Word began to spread of two heels by the name of Shawn Michaels and Marty Jannetty, who were doing well in the Jerry Jarrett's Tennessee territory. On a day of opportunity, Jerry called the boy into his office, and told them that Verne Gagne from up North had caught wind of what Shawn and Marty were up to in the South, and he wanted a piece of it. Gagne wanted Shawn and Marty to travel to Minneapolis to work a few shows. Jerry was a good man who enjoyed seeing young men succeed in the business, so he gave Shawn and Marty the okay to work for both companies, if they wanted to.
Of course it was a big opportunity, so Shawn and Marty accepted. The two of them began traveling from Memphis to Minneapolis to wrestler for both promotions, keeping their image as heels in Memphis, but flip-flopping to faces when in Minneapolis. It was easy to do since each region had their own television programs which were localized to that area only. That allowed them have their duel roles and explore both sides of the coin.
Minneapolis was a pretty good run. Shawn and Marty got to hold the belts, and the Nasty Boys had moved back to the AWA just months before they got their ticket to join, so it didn't feel much different from Memphis. Jeff Jarrett was the only one from the group who was left back in Memphis, working for his father. When Shawn and Marty showed back up to work their Memphis shows, they often crashed with Jeff at his apartment. On some nights when Shawn was really drunk and fucked up, he'd kick Marty out just like old times, and he'd turn to beautiful blonde Jeff Jarrett with that unmistakable need in his eyes. Other times, Marty would remain and he'd just sit back and watch, not really seeming to care that his lover was hot and sweaty with another man who moaned beautifully in his southern drawl.
Jeff however, couldn't help the jealously that lit him up when Marty and Shawn became affectionate in front of him. It wasn't often, but it was often enough. Jeff cared for Shawn, and he knew he cared more than Marty. There was always some odd shallowness to the dark haired man, that Jeff couldn't quite explain. His emotions seemed to be lacking, and he certainly didn't bring Shawn the kind of fiery passion that Jeff did. Sometimes Marty just seemed plain awkward when he and Shawn began to get frisky while crashing with Jeff. The thing was, Shawn was often to wasted to really know it. Jeff often wondered if Shawn could feel like he did, the passion that radiated between the two of them and lacked between Shawn and Marty, but dismally, Jeff figured the answer was probably "no".
When Shawn and Marty were gone North, Jeff couldn't help to become lonely for Shawn. In his mind, they'd grown close, but he was painfully aware that Shawn's thoughts were different from his. He often laid awake at night, staring at the shadowed ceiling, wondering if he meant nothing more to Shawn than a pretty fuck buddy to turn to when he got the notion.
Up in Minneapolis Shawn and Marty did very well, and they began to want a little more. There was talk that Gagne had given Curt Henning a guarantee, and Shawn wanted one for he and Marty too. Marty, the ever loyal companion, went along with Shawn and found himself in Verne's office after a show one night.
"What do you mean 'NO'?" Shawn huffed, completely offended by Verne's answer. He turned to Marty, running a hand through his sweat damped long locks, an expression of arrogance and disbelief mingling on his pretty face. "Can you believe that, Jan?"
Marty stood off a bit, keeping quiet, not knowing how to respond. It really wasn't fair, but then again, Verne ran the show and it was his choice. Shawn felt entitled, and had found out otherwise, and now was time for the usual bitch fit to occur. Marty hoped this stunt wouldn't piss Gagne off at them and screw them over again, but if something did happen, they still had Memphis, so maybe Shawn was right to demand something extra for their troubles.
"Ya listen here, Verne—Marty and me, we're the most fuckin' over guys that you got! Do you have wads of stupid stuffed in your ears or somethin'? Don't you hear how those people explode when we go out there? Don't you see how we—how I—lay it all in that damn ring for you, for those people, I give everything and then when that's gone, I give the nothin' I have left. And we can't even get a god damn fuckin' guarantees outta your ass?"
