"Here you are, gentlemen," Menzhinsky opened the locked closet inside Central Lenin Stadium for Flair and Perfect, "We're storing all the heated suits for the wrestlers in here. Now, if you don't mind, I'll be going to the bathroom for a few moments."

He gave them both a wink and walked off. "Yeah, take a good long one; not like anything could possibly happen, huh?" Flair laughed knowingly. "OK, then," he strolled into the closet and eyed the multi-colored heated suits hanging in lockers along the wall, "Now to figure out which one they gave to Hogan."

"No problem at all," Perfect pointed to a yellow one-the only yellow one-up against the back wall, in a locker with an American flag on it, "It stands to reason they'd stick with Hogan's usual color scheme."

"Good thinking there, pal," Flair grinned, digging through his pocket.

"Hey, it's part of the gift of being simply...perfect," Perfect grinned triumphantly himself, taking the suit out of the locker and laying in on a bench, "Of course, if Plan A works just right, this won't have to factor into getting Volkoff the title at all, but better safe than sorry, like Freddie says."

"Just so long as I get first shot at Volkoff when he has the belt," Flair griped, pulling out a small set of wirecutters, "OK, where do you think the most critical point on this is going to be?"

"Anywhere's fine; just don't go too overboard so that they get suspicious," Perfect advised him. He bustled to the door and glanced around for any sign of human life nearby, but the stadium seemed otherwise empty at the moment. "Just wanted to add, Ric, Freddie asked me to second you at the event with Putski," he told Flair without turning around, "He's concentrating all his attention on getting Volkoff and the Sheik ready for their matches, so he wanted me to handle the managerial duties for you this time, to be your, you might say, executive consultant for the match."

"Executive consultant? That does have a bit of a nice ring to it, Perfect," Flair casually sliced open a slit in the suit with a small razor to reveal the wiring inside. "Hmm, nicely put together," he mused out loud, "Just got to be careful that accidents don't happen, like this...whoops."

He nonchalantly cut several wires on the suit with the wirecutters, then cut another slit on the other side and did the same. "Mission accomplished," he told Perfect with a wide smile and a thumbs-up, "IF Hogan survives Plan A-and that's a BIG if given what he's got coming-there's no way he'll be able to keep up with Nikolai at thirty below, WOOOOOOO!"

The radio in Perfect's hand hissed to life. "Give me an update, Perfect," came Blassie's voice on the other end.

"Our phase is done, Freddie," Perfect told him confidently, "How about on your end?"

"Yermakov called me; his men called him to say Hogan's about to leave the apartment he's shacked up at with his posse," the Classy One told him, "You and Flair head on back to the hotel; don't let anyone see you around the stadium. Once Hogan stops somewhere, I'll send Nikolai in to start Phase One on my end."

"Good luck, Freddie," Perfect told him, signing off. "Let's head on off, Ric," he waved Flair out the closet door, "And for the match tomorrow night, remember to wear the red robe; since that's everyone's favorite color here, might as well play to them..."

"We'll try and be back at a reasonable hour, Viktor," Hulk told the apartment complex manager as he put his coat on.

"I ask my renters not be in any later than eleven most evenings," Viktor told them, "Better safe than sorry..."

"Especially since you never know who's spying for the police," Vera was still giving him a suspicious look from the stove. "Mrs. Polivinov, I swear to you, we're not with the police," the world champion pressed her, "I'm not sure how I can prove it to you if you can't..."

"I think I know a way we could, Hulk," Davey was glancing at Marina, still staring blankly ahead without a word, but with a glum expression. "Your daughter doesn't say much, does she?" he asked her parents.

"There's not much for her to say; she's ashamed of her condition," Viktor shook his head sadly, "Apart from Kostya, she doesn't have anyone to talk to."

"Well, I think I know how to get her a friend," the British Bulldog opened his pet's case and carried the bulldog over to the girl. "Marina, meet Mathilda; she's my best friend, and she'd like to meet you," he told her softly, pressing Mathilda into her arms.

