese pizzas, four pepperonis, three peppers, and three mushrooms," Volkoff confidently answered.
"Total price of deal?"
"One hundred and fifteen Canadian dollars."
"Number of people in the party..."
"There are currently forty-five million hard-working Soviet citizens in Communist Party, with number set to grow exponently over the coming decades," Volkoff rambled off his government's statistics robotically.
"Nikolai!" the Sheik whacked him on the shoulder in frustration. "Don't worry, Freddie, I'll get him in shape yet," he assured his manager, "Driver, Hart Mansion."
He slammed the door behind himself, moments before the limo pulled out into traffic. "And they'd better not eat any of it on the way," Blassie grumbled to his fellow managers next to him, "If they're hung over and constipated for the tag team match...!"
"Oh well, they're on their way, and at least one pizza will be eaten by Hulk and his losers," Jimmy declared confidently, "In the meantime, let's eat."
"Lunchtime," Heenan called to the rest of the Million Dollar Corporation a little up the block. The group pushed their way into the Chez Caribou. Well dressed waiters bustled back and forth between fancy tables, where well dressed patrons were being serenaded by live classical music. "One side, everyone, I'll handle this," DiBiase confidently moved to the front of the pack. "Excuse me, sir," he greeted the maitre 'd at the front desk, "My colleagues and I would like the entire restaurant to ourselves, right now."
"Do you have reservations, sir?" the maitre 'd asked matter-of-factually.
"No, but I think you're going to do what I tell you here, so clear the restaurant; I want all these poor excuses for human beings out right now."
"I'm sorry sir, but these people have booked their reservations well in advance, and we can't evict them when they're still eating..."
"I don't think you get it; I'm the Million Dollar Man, and what I want, I get. So, I think two million dollars, translated into whatever it is in Canadian money," DiBiase gestured at Virgil, who handed him a briefcase of money, "is your price for what I want. Am I right?"
The maitre 'd opened the briefcase and oodled the money inside. "Well, in that case, we'll see what we can do for you all," he said quickly, waving several other waiters over.
"Oh I know you will," DiBiase laughed hard. "Like I always say," he said with pride to his teammates, "Even where they don't have American money, everybody has a price for the Million Dollar Man."
He laughed again. And soon, the restaurant's paying customers were grumbling as the staff forced them out the door. "...don't see what the problem is!" an elderly man was protesting loudly.
"Unexpected gas leak; it's for everyone's safety," the maitre 'd tried to explain.
"Hey, how come they're not leaving?" an well-dressed young boy pointed in frustration at the wrestlers.
"It's not your concern, peasant, so keep walking," DiBiase told him smarmily.
"Well, I never!" an elderly woman grumbled at him, "You should be ashamed of yourself!" she berated the Million Dollar Man, "Trying to maniuplate...!"
Virgil gave her a hard shove out the door. "Bye bye, Granny," DiBiase laughed yet again. "You've done well, my good man," he commended the maitre 'd, "Now, I want a full, ten course meal for all of us, with the best complementary wine in your stores. And if our meals aren't perfectly prepared, heads will roll."
"I understand, Mr. DiBiase. Here, our finest dining room is this way," the maitre 'd waved the group forward, "We hope you will enjoy our American Thanksgiving special that you requested."
"Oh I know we will, or you're not getting paid," DiBiase remind him. He causally plopped down at the head of the formally prepared table in the primary dining room. "Consider yourselves the beneficiaries of the feast," he jovially told his group, "Forget all that crap about being thankful for family or loved ones; I'm thankful for my money and what it can do for me."
"Uh, excuse me, sir, you're going to want to take your seat for the banquet," the maitre 'd told the Undertaker, who was leaning indifferently against the wall.
"My Undertaker needs no human nourishment," Bearer told him.
"I'm sorry, but he'll have to leave if he doesn't order..." the maitre 'd was cut off as the Undertaker lifted him off the ground by the collar. "I," the Deadman hissed meancingly, "will stay."
"Of course, sir, how silly of me; you can stay," the maitre 'd gulped and quickly bustled off. "Uh, buster, there's going to be one more here," Sherri told the head waiter, gesturing for another chair to be brought up to the table, "I have a guest coming."
"You still can't let go of managing your own stable, can you, Sherri?" Jimmy asked her knowingly.
