"What do you mean our reservations are cancelled!" an astounded Hulk demanded to the hotel manager at the front desk.
"We were booked full; your suites were already reserved slightly before, so we had to bump you," the manager explained matter-of-factually.
"No they weren't; you said full well when we booked the rooms that they were available!" the world champion bellowed, "Now I demand you get us new reservations, or...!"
"That's impossible, sir; we are booked solid for the next week," the manager said unemotively, "Now if you'll..."
"Wait a minute, wise guy, you can't get away with this!" an irate Roddy Piper, having been standing behind Hulk, stormed forward to the desk, "This is some kind of Soviet trick; you're trying to throw this guy off so he'll lose the match tomorrow night! Well you're not getting away with this!"
"Roddy, it's not that bad..." Hulk tried to calm his colleague down, but Piper remained irked as he pounded his fist hard on the desk, ranting, "You either give us our rooms back, or there's going to be hell to pay right now for...!"
"Security, we have an issue at the front desk; please take care of it," the manager calmly said into his phone.
"Oh no you don't; you're not throwing us out!" Piper shrieked, grabbing a plant and tossing it to the floor, then doing the same with the phone, "I'm going to stand here and rant and rave until you give us service; let's see how you like causing an international incident that...!"
He was cut off as a pair of oversized security guards grabbed him by the shoulders and dragged him towards the door. Hulk sighed in frustration. "Well, thank you anyway," he told the manager through gritted teeth. He walked back to the rest of his teammates near the wall. "Well, somehow they cancelled our reservations, even though they were booked solid before our plane took off," he said with a roll of the eyes, "Guess we'll have to look elsewhere."
"Do you speak any English at all?" Hulk frustratedly said into the phone inside the frigid booth on the bustling street corner by Red Square about an hour later, "Listen, if you can understand me, we're looking for any open rooms, any at all. If you do, please let us have them; no one else has...hello? Are you there?"
The hotel had in fact hung up. Sighing, Hulk slammed the receiver down and trotted over to his teammates, huddled on the curb against the already falling snow in the fading light of dusk. "Well, we're out of luck," the world champion told them, "That was the last hotel available, and I guess they had nothing."
"It's a conspiracy, that's what it is!" an irate Big Boss Man kicked at a neraby snowbank, "They knew we were coming, so they connived to make us as uncomfortable as possible!"
"Now Boss Man, you can't prove that," Bret tried to rationalize, "The Russian government probably hyped this event all up for Volkoff, so they booked the hotels with..."
"Well even if that's the case, Bret, what do we do now?" a shivering Ricky Steamboat glanced around Red Square, "Where are we supposed to go? Do we just duck into Lenin's Tomb and spend the night there?"
"If I'm forced to go in that building, I rip his rotten corpse out of the coffin and spit on him from head to toe!" Piper grumbled.
"No way, Roddy; like I said, we don't create any international incidents while we're here," the Hitman cautioned him.
"Maybe we just go back to the airport then?" an equally shivering Andre the Giant proposed.
"I'm not sleeping on a cold, unswept terminal floor either, big guy, sorry," Piper declared firmly.
"We'll think of something, guys, we'll think of something," Hulk glanced up and down the square. "The weather's right, but it just doesn't feel like Christmas," he remarked, taking note of the notably undecorated buildings and the people walking by with dour or glum expressions.
"I'd agree, Hulk; it's just not the holidays without decorations or Christmas music," Elizabeth agreed, wrapping the fur coat her husband had gotten her for her birthday tighter around herself, "Every year when we'd go over my grandparents' for the holidays, they'd always have the tree lit up and the lights covering the house from top to bottom. Sure, it didn't snow all that often in Kentucky, but we'd always..."
"Hold on," Savage held up a hand, "You hear that?"
Hulk heard it too: the sounds of children crying out in an alley nearby. He found himself bustling towards it in a flash. Inside it, a pair of cold-faced boys of about fourteen, he guessed, were pummelling away on a boy of about eleven and a girl of eight. Both of the victims were crying out in agony, which seemed to make their tormentors laugh. "Hey, stop that!" Hulk shouted at them, "Bullying isn't cool at all, dudes! So let them alone!"
The two assailants gave him harsh, arrogant looks and started berating him in Russian, their body language more than telegraphing they weren't afraid of him. "You're not scared of me, huh?" an idea crossed Hulk's mind, "Hey, Andre," he called to the Giant, "these two say they aren't scared of anything."
"Oh really?" Andre stepped forward into the entrance to the alley. Both bullies turned pale at the sight of the Giant. Andre then let out a loud roar and leaped towards them. This did the trick; both boys ran off screaming in terror up the alley. "Bullies are always cowards, Hulk, always," Andre mused with a satisfied grin.