Mathilda licked Marina's face, making her laugh. "Yes, Mathilda loves all kids, whether they can see or not," Davey told her, rubbing her shoulders, "Why don't you two bond while we go get a drink?"

"Let's not forget you either, Kostya," Bret told the boy, digging into his pocket and pulling out another pair of Hitman shades. "Here," he slipped them over Kostya's head, "Now you're the excellence of execution yourself, and all the bullies will see you're the best there is, the best there was, and the best there'll ever be."

"Thank you, Mr. Hart," Kostya smiled at him, joining his sister in playing with Mathilda.

"We all believe in being positive examples for young people," the Hitman said with a contented smile, "We'll be back in time, Viktor," he told their father as he headed for the door with the others.

"Thank you, Mr. Hart, and be careful out there," Viktor looked quite happy himself to see his children happy.

"We will," Bret said in closing, closing the door behind himself. "They're really quite nice people," he remarked to his teammates as they bustled down the stairwell and out the door, "We ought to get them all something more lasting before he head back home."

"Do you happen to see the connections here too, Bret, for the season?" Steamboat pointed out to him, "I mean, it's the holidays, there was no room at the inn, and the only place available was a figurative stable," he pointed at the building's crumbling walls as they stepped out into the street, "And it proved to be our miracle, hasn't it?"

"Hmm," Bret thought this over, "Interesting thought, Ricky..."

"Yeah, we should get them all something good for Christmas," Tito agreed, wrapping his coat more tightly around himself against the flurries falling fast in the brisk wind,"Maybe that'll get Mrs. Polivnov to trust us for good."

"What I can hardly believe is how their family used to work for the royal family," Elizabeth remarked, staring back at the apartment building (but not noticing the black car in the alley they passed slowly pull out after them). "From that to this, that's a pretty big fall," she continued, turning forward away from the mainly silent car, "I wonder how many other people in the city come from families that were once great before the Communist Party took over?"

"Well, there would be that woman who claims to be Princess Anastasia..." Hulk pointed out.

"It ain't her, Hulkster; they did the tests and proved she wasn't her," Piper told him, "Still, for one thing, a presumed-dead princess found alive might make for a nice movie someday..."

"That might be nice to be a long-lost princess, even if you'd never get the throne," the First Lady of Wrestling said with a dreamy expression, "I'll admit I fantasized about that a little as a girl..."

"Well you don't have to fantasize; as far as I'm concerned, you are a princess and always will be," Savage hugged her close.

"Oh Randy," she blushed. They were all most quiet the rest of the way to the bar near Red Square Viktor had recommended to them (the car following them pulled into a parking space a few blocks down, and its occupants spoke loudly into their radios, but the wrestlers saw none of that). The bar was packed near to capacity with glum-looking Soviet citizens, half-heartedly sipping away on their drinks and not bothering to look at the TVs, showing more (likely doctored) footage of Volkoff in action. Two familiar figures at the bar, though, caught Hulk's attention. "Hey, guys, there's Sarge," he pointed, and sure enough, it was Slaughter, half slumped forward on his stool with Duggan next to him, still looking as glum as he'd been on the airplane.

"Still looking a little down," Savage noticed it as well, "Well, let's see if we've got the cure for the man in green."

He strode over the former Marine as everyone else dispersed throughout the bar and tapped gently on Slaughter's shoulder. "Atten, hut, Sarge, how're you feeling?" he asked half-joking.

"Macho, pleasure," Slaughter said with a flat voice, immediately taking another sip of vodka from the mug in his hand. "You've got to be careful there, Sarge; even here in Russia, you shouldn't have too many," Hulk leaned over Slaughter's face, concerned.