"And why not, Hart; I'm just as good as you at it, and I refuse to just be your hitwoman for the rest of my life!" she blasted him, "I would have gotten Savage to the top if he hadn't been corrupted by that jezebel Liz; since he's no longer worth my attention, I have to find someone else, and the best option right now is..."
"A Mr. Martel to see Mrs. Martel," the maitre 'd called into the dining room right as the staff brought in the soups for the first course.
"Send him in," Sherri's face broke into a grin as the Model entered the dining room, atomizer still firmly in hand. "Miss Martel, I appreciate this offer of Thanksgiving dinner," he greeted her with a grin.
"As do I. Have a seat, Rick," she tantalyzingly gestured him into the spare seat next to her. "I'm sure you know everyone else," she waved offhanded at her teammates, "Here, have some soup," she waved the waiters to give him an extra.
"Much appreciated, much appreciated," Martel placed his atomizer next to the nearest candelbra and started slurping away. "That stuff isn't flammable in there, is it?" Rude asked worriedly from across the table, "My good looks could be ruined in an explosion..."
"You need not worry, Mr. Rude, nothing of the sort will happen," Martel assured him.
"Well anyway, Rick, I wish you luck in tonight's match against that fool Santana and his team. Of course, I know you're going to win, since you're such a genius as well as good-looking," Sherri shamelessly flattered the Model, "Have you ever thought of getting guidance for your career? I've been in this business a long time, and I can make sure you get at least one belt..."
"Funny, I still haven't seen any of the belts you promised me yet," Roberts snapped from up the table.
"Don't pay any attention to him, he's jealous," Sherri quickly told Martel, "I can take your career so far; just sign me up as your manager, and I'll..."
"I appreciate your offer of service, Miss Martel, but unfortunately I cannot accept it," the Model declined, "I have tried managers before, but none suited my unique talents just right. No, the Model works alone, for I am better that way, just my stunning good looks and I."
"But I can get you things you can't even now," Sherri wasn't ready to throw in the towel, "Lots of money, fast cars, eternal dinners in fancy restaurants like this, and especially...me," she leaned her head sensuously into his arm, "I can give you pleasures beyond your wildest dreams..."
"Oh, I do love those," Martel grinned dopily, 'But my answer is still no..."
"Then let's have one now; maybe it'll change your mind," Sherri all but leaped onto his chest and gave him a passionate kiss. "Great, while you two work out the arrangements, I'm going for a smoke," looking disgusted, Blassie rose up.
"Same here, Freddie," Jimmy jumped as well.
"Me too," Flair rose as well, also looking repulsed.
"You guys don't smoke..." Sherri frowned, but they were already out of the dining room. "It's a miracle anyone wants to work for her, going straight for the hot sex right away," Blassie growled in frustration as they stormed for the door, "It embarasses our reputations to be seen with her in public like that!"
"I know; if I'm to be seen as the REAL world's champion, I have to at least make my reputation look clean," Flair agreed, pushing open the front doors.
"Well, since she believes in what we do, might as well give her some..." Jimmy abruptly trailed off. "Say, that looks like Owen Hart over there," he pointed to the nearest bus bench. And sure enough, it was Owen, slumped forward with his head in his hands. "I've seen all the Harts in action; I'd know him anywhere," the Mouth of the South added, "He looks down."
"Hmm, but maybe, just maybe, things might be looking up for us..." a grin was spreading across Blassie's face. He approached the youngest Hart. "Well, well, Owen Hart, what a surprise seeing you here," he proclaimed. Owen spun in surprise. "Freddie Blassie," he recognized the manager, "Fancy seeing you here as well."
"We're having our big Thanksgiving dinner inside. You're welcome to join us," Flair offered, having picked up his manager's ploy.
"No thanks, I'm...I'm just waiting," Owen shook his head.
"What's the matter, kid? Trouble at home?" Jimmy inquired.
Owen sighed in frustration. "No one believes in me, not even my own family," he lamented bitterly, "No one'll give me a fair chance..."
"Well that's where you're wrong, Owen my boy; I've seen all your matches in Japan," Blassie declared sympathetically, "You were easily the best one there."
"You have?"
"Of course I have. In fact," a devious smile crossed Blassie's face, "You might even be of some help to us just now. As I guess you know, your brother's on the team that Ric's team will be facing tonight."