Verne glared over his desk, but when he spoke back after letting Shawn rant, he managed to keep his voice pitched low, but it was obviously hard-laced with his annoyance. It wasn't just tonight, he was fed up with the way Shawn and Marty—but mostly Shawn—had behaved in general since coming to work for his promotion. It was true they were good in the ring, but outside of it, there was hardly anyone who could put up with them. The Nasty boys didn't seem to mind, the four of them were pre-established friends, but the rest of Verne's roster seemed to be in a constant file in and out of his office with complaints about those two young ones on their lips, and now this? This was that straw people always talk about; the one that broke the camels back.
"You're the one that needs to listen, Michaels. This is my game, and I run it how I see fit. As far as I'm concerned the two of you don't deserve a guarantee. You're both a couple of young punks and with that kind of a chip on you're shoulder, you're never gonna get anywhere in this business. You only get to be an arrogant son-of-a-bitch after you've paid your respects to the other arrogant sons-of-bitches that came before you, and you little shits don't know the meaning of the word respect. You think you're top shit? Well let me tell you somethin', you're half right."
Shawn's lips pressed into a tight line, and his eye twitched irately at the man behind the desk. He felt Marty take his wrist and say meekly: 'Come on Shawn, let's just go'. Shawn snatched his wrist away from Marty and with a sweep of his hands, shoved everything off of Gagne's desk and onto the floor, raging and cursing, he tore around the office tearing it to pieces, knocking things over. Marty grabbed Shawn around the waist, wanting to just get out of there. AWA was now officially blown.
"We don't need you!" Shawn yelled, as Marty pulled him out of the office. During the whole fit, Verne had just sat with a hard stare on his face, behind his desk, watching Shawn's ridiculous flip out. "We don't need you, ya sorry motherfucker!" Shawn screamed. "We QUIT!"
Marty kicked the door shut behind them, struggling to hold onto his fighting partner. Shawn wrenched away from Marty, and shoved him hard as he could, knocking the wind out of his silent friend. Shawn straightened his shirt.
"Let go of me." He swept his hair back from his face, still panting with his anger, and letting it surge through him and slowly wind down. Marty kept his distance, rubbing at his rib cage a little. He looked frightened, like a rabbit, and that look on poor Marty's face melted the rest of Shawn's anger away. "Come here, Jan. Let's go. Let's just go." He wrapped his arm around Marty's waist to pull him close as they walked out of the building.
"What are we gonna do now?" Marty asked quietly, not sure if it was a good time to ask or not. "Just go back to Memphis?"
Shawn shook his head as they walked down the sidewalk back towards their dive hotel room.
"There's nothing in Memphis for us, not really. We have to start thinking bigger, Marty, or we're not gonna go anywhere. I was thinkin' we could take off for Japan. Guys make a good living there and with our style? Man, it'd be a real good fit."
Mart nodded slowly. Japan sounded interesting, a good change of pace, and if that's where Shawn was going to be, then that's where Marty would be too. He smiled over at the fiery Texan. Shawn's eyes met his, and he remembered how beautiful Marty's big blue eyes were. Shawn often forgot to really look at them. A small smile worked onto Shawn's face too. He knew without Marty having to say it, that Marty would follow Shawn to Japan, if that was really what was in store for them next.
"Come on J. Let's get back to our room, get shit-fuckin'-faced, and we'll leave for Memphis tomorrow and figure this out when we get there. Ol' Jarrett senior loves us, so we still have that for the time being."
Shawn and Marty continued to wrestle in Memphis, where they stayed with Jeff again. Japan was on the horizon. The more they talked about it, the better the idea seemed. The two of them would have no doubt ended up there, had a better offer not fallen into their hands.
Shortly after they'd quit AWA, Shawn and Marty go a call from Vince McMahon. Unbeknownst to Shawn and Marty, Pat Patterson had been coming to their AWA shows, and he'd convinced Vince to give them a second shot.
