The night of This Tuesday In Texas, a one-off mid-week pay-per-view in December 1991, the boys decided to have a party in one of San Antonios more reputable strip clubs. Hogan was there, as were Bret The Hitman Hart and his brother Owen and his brother-in-law and tag team partner Jim Neidhart, the Legion Of Doom, Brutus the Barber Beefcake (only recently recovered from a horrendous accident), Mr. Perfect and the Big Boss Man. The boys were getting wasted, when who should turn up, but the boss himself and he was plastered, worse than any of them. In the spirit of fun, Hogan dared Hawk and Animal into bringing McMahon up for the Doomsday Device, their joint finishing move. Animal picked McMahon off the floor in the electric chair position, the promoter laughing his head off, as Hawk tensed to leap off the bar and deliver the lamest faux clothesline in existence, gently bouncing off the boss as Hogan and Beefcake caught Vince and lowered him to the ground. Bret Hart was high as a kite and four sheets to the wind, and couldnt believe the ass-kissing he was seeing. When Neidhart said what he was thinking that the Hart Foundation wouldnt have chickened out Hart was already in motion as The Anvil picked up a still-grinning Vince in his arms in an elevated bear hug, and leaped into the air to clothesline the boss with the force of a thousand suns, delivering a textbook Hart Attack. Vince hit the floor like hed been shot, his head bouncing off the carpet and lying next to a prone Hart, demanded that the Hitman buy him another whiskey. In the end, the WWF contingent had partied so hard that they refused to leave at last call, and the police were called at 3am. Theyd all heard of a party at Ric Flairs penthouse in downtown San Antonio, though so off they all went. Flair hadnt arrived yet, so Vince intimidated the clerk into giving him a spare key, and they all piled into the suite, scaring the crap out of a sleeping Earl Hebner. The boys most of whom didnt care for Flair all took it in turns to urinate on his king-size bed, Vince crowing with laughter, having stripped down to his underwear (for some reason).
Professional writer, punk werewolf and nesting place for starfish. Obsessed with squid, spirals and story. I publish short weird fiction online at desincarne.com, and tweet nonsense under the name Jack The Bodiless. You can follow me all you like, just don't touch my stuff.