"I know, big guy," Hulk patted him on the shoulder. He quickly dug out his Russian translation book as he approached the boy and girl, getting up slowly from the barrage they'd taken. "Uh..." he quickly flipped through the pages, not quite sure what exactly to say...
"Thank you, sir," came the boy's answer in halting but clear English. "Oh, I see...oh," Hulk said quickly, glad he wouldn't have to translate. He extended a hand to help the boy up. "You going to be OK there, little dude?"
"Oh, you two look like you could use some first aid," a deeply concerned Elizabeth bustled forward herself and helped the girl up as well, noticing with a worried expression the red marks on the children's faces, "You know if there's a doctor anywhere we could...?"
"They wouldn't take us anyway," the boy admitted sadly, "We wouldn't have enough money, not like them," he glanced with revulsion up the alley after his now faintly visible attackers.
"Who were those rotten lice anyway?" Savage inquired, helping him dust off.
"Sandro and Sergei; they're sons of a pair of powerful Politburo members who live in the good district on the other side of the square," the boy muttered in disgust, "Anyone not of their standing deserves to be bullied to them."
"And I take it you're not, then?"
"We wish we could be...say," the boy squinted at Hulk, "You're the American champion wrestler Nikolai Volkoff's going to be fighting on Christmas Eve, aren't you?"
"Yep, I'm Hulk Hogan," the champion shook the boy's hand, "And you are...?"
"Kostya; Kostya Polivinov. This is my sister Marina-she's blind," he added with a little bit of grief in his voice, and indeed Marina seemed to be staring around blankly into space without focusing on anything, "They especially pick on her for that too."
"We're sorry to hear that," Elizabeth told him, gently taking Marina around the chest and hugging her close. "Don't be worried; we're friends," she assured the girl when Marina squirmed a little.
"And since we helped you two, maybe you could help us, amigos," Tito told the children, "Our reservations got cancelled; we're looking for a new place to stay; if you know anywhere..."
"We can help you," Kostya's face lit up, "Come on, follow us."
He took his sister by the hand and bustled up the alley. "Well, that turned out well in the end," Hulk grinned knowingly at his fellow Mega Power as they and the others followed the children.
"Good deed always does get a good return, yeah; Elizabeth always says that, and it's sure true," Savage nodded firmly, "Just so long as this place has heat and lots of it..."
"Behold, Comrade Blassie, the finest training center in all of Soviet Union," Volkoff grandly declared, gesturing his manager and entourage into the well-equipped gymnasium with red walls, floor, and ceiling, inside which dozens of wrestlers were fighting in rings, lifting weights, or otherwise training.
"Not surprised they called it the Lenin National Wrestling Center," Sensational Sherri grumbled, looking around the gym, "In fact, it's surpising everyone in the country didn't name themselves Lenin in tribute to the guy."
"Then we wouldn't know why was who-and look who is here; Boris," Volkoff happily bounded toward a balding, bearded wrestler in a red sweatsuit. "Nikolai, old friend," Boris embraced him happily, "You have made it to top of ladder now."
"Boris Zhukov, I presume?" Bobby Heenan reached around Volkoff to shake Boris's hand, "Nikolai's spoke a lot about how you and he sparred here. You ought to come over and team with him if you could get out of your job here."
"I help train here for most part; I could get out if needed, though," Boris admitted, "Is honor to be chosen to participate in Summit Series; Patriot going down hard..."
"As are American dogs Duggan and Slaughter," came the rough voice of another bald, bearded man coming out of the office in the corner. "Well, well, Ivan Koloff, the great Russian Bear, we meet again," Blassie bustled over and shook Ivan's hand, "You were the best world's champion the WWF ever had-no offense, Sheiky," he turned to the frowning Sheik.
"Glad somebody thinks that, Comrade Blassie," Ivan commended him, rustling the chain hanging around his shoulders, "I've been appointed Hero of Soviet Union for athletic achievements in WWF; thus, I run this establishment, training the next generation of wrestlers to fight for the glory of Mother Russia."
"No one is better suited than Ivan," Menzhinsky smiled, "And no one is better than his nephew."
"Indeed; Nikita!" Ivan barked to the rear of the gym. An even larger bald and goateed wrestler, also carrying a chain, swaggered forward. "My nephew Nikita is the best man here," Ivan proclaimed proudly, "He will soon carry our national banner high in international competition: HUT, NIKITA!" he barked. Nikita immediately dropped to the floor and started doing strong push-ups. "What are you?" Ivan demanded.
"I am a well-oiled fighting machine for Mother Russia, Uncle Ivan!" Nikita recited loudly.
