The Hitman Comes Home
Greg Hart and John Michaels talked for an awfully long time.
In the meantime, the rest of us helped Mrs. Hart prepare dinner.
Remembering Russell's joke about maple syrup, I let out a quiet snort before stepping into the kitchen.
...It was no joke.
"Oh, you can take it easy, dear."
There she was, squeezing a long, steady stream of maple syrup into both the pie filling and the simmering pot of soup.
"...?"
"Grandma, if you keep using that much maple syrup, you're going to get diabetes."
"Nonsense, Russell. This old lady's been eating like this her whole life and she's never been sturdier."
So I was witnessing evolution unfold before my very eyes.
Canadians really must have developed a genetic tolerance to maple sugar, after all.
What had been whispered about as mere stereotype turned out to be true, and I didn't know whether to laugh or be flustered about it. Who on earth puts maple syrup into nearly every single dish on the table?
As I stood there taken aback, Russell noticed my expression and asked, "What's it like in Korea?"
Let's be clear about something here: this question was only permissible because he was a *friend* who knew my parents were from Korea.
"What, you think we put kimchi into every dish at every meal too?"
"Of course not. I tried kimchi once, though..."
Russell's face darkened for a moment.
Hey, the maple-syrup-guzzling Maple Men are the weird ones here, dammit.
"If anything, the closest thing we eat daily is probably kimchi stew."
"Kimchi... in a soup?!"
"Maple syrup's no pushover either, you know."
And so we spent a few minutes mutually loathing each other's eating habits.
While Mrs. Hart's diabetes-manufacturing menu continued to ripen, I stole a glance out toward the living room.
Greg and Michaels were seated on the parlor sofa, and I could see the two of them still hadn't gotten past the awkward stage, unable to keep the conversation flowing. The silence stretched on between them like a rope going slack.
I wasn't the only one who noticed the uncomfortable atmosphere. Mrs. Hart peeked out from below me, stroked her chin as if weighing something for a moment, then reached into the kitchen cabinet and pulled something out.
...Brandy.
I stared at the brass-colored liquid half filling the bottle with a look of dread, and finally couldn't help myself.
"Um... ma'am?"
"Yes? What is it, dear?"
"Why the brandy...?"
With a hearty "Ho ho!" at my question, she fished out two teacups and poured the brandy in with a generous glug-glug.
Practically up to the rims.
"......"
"Just a splash of spirits in milk tea helps conversation along, you know."
That looked like about thirty thousand splashes.
Chuckling "Ho ho!" at my flustered face, she dropped in a bag of black tea and stirred in a touch of milk on top.
How, exactly, does this qualify as milk tea?
"...Might I suggest putting the milk in a spray bottle and misting it instead?"
"Ho ho! I'll keep that in mind, dear."
Mrs. Hart handed me two cups of brandy (with milk tea accents).
It was the kind of bold, forthright solution you'd expect from the grand matriarch of the Hart family.
So it was that we carried the two cups over — and found Greg and Michaels still locked in their stilted exchange. To be precise, Greg was pushing ahead with too much enthusiasm, and Michaels was struggling to keep up.
"Do you think you can still step in the ring?"
"W-well, that's..."
"I keep thinking the misunderstandings we carried between us — those are the kinds of things you settle inside the ring, aren't they?"
"Hmm..."
"Your body seems to have healed up well."
Having said that, Greg took a sip of his tea and added, "The Sexy Boy is back."
...That's terrifying potency.
There's nothing, you know, *powdered* in there, right?
"Compared to a man as steady as you, sir, I'm nothing."
"It couldn't be helped. It was an unlucky accident — one that left deep wounds on both Taker and you."
Sipping their brandy-milk tea, the two of them slowly began to speak their hearts.
"And like I said — I wanted to have this conversation inside the ring."
"Why, sir?"
"Because our problems began in the ring. It only feels right that the settling of them happens there too."
"......"
"That's how I want people to remember it. Your era and mine didn't have to end at their very worst."
That was the moment.
Tears began to fall, one after another, from Michaels' eyes.