"He's still fine, Hulk; this is only his second one," Duggan assured him, "I'm keeping tabs on him so we're good and sober to beat the tar out of those no-good Commie cads the Koloffs tomorrow night," his face swelled with American pride, "Now some of the others on our country's team, though, might be going a little too far, like Lex over there," he said grimly, glancing over towards the cigarette machine in the corner, where Hulk saw a visibly drunk Luger swilling away on an especially large glass of liquor. "Well, we'll be sure to stay away from him, then," the world champion nodded in agreement. "So, Sarge, we've noticed you've seemed a little blue ever since our plane took off," he told the drill sergeant, "Anything bothering you, brother?"

Slaughter sighed and set down his glass. "I've served my country for close to twenty-five years," he mumbled, staring ahead into space, "I've been through just about all of Vietnam, I went into Iran to try and get the hostages out, and after all this time, with my wrestling career winding down, I have to look back and wonder, what did I really accomplish?"

"Well of course you've done a lot, brother," Hulk encouraged him, "I'd say...glass of your lightest stuff, if you can understand me," he told the bartender, who had been leaning over and speaking loudly to him in Russian; the man did in fact nod in acknowledgment and bustled towards the taps. "Look at everything you got, Sarge; you're a real American hero, you fought the good fight, you've taken several world champions to the edge, heck, you even got your own animated series, and I think it ended up more popular than mine..."

"But I'm just the sidekick; you're the star," Slaughter stared ruefully at Hulk, "You get all the glory; when I got back from Vietnam, nobody bothered to show up; nobody gave me a parade. I fought the good fight, and for what? No one won the war; no one really accomplished anything. So what was I fighting for?"

"For freedom, pal, of course," Duggan told him encouragingly, "Think of what we're going to do to the Koloffs tomorrow night as your revenge against the North Vietnamese that you couldn't do in the field."

"Well Jim, maybe that's not really the best analogy to make," Bret shook his head as he appeared as well, a full mug in hand, "It isn't right to make out an entire country as the enemy, even if you were fighting them; most of the North Vietnamese had a good reason to fight too..."

"All those years in the jungle, all for nothing, and for no thanks at home," Slaughter continued lamenting, taking another deep swig of his drink, "And then the chopper into Iran crashed along the Iraq border; we never got anywhere near Tehran, and I...I don't even remember what happened after the crash until the SEALs picked me up wandering in the desert by the Iraq/Iran border. I put my heart and soul into the military, into serving America, and now look at me," he stared grimly into the mirror behind the bar, "I'm an old man. And there's no place for old men in this country anymore."

"Now don't think that, Sarge," Hulk consoled him, accepting his beer from the bartender, "You've made it more than clear you've got plenty of fight left in you; you can do plenty of good still here in the WWF and with the Summit Series. I think you and Jim will win quite handily tomorrow night when you fight the Koloffs."

"As for us, though, that fight might be coming earlier than we thought, champ," Savage was frowning as he looked at the door, where a boisterous Volkoff was bounding in, singing loudly in Russian, the Sheik right behind him. "Hey, everybody," Blassie's charge said loudly to the entire bar, "Why so glum? We will win International Summit Series easily tomorrow. For all of you, drinks on me. Bartender, drinks for everyone," he shoved a fistful of rubles at the bartender. "And look who we have here," he glared straight at Hulk, "The biggest disgrace of America's disgraceful capitalist bourgeois society."

"What do you want, Volkoff?" Hulk asked wearily, "We just want to enjoy our drinks..."

"What drinks?" Volkoff snatched Hulk's glass out of his hand and poured the beer over the champion's head, "You are finished drink, Hogan you dog. Just like you are finished, washed up, disgrace to your country..."

"You better watch your mouth, smart guy!" Duggan warned him, rising to his feet, "On behalf of red-blooded Americans everywhere, I'll beat the tar out of you, here, in the ring, or anywhere, Ruskie!"

"Jim, it's all right," Bret tried to calm Hacksaw down. "Volkoff, we don't want any fight with you," he told him sharply, "So please just leave and..."