"Yeah, how could I not know; Mom and Dad have been going on and on about it ever since Bret's teammates said they be coming to Calgary."
"Just like them, anything for the Hitman," Jimmy sneered, "You know, I wouldn't be surprised if they were deliberately holding you back to push him ahead."
"You do?" Owen looked confused and conflicted.
"Oh yeah we do," Flair grinned deviously himself, "In fact, I heard Bret on the phone to them in the locker room the other week; said he's glad he's getting such a big push in the family; he's afraid of you and how much better than him you are; he's afraid to face you head to head, because he knows he'll lose."
"He said THAT?"
"Yep," the Nature Boy nodded firmly, "Clear as day."
"But we've got the ticket for you, Owen my boy," Blassie told him, "Ric's teammate Mr. Perfect unfortunately sprained his ankle crawling out of bed this morning; it doesn't look like he'll make it to the match. We've been looking for a replacement all day, but no one could make it until now. How'd you like to take his place?"
"Well, I..."
"Why not; we'd be glad to have you on board, Owen," Flair picked up the trick, "Why, you're easily even better than me; you would make us unbeatable, period, AND you get to show Bret face to face that you are better than him. And, if you do well enough, we could give you a high position here in the Million Dollar Corporation, and that includes an instant shot at Hogan's belt."
"You would?"
"Absolutely, champ," Blassie slapped him on the back, "We'll take you to the heights your family never wanted you to go. So is it a deal?"
He extended his hand. Owen, after a moment's pause, shook it hard. "Yeah," he nodded firmly, a look of determination crossing his face, "Yeah, this'll show everyone how good I am."
"Glad to hear that, kid. Ric, go tell the waiters to set up an extra chair at the table for our special guest," Blassie told his main wrestler. He leaned close to Flair once Owen was looking the other way and whispered in his ear, "Tell Perfect to make himself scarce until the match tonight; I don't want any chance that something this golden gets ruined."
"You got it, Freddie," Flair skipped towards the restaurant, letting out a celebratory, "WOOOOOOOO!" just before he disappeared inside. No sooner did he leave than a man in a brown hat and trench coat hopped out of a police cruiser nearby and bustled towards the three remaining men. "Pardon me, gentlemen, are either of you a Mr. James Hart?" he asked them.
"I am," the Mouth of the South stepped forward.
"Mr. Hart, I'm Inspector Lester of the Calgary R.C.M.P.," he flashed his badge, "I believe you are the manager of one Brian Knobbs and one Jerome Saggs?"
"Yep, I manage the Nasty Boys; what about them?"
"They're in our custody right now for vandalizing a McDonald's across town a half hour ago," Inspector Lester explained.
"Wait, that has to be some kind of mistake," Jimmy protested, "I keep a tight lid on my wrestlers; they wouldn't..."
"We have the testimony of multiple witnesses," Lester flipped out his notepad, "They all state that at approximately eleven thirty this morning, Mr. Knobbs and Mr. Saggs entered the McDonald's in question and ordered a full course meal. After receiving said meal, they started shouting that they had been sizably overcharged for it; when the staff at the McDonald's attempted to point out the charges on the meal were in fact correct, Mr. Knobbs and Mr. Saggs took it upon themselves to, in their sworn own words, 'Nastycize' the restaurant. Said actions in the course of 'Nastycizing' the establishment included overturning tables and chairs, smashing all the windows, and spray-painting both the walls and the employees. They were taken into custody with the use of tasers and are being held on fifty thousand dollars bail."
"All right, officer, I'll get the money so you can spring them," Jimmy sighed in frustration. He leaned close to Blassie and whispered to him, "I hope Ted has enough holiday cheer to part with the money."
"He will, for his favorite manager," Blassie assured him. "We'll handle this," he told Lester, "You wait out here; we'll have the bail money for you in two minutes. And as for you, come on in," he took Owen by the hand and led him into the restaurant, "From now on, you're one of us."
"That turkey smells terrific, Mr. Hart," Tito called towards the kitchen.
"It's almost done; have a seat," Stu called back into the dining room.
"You got it," looking ready for the feast, Tito sat down on the left side of the middle of three tables that had been set up in the dining room to accomodate everyone. "So, you were saying," he turned back to Diana next to him, "Davey turned into an overnight baseball sensation after he came over?"