"I don't... I don't want my era with you to end at its worst either, sir..."
"Nor do I."
Greg's own eyes had reddened at the rims.
I kept my mouth shut and thought about it.
In a way, it was an awfully abstract conversation. An era, of all things, attached to a drama that was manufactured and staged — and the two men throwing themselves into it with almost excessive devotion seemed absurd.
And yet, because those two men's story wasn't finished yet, it held together as both a product and a piece of history.
Me and Russell.
The people of the Hart family.
The fans of Canada, of America, of the whole continent, and then the entire world.
The viewers who had watched over ten years of WWF's live broadcast drama.
If all of them heard this story, not a single one would be able to laugh it off.
The era of Greg and John had, all on its own, been worth that much.
But in my past life, the ending had truly been the worst it could be.
A relationship torn apart.
A clash of convictions.
John Michaels' injury.
Greg Hart's turning away.
Retirement.
And then, time. And the scars it left behind.
I intended to suture all of it, slowly, starting now.
And then I would show them.
That the story of the Executioner, Greg Hart, ends here.
More magnificent than anyone else's ever has.
And probably...
Bart Maxen, watching this, would rage harder than he ever had in his life.
"Whew."
Letting out a long breath to gather both men's attention, I spoke up. "Let's go back to the WWF."
"What? What do you..."
"So what brilliant idea are you planning to show us this time, cowboy?"
"Well, it's nothing too fancy."
I put the story those two old-timers couldn't possibly imagine straight into words.
"Let's use the internet."
Michaels, who knew nothing about me, tilted his head in confusion —
"All right. I'll trust you with it."
— but Greg broke into a broad, easygoing smile.
America in 2005 was not exactly a nation where the internet had taken over daily life.
Oh, offices used it just fine, and anyone with a passing interest had sunk deep into the World Wide Web — but compared to the 2010s, when it had seeped into the very marrow of everyday living, it was still a modest presence.
People, it turns out, have a funny habit of sticking to what they've always known.
That's why, even with a drug called the internet sitting right there, nobody felt particularly compelled to organize their whole life around it. The prevailing mood of the era still quietly sneered that people who spent time online were nerds, after all.
But there was absolutely a world there that the public knew nothing about.
And it carried far more explosive power than anyone realized.
Our plan was to use that world to show the world John Michaels' return — and his reconciliation with Greg Hart.
Because Stampford Wrestling wasn't broadcast on television.
Once I'd gathered everyone involved, I laid out the plan in detail.
"First, once filming wraps, we upload the footage of John and Greg's match to every video-sharing site we can find."
"...For free?"
"The point is the exposure."
"How many people do you figure will watch?"
"Hard to say. The average view count seems to run somewhere around ten thousand."
"Ten thousand?!"
"...It's not exactly reliable data. Plenty of people watch the same video more than once."
I smiled wryly.
"What matters isn't the numbers — it's the journalists watching our footage."
There was no doubt they'd come sniffing around with interest. They might even write articles on the spot.
"And here's the key part: even if the media reaches out, we don't respond. Not a word."
"Why not?"
"Because that's how the information travels to Bart faster."
If Stampford stayed silent, the reporters would swarm straight to the WWF. And then Bart would burn hot with fury and come calling himself.
"And then all that's left is closing a good deal. That part I'll leave to the two of you, gentlemen."
And so the deal was struck.
For filming equipment, we decided to use what Stampford Wrestling already had. Though the promotion never aired on TV, it operated on a revenue model of producing its shows on video and selling them.
And so, the very next evening —
Stampford Wrestling ran its show out of a small theater rented in downtown Calgary.
A venue that seated around five hundred drew an audience of roughly three hundred and eighty.
But the roar they sent up didn't lose to Burning Kong's crowds of twenty thousand — not even close.
[Keeeeeeeeeeeeee-!!]
A guitar riff that slammed the gearshift into full throttle in a single motion.
Duh-dun-duh-duh-duh, duh-dun-duh-duh-duh.
The drums locked onto the beat.
