The Time Bandit...Chillin Poolside With Bockwinkel

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The Time Bandit...Chillin Poolside With Bockwinkel

So I hopped into the time capsule the other day, only to have landed in Beverley Hills, at the palatial estate, of Mr. Nick Bockwinkel, multi time AWA champion.

I walked up to the gate, and pressed the buzzer.

After a moment, a voice came onto the loudspeaker...

"Yes???"

"Umm hi there, My name is Monty, and I have traveled back in time, to meet the great Nick Bockwinkel.  Is he home?"

"Yeah, this is him.  What do you want?"

"Uhhhh, well...I am not sure exactly.  The machine I use to travel in time, doesn't really give me a choice.  I just saw your name on the gate.  I was hoping to talk a bit of Rasslin with you, actually."

"Rasslin?  I havent even heard that term in years.  Ok.  Come on back.  I am by the pool."  Nick replied, as the large black, wrought iron gates opened.  Inside was a beautiful spanish villa.  I waved at the three spanish girls, suntanning on the front lawn.  They giggled to themselves.  A new Silver Bentley sat in the driveway, with a chauffeur polishing it.  It was nice outside, and the sun burned at my Canadian, pale skin tan.

"Well he has good taste in women, cars, and houses.  Lets see how she goes here."  I chuckled to myself.  I was nervous.

I walked behind the 20 thousand square foot villa, only to see the Bock, chillin poolside.  I figured I must have gone back only 20 years, by what I was seeing.  He was older, obviously retired, wearing a set of stylish, solid gold rimmed Gucci sunnies, a white polo shirt undone, a pair of khaki shorts, and flip flops.  He was sipping a Mojito.  He wore gold on every finger, and even had a large gold chain around his neck.

"Can I get you a drink?" he asked  "What is your poison kid?" he leaned back, and pulled out a Cuban Cohiba Cigar, cut the end off, and lit it up.

"Uhhh...White Russian.  They have those yet?"

"Does Stanley Blackburn have poor decision making skills?...of course.  Fred, get my good man a bevvy..."  He doesnt look at the bartender, but the hired man knows to do it, and do it well.  I take a sip from the blender jug, and my "Caucasian" is perfect.

The large, bartender/bodyguard/guido finishes making me a drink.  He fills up the Bocks drink as well.  Nick leans back, assessing me, lightly puffing on the cigar.  He doesnt say much.  His face is, well, good looking, but wrinkled.  What used to be a long mane of blonde curls, is now, more reddish in color, and has a few more frayed ends.  He is still in good shape, and is a nice bronze color, mostly from spending his days, aching back and all, resting poolside.  He is in a cheery mood.

"Sir, may I call you Nick?"

"I dont see why not, kid, I am on the pill..."  he chuckles lightly

I in turn, laugh a little as well.  My laugh is nervous.

"Nick, I just have to say that you are by far, one of the best old school bad guys that ever walked the planet.  I remember you in a match, up in Calgary Alberta, against Dr. D., David Schultz.  It made a serious impression on me.  You deserved an acadamy award, for your performance that night."

"Oh yeah, up in the Stampede Territory.  Gosh, those Harts up there took good care of me.  I loved Helens chili.  Stu stretched me pretty good in the basement too..."  His eyes glazed over slightly, remembering the days I brought up.

David Schultz, was the very first anti hero, in wrestling that I can think of.  He was neither face, nor heel.  He was a brawler, at best, and used heel tactics, against the heel crews of the day, in Duke Meyers, Kerry Brown, Gamma Singh, and the Honky Tonk Man, Wayne Farris.  He had long, curly blonde hair, and wore black trunks, much like what the "Big Show" wears today.  He was a bounty hunter by trade, if memory serves.  He said "baby" after every sentence in his promos.  He has "Dr. D" embroidered on his trunks.  He was big in stature.

"My back and neck still remembers Schultz."  He laughed, and quietly tipped back his Mojito.

It was an interesting time, Sir.  I remember that it was for your AWA championship belt, and it was a thirty minute time limit.  There were no entrances, no music, no fireworks, no luchadors, no tattoos, and no signs in the crowd.  The "secret" was not out yet."

"The secret is out?  People know for sure that the endings are scripted?  Who the hell told them that?"  He asked, looking upset.

"Uh, well, Vince Mcmahon, did, sometime in the late 90's." I replied

"Oh, that's no good.  It hasnt happened here yet kid.  Its only 91.  It will kill the business."

"Yeah, it could I guess..."  I reply.  He seems hurt by this, I am scared to elaborate much further.  (sort of like the prime directive on Star Trek)

"Go on."  He motions to me.

"Well in that match, Schultz literally took you from pillar to post, to the delight of the audience.  We cheered like mad, as he utterly dominated you for 27 minutes straight.  I remember as the match wound down, you pulled a set of "knuckle dusters" from your gawdy white trunks, and smashed Schultz, in the head.  He went down, his blonde mane, a crimson mess.  You went for the pinfall, and Schultz wrapped you into the small package, and 1, 2, 3 it was all over.  The only thing, is that, it wasnt over.  Stu Hart, then jumped in the ring, claimed that you should have been dq'ed, and took the belt, from a fuming, bloody mess, in Schultz.  You grabbed it, literally, and ran out the door, never to return to Stampede."

"Yep.  Sure did.  Got too busy after that.  Hectic schedule of a champion.  But you know now that it wasnt "real"?"

"Yeah, dude, I do.  I sort of guessed it then, but you acted it out, all so well, it was easy to suspend disbelief.  But in all honesty, I just wanted to tell you how much I respect you for that night.  Coming in as a champion, and letting it go down that way."

"Anything for the bus. kid.  Thats how she works."

I didnt have the heart to tell him, that nowadays, it simply isn't.

"Even Schultz was surprised when I told him the plan.  I actually said, that I wouldnt even get one move in, during the entire match.  It set him up for a run at the title, in that territory.  All is well, that ends well.  Where is the doctor nowadays?  I should call him."

"Umm, well, I read on the internet he got eaten by an alligator."

"Knowing him, it happened while trying to eat the alligator alive.  He was a dangerous man in his real life.  Too bad.  Internet?  Never heard of it...Is it like PWI magazine?  I always liked that Bill Apter."

"That tactic got a lot of faces over, at your hands, Hennig, Gagne, Garvin, Martel, Schultz, hell, even Hulk Hogan."  (I am not about to try to explain the net to him...it'll come soon enough)

"Yep.  I guess so kid."  He didnt seem to know or care about his impact on Pro Wrestling.  It was just part of the job to him.  "How do you know the word "face" anyway?"

We both paused and looked at each other.  Simultaneously, we both say "Vince Mcmahon."  A measure of disapointment can be heard, in both of our voices.

"I guess I just wanted you to know, that I think you belong in the hall of fame."

"There is one? God, kid, you talk crazy.  Wanna play some Cribbage?"  He asked as he reached under the table, to pull out a 5 inch thick, solid gold crib board.  "I have had enough of you kissing my arse.  Hall of fame...indeed, kid."  He was shaking his head in disbelief.

"What the hell...why not?  Another White Russian my good man," I yelled to the tender as I began to shuffle.  "I can only stay a little while, my old lady is pretty impatient."

"Fwitcha kid," said the Bock, making a whipping motion with his hand.  "That thing get good gas mileage?"

"Umm, yeah, I guess so..."  I replied.

and so on...

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