"We'll leave when we're good and ready, Hitman!" the Sheik snatched Bret's drink away and poured it over his head as well, "Right now, let's see Hogan prove he is as good as Nikolai out of the ring."

"I don't need to do that; I've already proved it numerous times before," Hulk said calmly, but his veins were starting to visibly throb, "Now please just..."

"What's the matter, Hogan, chicken? Bwuck, bwuck, bwuck, bwuck!" Volkoff taunted him with the classic chicken gesture, "You're bigger coward than you say to not want to face me here. This proves you disgrace America, in fact, coward."

"Please don't call me a coward, Volkoff," Hulk gritted his teeth, anger starting to rise.

"Don't give into him, Hulk; he's trying to goad you..." Bret warned him.

"And I know just how to do it, Hitman. Hey Hogan," Volkoff drew a small American flag, gestured at the Sheik for a cigarette lighter, and set the flag on fire, "Not only is this what I do to you tomorrow night, this is what Soviet Union will do to your whole stinking country in due time!" he bellowed in Hulk's face, "You Americans are all, without exception, slimy, worthless, useless, bourgeois swine, not fit to inhibit Communist world we will create, to be trampled underfoot and enslaved to...!"

With a loud roar, Hulk launched himself at Volkoff. The two of them traded hard punches in the middle of the bar to the cheers and jeers of the crowd. "Take him down, Nikolai, take him down!" the Sheik urged his partner on, then promptly picked up a chair and bashed Hulk over the head with it. "Oh no you don't, you crummy Iranian cad! HOOOOOOOOOO!" Duggan leaped off his own stool, grabbed his two-by-four from the floor, and started whaling away on the Sheik's backside. The Sheik turned around and started trading punches with Hacksaw for a few moments before the bartender pulled them apart, then pried Volkoff and Hulk apart as well, yelling at them in Russian and pointing at the door. "All right, all right, I'm leaving!" Volkoff grumbled, starting for the door while clutching his bleeding nose. "But Hogan," he turned, "You ever hit me again, in ring or elsewhere, I kill you!"

"And if you EVER desecrate the American flag to my face again, Volkoff, I'll kill you too!" Hulk counter-threatened, clutching his own bleeding nose.

"Oh really? Well, come get me then, Hogan!" Volkoff kicked the champion in the groin and bolted out the door, singing the Soviet National Anthem tauntingly at the top of his lungs as he went. "Hulk, don't it's not...!" Bret's pleas fell on deaf ears as a livid Hulk barrelled out the door after Volkoff. The Hitman sighed in frustration. "Well, he'll have to just learn for himself he's making a mistake," he asided grimly to Savage.

"He made a mistake when he entered wrestling, you pink-suited twit," the Sheik told him off, "As did you...!"

"Outta here, you desert dirtbag; HOOOOOOO!" wielding his two-by-four wildly, Duggan chased the Sheik out the door as well. "I'll take on you and your whole fascist country myself if you and Volkoff hurt Hulk at all!" he shouted after the Iranian in closing.

"At ease, trooper," Slaughter wearily called Duggan back to the counter, "This battle isn't worth fighting."

"Well Sarge, hardly any battles seem worth fighting to you anymore," Duggan told him worriedly, "You're not the Sergeant Slaughter I knew getting into wrestling hardly anymore."

"I think that Sergeant Slaughter is dead, sadly," Slaughter took another abyssmal sip of liquor, "Nothing's worth fighting for anymore."

"Well, at least there ain't gonna be no more fighting in here tonight, and we can enjoy our drinks in peace now," Savage reached for his own glass. It was at that moment, however, that there came a loud shout from the end of the bar: "Come on baby, you know you want me," followed by Elizabeth's loud protest, "Lex, I told you, I'm married and I'm not interested, now please!" The Macho Man spun quickly to see a completely drunk Luger lecherously oodling his visibly put-off bride at the end of the counter.