[Yeeeeeeeeaaaaaaaahhhh!!]
The moment the crowd grasped what was happening, they went absolutely berserk.
Everyone who had come tonight had effectively won the lottery.
A ticket costing barely twenty dollars. A show whose matches, facilities, and production all fell far short of a WWF main broadcast.
But the moment Canada's son walked out, everything flipped.
This show transformed into the most magnificent show on earth.
As guitar and drums churned on in glorious chaos, Greg — wearing sunglasses — strode out into the arena.
A little boy burst into tears.
A small boy who longed to see Greg Hart in person but could never afford it, settling for secondhand joy in this cheap seat. Greg walked straight over to him, scooped him up in one arm, and let the boy soak in the cheers alongside the whole crowd.
[Yeeeeeaaaaaahhhhh!!]
A colossal roar. Colossal music. A colossal performer.
In that instant, that boy's dream became becoming a pro wrestler.
Greg, dressed to the nines in a leather jacket over his ring gear, set the boy back down, handed him his own sunglasses, climbed straight into the ring, and flung his arms wide with all his might.
"Is that all you've got?! CALGARY!!"
The crowd's roar swelled until it shook the windows.
Russell and I were watching the ring from the filming booth on the second floor, cameras ready. Russell's face flushed, reacting to his uncle's overwhelming presence.
"That's what a legend looks like."
"Yeah..."
Greg Hart was a national hero of Canada, far beyond the borders of this industry.
It was famous knowledge that Calgary's hockey team borrowed his nickname — the Hitman — for their own moniker, the Calgary Hitmen.
That was the sheer weight of the man Greg Hart carried in Canada.
And it didn't stop there.
Back in the eighties and nineties, it was the WWF that regularly built storylines around "America" versus "the world." And in that arena, as a Canadian who rose as a babyface all the way to the top, Greg had become a wrestler beloved across the entire globe.
It's going to drive me out of my mind.
My heart pounded as I watched the scene unfold.
When my own career ended, could I draw a reaction like that — in Georgia, in LA... no, across all of America?
I would make absolutely certain of it. That resolve blazed inside me.
Greg was, simply put, transcendent tonight.
Coming up with this idea had been a bold move in itself. Sure, the goal was to provoke Bart — but wasn't the method itself years ahead of its time?
Feeling my heart hammer harder still, I quietly watched Greg take hold of the microphone.
[You're all wondering why I'm here, Calgary. And you'd be right to. Because I did say I was coming back to re-sign.]
[Booooooooo...!]
Boos erupted out of nowhere.
But Greg caught exactly why the people were jeering him.
[I know what you're all thinking. That I'm being greedy — blocking the kids' path, mooching titles off the new blood.]
[Greg Hart! Greg Hart! Greg Hart! Greg Hart! Greg Hart!]
[You're damn right! I am! I'm going to beat that SIN brat within an inch of his life, take the Intercontinental Title, and come back here for good!!]
[Yeeeeeeeeeaaaaahhhhhh!]
And the cheer turned on a dime.
He's just... doing that?
I laughed in sheer disbelief. Greg had taken the very desire that once made crowds boo him out of the building and turned it into his weapon.
[F-ck you SIN! F-ck you SIN! F-ck you SIN! F-ck you SIN! F-ck you SIN! F-ck you SIN!]
Knock it off, guys.
I can hear you.
"Pfft— heh, heheh..."
"...At this rate you're going to snort maple syrup straight into your brain."
I shot the dig at Russell, who was fighting a losing battle against his laughter.
"I know, I know, but— what the hell is 'F-ck you SIN' even supposed to be? Little punks."
[But before all that! Before I face that invincible rookie! There's a matter between me and one man that I have to finish!]
Bloodshot eyes blazing, Greg turned and looked back down the entrance ramp.
Everything so far had been incredibly, infuriatingly cool — but the most electric moment was only just beginning.
[COME OUT HERE! JOHN MICHAELS!!]
Greg stared down the entrance ramp.
There was no question the crowd in that moment either pissed or shat themselves.
Both, most likely.