"Right after," the Bulldog's bride nodded, "Stampede was having a charity game, and he really didn't know how the game worked, even though Tom explained it to him..."
"I know enough about rounders, so it wasn't too big a stretch," Davey broke in, "Still, I struck out the first few times at the plate. Tom gave me a choice of bats, I picked one that looked right, and with Diana eagerly cheering for me to do it..."
"Loud enough to shatter every pane of glass within a mile of the stadium," Bret cut in, "I know because she was the only cheering for him at that point..."
"And since he hit it out of the park on the first pitch, I'd say it was more than worth it," Diana defended her actions, taking her husband by the arm.
"I guess so, sis," Bret leaned over her shoulder and silently mouthed at Tito, "Left-handed bat." The door to the dining room slid open. "Dinner is ready," Stu proudly declared, carrying a very large turkey to the middle of the table. "Now THAT is a well done turkey, Mr. Hart," Hulk commended him from the seat directly next to the wrestling legend.
"He spends all Thanksgiving morning working on it, so it always turns out well," Georgia smiled at her father.
"OK then, let's dig in," Dean eagerly grabbed his knife and fork.
"Now Dean, this is Thanksgiving, at least in America; we should take a moment and give thanks," his mother scolded him.
"You said it, Mrs. Hart," Hulk obligingly bowed his head, as did everyone at the table. "Lord," Helen began the invocation, "We thank you on this special day for allowing us to be in the presence of our friends and loved ones, for the bounty you have set before us, for all that we have accomplished in the previous year. We pray that you continue to guide us all in the right as you see fit in the year to come. Amen."
"Let's eat," Smith grabbed the carving knife and started to slice at the turkey. "Hold on there, ace," Savage took hold of his hand, "I've got something I'd like to do first. Give me a hand with this," he instructed Wayne, who obligingly rose up and followed him out into the living room, where the Macho Man's boxes had been hidden before. "Come on, hurry it up, I'm hungry!" Smith whined into the living room.
"So what else is new with you?" Ellie grumbled at him.
"Hey I don't appreciate the hostility, Ellie; if you would...!"
"Wait, is something burning?" Keith sniffed the air suspiciously.
"Don't be alarmed, pal, we're just getting set in here," Savage called back, "And now we're ready."
"Ready for what, Randy?" Hulk called at him.
"I know we celebrated it on the day itself last week, champ, but I figured since we'd almost all be together here for this today, we'd do it again for a larger audience, yeah. So, everyone together: happy birthday to you..." he pushed the door open, allowing Wayne to enter with a three-leveled birthday cake, candles aglow on top, "...happy birthday to you (most of the diners did in fact join in), happy birthday, dear Elizabeth; happy birthday to you."
"Oh Randy; thank you so much," she blushed as the cake was set directly in front of her.
"You're worth doing it a second time for," he gave her a kiss on the cheek to the loud applause of the Hart children, "Now make a wish..."
Elizabeth closed her eyes, took a deep breath, and blew out the candles, this time to the applause of everyone except a bored Smith and Dean. "And that ain't all, because we got some presents too, yeah," Savage hefted a large box wrapped in green paper, "I figured this was the best one, so you can open it first."
Elizabeth tore open the package. "Oh..." she exclaimed, pulling out an impressive fur coat.
"And it's completely synthetic; no animals were killed in the making of this beauty, so you can wear it without guilt and with pride. Let's take a look here," Savage slipped it onto his wife, "Oooh yeah, that looks great indeed."
"Yeah, you look terrific, Miss Elizabeth," Jade applauded from her seat.
"I guess I do," Elizabeth admired herself in the mirror, "Thank you Randy."
She gave him a kiss back. "I got more, but I'll save it till after dinner," the Macho Man told her, helping her back to her seat, "Now, let's eat."
"I'm up for that," Hulk glanced around the table, which also contained the usual trappings of Thanksgiving besides the turkey: mashed potatoes, corn, stuffing, cranberry sauce, muffins, cornbread, and pies. It was a feast he was going to enjoy, he knew.
But before he could serve himself, the doorbell rang. "I've got it," Georgia got up and bustled over to the door. "Can I help...?" she opened it.
"Hi, we're, like, from Pizza Hosers, eh?" the Sheik, with dark glasses and a false beard to disguise himself, said in the best stereotypical Canadian accent he could manage, "Here's the pizzas you ordered, eh?"