"Oh yes you are, and you know it," Luger slurred, taking her rather roughly by the hand, "I'm the sexiest man alive, and you're the sexiest lady alive, so let's go make some beautiful music together right now."

"Lex, I said no!" she pushed him away, "Now please just leave me al-!"

Luger abruptly threw himself onto her and started kissing passionately away, ignoring her desperate shrieks under his lips and her arms flailing at his back. With a roar of carnal rage, Savage barrelled across the bar in a flash, grabbed Luger by the shoulders and yanked him off Elizabeth. With another roar, Savage started unloading a furious barrage of lefts and rights to Luger's face until his nose was gushing blood. That proved insufficient to Savage, though, as he then slammed Luger's face repeatedly off the bar, grabbed a table and smashed it over Luger's head, and started kicking him unmercifully on the ground. "Randy, Randy, it's over, you proved your point!" a shocked Davey rushed over and tried to get between them, "He's...!"

With another roar, Savage pushed the Bulldog aside, flung Luger hard into the wall, kicked him in the back a few more times, and then picked Luger up over his head and, with one last roar, hurled him clean through the bar's front window with a loud shattering of glass that was amplified by the screams of horrified patrons all over the bar. He leaped through the now open window towards the bleeding, terrified Luger. "Don't kill me, Randy!" Luger all but screamed pathetically, trying to back away from him, "It was all a joke...I didn't mean to...!"

"A JOKE, LUGER?" the Macho Man thundered, utter fury burning in his eyes as he seized Luger by the collar and hoisted him well off the ground, "I'll spare you the worst this time, but you do it again, and you're a dead man! YOU HEAR ME, LUGER?" he roared at the top of his lungs straight into the 'Lex Express's' face, "YOU EVER TOUCH HER AGAIN, AND THIS FACE WILL BE THE LAST THING YOU EVER SEE! UNDERSTAND!"

"I understand, I understand!" Luger begged weakly, pure terror in his eyes.

"Randy, put him down!" a shocked Elizabeth rushed out the front door, "It's over now, I'm all right; you punished him enough!"

Savage glanced back at her, saw she was basically all right, and nodded firmly. "Get outta here!" he snarled at Luger, shoving him hard to the pavement. Whimpering, Luger rushed away down the street as fast as he could. Savage trotted back to his wife and hugged her close. "Sure you're OK?" he had to make sure.

"Yes, yes, but please don't go off like that next time," she begged him, "I know you love me, but just don't go too far. Yes, he was wrong to do what he did, but..."

"But nobody does that you, nobody," he insisted firmly, "I'd rather die than see you suffer like that at all..."

"She's right, Randy; you can't go off the deep end every time someone does something to her," Bret was shaking his head as he and the others filed out the bar door, looking just as shocked at what Savage had just subjected Luger to, "Certainly go ahead and defend her, but don't try and kill the guy, please. That temper might just get you in hot water some day if you're not careful."

"Although to be fair, that Luger guy's been asking for it for a good long while from what I hear," Piper offered a rationalization-one that was quickly made moot as the bartender rushed out, yelling and screaming in Russian at the top of his lungs. "Yes, yes, we understand; we'll pay for all the damages, sir," Bret told him calmly. "Randy, pay him," he told the Macho Man with raised eyebrows.

"OK, I guess it's fair," Savage sighed, digging out his wallet. "Here, I guess this'll cover it," he handed the bartender a thick wad of bills. He glanced up the block. "Strange the Hulkster ain't gotten back yet," he mused, frowning.

"Indeed," Davey was frowning too, "He must REALLY be bent on breaking Volkoff's neck for what he pulled in there."

"He's got to learn to control his temper too; he can't go off every time somebody insults America," the Hitman shook his head again. "Well, let's go hunt him down," he started up the block, "The last thing we want is for him to get in trouble for this."

Inside the black car, one of the men inside hefted his radio back to his ear. "All set on your end now?" he hissed softly.

"Everything is set," came the response, "We will move in for the final phase now."