"What will you be in the big match?"
"A rabid, snarling Russian bear just like you, Uncle Ivan!" Nikita jumped to his feet and started pumping hand weights.
"What will happen to Hacksaw Duggan and Sergeant Slaughter when they find themselves across from you?"
"They will feel the total wrath of Mother Russia, Uncle Ivan!"
"Very good, my boy," Ivan patted his nephew on the shoulder, "He will be greatest wrestler in Soviet Union's history when his chance comes."
"I've seen better," snorted the elderly janitor collecting the garbage in the corner.
"Back to work or you're fired, Pyotr!" Ivan snapped at him. "Pyotr, he doesn't appreciate all we are do here," he apologized to everyone else.
"I'll say," Jimmy had been looking into one of the cabinets against the wall. "Hey Bobby, take a look at all this," he waved the Brain over, "They use a lot stronger stuff here than anything that's allowed back in the States."
"That is private training material!" Ivan stormed over and slammed the cabinet shut. "Anyway, Comrade Volkoff," he turned back to Blassie's charge, "If you need any help from myself or anything to win the world championship..."
"Not to worry, Comrade Koloff; I, Nikolai Volkoff, have everything well in hand for title match," Volkoff hefted a barbel and started to raise it-only the weights hadn't been secured, and came tumbling off onto Ivan and Nikita's feet. Howling, the Koloffs hopped around the room in agony. "Actually, Nikolai, I think it would be better if you did take some help," the Sheik quickly spoke up, his hand over his face.
"No problem at at, Sheik," DiBiase proclaimed. "Mr. Menzhinsky," he turned to the Soviet sports director, "Just let me know who's going to be refereeing the world title match, and I'll go find his price to ensure Nikolai's victory."
"We don't quite know who's going to be assigned, Mr. DiBiase," Menzhinsky shook his head, "And they'll probably have to sign a sworn oath vowing not to favor either the U.S. or U.S.S.R."
"I don't care what they're made to sign; EVERYBODY has a price for the Million Dollar Man," DiBiase laughed loudly.
"And if he turns out to be an idealist who tries to resist Ted's offers, a little liquor and sex ought to do the job," Sherri added sensuously.
"And we'll go sabotage Hogan's heated suit; where do they store them before the matches, Mr. Menzhinsky?" Flair asked the sports director.
"They're in the...ah, Comrade Yermakov," Menzhinsky turned to greet another man, with long black hair and mustache and wearing a formal epauletted Soviet uniform, who entered the room, surrounded by bodyguards. At the sight of the new arrival, most of the wrestlers in the gym turned pale and started working harder at their assigned tasks. "Comrade Volkoff, meet General Leonid Yermakov, KGB adjutant director of security for Soviet athletics," he introduced the newcomer to Volkoff.
"Pleasure to meet you, Comrade Yermakov," Volkoff pumped the security man's arm vigorously.
"Thank you, Comrade Volkoff," Yermakov told him dryly. "Comrade Koloff, has everyone been performing up to par so far today?" he inquired to Ivan.
"So far everyone has met expectation, Comrade Yermakov. Back to work, Nikita," Ivan ordered his nephew.
"Virgil, go work with Koloff's nephew for a while; we're going to talk business," DiBiase all but pushed his own bodyguard towards Nikita, who instantly picked him up and slammed him, then started walloping him with his chain. "So," the Million Dollar Man turned towards Yermakov, ignoring Virgil's agonized yells, "It's your job to make sure every wrestler in the Soviet Union's at top grade, right?"
"No one must doubt we are the best country in sporting events in the world," Yermakov said without a shred of emotion, "Thus all Soviet wrestlers must perform at optimum level or be left behind. Just last month, the once promising Dmitry Kozlov failed in international competition in South Africa; we had no choice but to incarcerate him for his own good until he could regain his edge..."
"So you threw him in the gulag?" a dark smile was starting to cross Blassie's face, "Interesting, very interesting..."
"What's interesting, Freddie?" DiBiase asked him. Blassie waved him close and whispered in his ear. DiBiase laughed hard again. "That's so cruel and brutal, it's perfect, Freddie!" he exclaimed with another laugh. "Mr. Yermakov," he approached the KGB man, "How'd you like to help Nikolai win the world title and become a very, very rich man in the process?"
"I'm listening," Yermakov was smiling darkly himself.
"Everyone gather around," Blassie waved his fellow managers, Flair, Perfect, Yermakov, Menzhinsky, and Ivan close, "This is just between all of us. This is how we not only get the world title off Hogan, but also get rid of that flag-waving, shirt-ripping pencil-neck geek for good..."