"Happy Thanksgiving, capitalist Canadian brothers, eh?" Volkoff added, shoving his stack of pizza boxes into Georgia's hands, an action the Sheik immediately copied. Both men immediately beat a quick retreat. "Wait, there must be some mistake, we didn't order any...!" Georgia's cries were in vain, as the Mega Mercenaries' limo-now with the words PIZZA HOSERS crudely spray-painted on the side-burned rubber up the street. Shaking her head, she carried as many boxes as she could into the dining room. "Anyone order these?" she asked her fellow guests.
"No, not that I know of," Stu frowned.
"Who cares; it's more food. Bring it in here," Dean waved his arms wildly.
Before anyone else could say anything, the doorbell immediately rang yet again. "Again?" Georgia sighed, storming back towards the door, "Well, I do hope they have an explanation..."
"Maybe it's not them; maybe it's Owen finally come to his senses," Ross suggested. As it turned out, though, it wasn't the Mega Mercenaries or Owen waiting outside this time. "Good afternoon," said a mustached man in a gray hat and coat, "May I speak to Mr. Hart?"
"Uh, Dad, it's for you," Georgia hesitantly called back in to him. Frowning deeper, Stu approached the door. "What do you want?" he asked wearily.
"Mr. Hart, I am J.L. Corcoran, zoning board officer, and it is my duty to serve you with this foreclosure notice," the man shoved it into his hand. Stu stared in shock at the form before him. "I, I don't understand..." he mumbled.
"You signed this property over to the Second Canadian National Bank earlier in the week," Corcoran told him matter-of-factually.
"I didn't sign anything!" rage flashed in Stu's eyes, "I don't know what this is all about, but I had no intention of selling this place..."
"Darling, what's going on?" concerned, Helen approached the door as well.
"Let me ask you, Mr. Hart, is this your signature?" Corcoran extended a form towards Stu. Stu dug out reading glasses and squinted at it. "Well, it does look a lot like my signature," he conceded, "But this says I'm signing this house over to the bank for development; I certainly didn't do that!"
"Well, since you agree this is your signature, I'm afraid the decision is binding; you hereby have twenty-four hours to vacate these premises before it is demolished," Corcoran turned to leave.
"Hey you!" livid, Stu grabbed his arm, "You're not going anywhere! You're not tearing my house down! I didn't sell it, do you hear me!"
"Mr. Hart, if you do not let go of me, I may be forced to take harsh measures against you," Corcoran told him firmly.
"Well I'm not letting go!" the legendary wrestler tightened his grip, "I want all this erased, or...!"
Without warning, two large, hulking men rushed forward from behind Corcoran and belted Stu hard in the face. "Stop it!" Helen half-shrieked as they pounded her husband roughly down to the ground, "Leave him alone!"
"She said leave him alone!" Bret rushed forward to defend his father as well and tried to pry the men off of him. The larger man picked him up and hurled him halfway across the yard. "Enough," Corcoran told his goons, who got up off a now slightly black and blue Stu. "Twenty-four hours, Mr. Hart, then the bulldozers come in," he gave him one final warning.
"So everything better be outside by then-but we'll give you a head start with these," the goons eagerly grabbed for the pizza boxes, taking all but one (which Smith was busy devouring in the first place) out with them as they and Corcoran strode merrily off. "Dad, you all right?" grimacing, Bret rushed over to help him up.
"Yeah, just my pride," Stu groaned, "But I have no idea what this was all about...!"
"Dad, what's going on?" Diana looked deeply concerned herself as she approached and put an arm around her father, "Did he say the house had been signed over...?"
"I never signed anything; this is some sort of trick or sick joke!" Stu insisted.
"Well, darling, I think we can rule out a joke," Helen was looking up the street, down which a bulldozer was coming, its engine snarled ominously, "I think they do mean to evict us. But why?"
"If I may, Mrs. Hart," Hulk, having listened in on the whole conversation, "After dinner, my friends and I would be glad to help find out exactly what's going on here for you."
"So would I, Hulk, because between what happened to Marcia's house last night, and Keith's worries about a major arsonist on the loose," Bret glanced up the block past the arriving bulldozer, "I think somebody's up to something illegal to get all the properties in the neighborhood..."