"Go right ahead," he gave his blessing, watching the wrestlers heading up the block, "Just make sure Hogan's out of sight; his friends have started looking for him. Let me know when he comes to and the job is done. We will then give the order for the final phase of the operation."

Back inside the bar, which was now returning to normal, the figure of Sheik Adnan al-Kaasie rose up from the table he had been sharing in the corner with his charge Soldat Ustinov, unseen by Hulk and his friends earlier, strode over to the nearest payphone, and started dialing a long distance number. "Speak," came the authoritative voice on the other end.

"It's I, your Excellency," Adnan said sycophantically, "I want you to know, I'm inside a bar in Moscow; Slaughter is no more than ten feet away from me," he glanced at the former drill sergeant, still drinking glumly away, "Do you wish me to activate him for our cause now?"

There was silence on the other end before Saddam Hussein answered with a blunt, "No, Adnan, not yet. The time is not right to activate Slaughter for our purposes. But keep tabs on him; the time will come when all the brainwashing we did on him will come in handy, and he will yet serve me for the glory of Iraq whether he realizes it or not..."

"You're back a little longer than I thought," Viktor was partially frowning as the wrestlers came back into his own room, "Quiet if you will, the children are..." he frowned further as he glanced around, "Where's mister...?"

"No sign of Hulk," Steamboat shook his head softly, "Volkoff came in and started a fight, Hulk ran out after him wanting to give him a knuckle sandwich; he never came back. We've looked all over downtown Moscow for him; maybe we should just call the police..."

"No police!" Vera looked white as she leaped up off the couch where she'd been snoozing, "I don't want them here!"

"Well, I guess we'd better go back out then and keep looking," Bret sighed, "Because I can't..."

"Wait, here he comes now!" Andre exclaimed, glancing out the window. Sure enough, a familiar figure was walking dazedly towards the apartment building, his hand to the back of his head. "Thank God!" Elizabeth breathed a sigh of relief. She led the rush halfway down the stairs as Hulk half-stumbled through the front door. "Hulk, where have you been; we've been so worried," she greeted him.

"Out cold, Elizabeth," Hulk groaned, stumbling up the steps, "I chased Volkoff for about five blocks, and followed him into an alley. No sooner was I inside than somebody hit me on the head from behind-probably that cretin Sheik. I just woke up about ten minutes ago and made my way back here."

"Oh, that does look bad," the First Lady of Wrestling grimaced at the large bump on his head, "Come on, come in and sit down; we'll get some ice for that."

She put an arm around him (Savage's eyebrows shot up briefly at this) and led him into the Polivinov's apartment, directing him down on a worn-down recliner. "Well, if you had an unconscious stretch, Hulk, we probably better take you to the hospital," Bret told him. "What's the nearest one, Viktor?" he asked the propriator.

"One thing, though," Davey was frowning, "The Sheik didn't leave the bar until you and Volkoff were well gone. So unless he suddenly acquired the ability to teleport, it couldn't have been him that hit you, Hulk."

No sooner were the words out of his mouth then there came the squealing of several cars' brakes directly outside the apartment building. "Oh no!" Vera went deathly pale, "They're coming...!"

"Oh no," Viktor echoed her words as he stared out the window to see several dozen uniformed officers pouring out of the cars now parked in front of the building and headed for the door. "You must go, now!" he begged the wrestlers, "Out the fire escape...!"

But it was already too late, for the heavy footsteps of the officers were already pounding up the stairs. Moments later, the door cracked inward from the blows of a battering ram, sending a now awake Kostya and Marina running into the living room, crying. The officers poured into the apartment, heavy guns drawn. "There he is!" the apparent leader of the squad pointed at Hulk, "You are Hulk Hogan?"

"Yeah, I am, now what's the meaning of...!" the champion demanded.

"Hands behind your back," the commander grabbed him and shoved him face-first into the table, "You're under arrest for murder."