"I'm bringing you back." Vince had said. It wasn't a question, it was a statement. "But I'm gonna tell you Shawn, I'm getting a ton of heat about this from the rest of the guys. So you and Marty better be on your best behavior. One more thing—one more thing…and you two are done, for good. Are we clear?"
Shawn had almost been too stunned to answer. When Vince had let them go nearly a year ago, he had felt like his life had ended. Now here it was, beginning again. A man didn't often get a second chance at his dream, but here it was. He accepted eagerly and assured Vince that he would have no trouble out of the infamous duo.
July 7, 1987 found Shawn and Marty ready to break back into the World Wrestling Federation. The summertime heat and humidity was excruciating. Sweat poured from them as they made their way across the parking lot to the small arena, where the house show that night was going to be held. The summer bake didn't matter, it made Shawn feel even more alive. That night Marty and Shawn wrestled a tag team called "The Conquistadors". They made sure to keep quiet in the locker room, and offend no one. They could hear the voices talking about them, some hushed, and other blatant, but they said not one word. Shawn had already blown multiple chances with his temper and arrogance. The AWA thing, he couldn't really care less about, but WWF was big things, the biggest. He wasn't about to make the mistake of failing here again.
Shawn merely paid a quick glance to one corner of the locker room, where a smattering of pink and black with a side of British patriotism stood. They were no doubt speaking of Shawn. Anvil kept looking at him with hard eyes, stroking that mean looking goatee. Big Jim made no attempt to keep his voice down, and neither did Davey. His thick accent accompanied by his laughter was unmistakable. The only one who spoke softly was Bret, who kept fiddling with his glasses, taking them off and then putting them on again, as if he was unsure if he could handle the nakedness of being without their dark protection. He was like a child who hides his head beneath the covers, afraid to see the monster he knows is in his closet, but he just can't help the urge to peek once in a while, and see if the shadows have grown fangs.
"Wha's got ya so antsy, Hart?" Davey said, lowering his voice, speaking to Bret. "An' stop ya fiddlin' with them damn glasses!" Davey reached out and grabbed Bret's shades off his face, and in a friendly, teasing manner, held them up above his head. Bret sighed, rolled his eyes, and rested his hands on his hips.
"Come on Davey, I'm not in the mood for this."
"Grumpy ass." Jim ribbed, poking Bret in the side, bringing a coughed sort of laugh from the Hitman. Jim knew very well that Bret hated when he did that, because it tickled, but Jim was fond of doing it anyway.
"Stop that, get outta here…" Bret shooed Jim's hands away from him. "Stop touchin' all over me, what kind of a fag do ya think I am?"
Davey snorted, covering his mouth with one big hand as he laughed, the action doing little to really muffle the sound.
"What kind of a fag? Hell I don't know…there's different types?" Jim poked at Bret.
"Stop it! Just—shut it, Jim. Ya know what I mean. And you…" Bret snatched his shades back from Davey. "Don't touch the shades." With a serious scowl on his face, Bret examined his sunglasses, bending one of the arms a bit. "Ya fuckin' bent 'em."
"Oh baby Jesus, Mary, an' bloody Joseph—give 'em back an' I'll fix 'em good as brand spankin' new." Davey held his hand out, palm up, but Bret refused to surrender the shades. Instead he put them back on, which caused both his brother-in-laws to erupt into laughter this time. The sunglasses sat awkwardly cocked on Bret's all too serious face.
"You're gonna fuckin' get it." He said to those two, with a small sigh, and a shake of his head. Despite his mood, his lips couldn't help but curl into a small smile at Davey, who was far too amused at the situation. The big man was practically doubled over laughing, his curly hair falling into his face, which was wet with laughter tears. Bret opened his locker, and peered at the small magnetic mirror that always put up. "Aw…man. You owe me a new pair, Davey Dog."
Shawn and Marty finished changing, and left the locker room. Shawn could feel eyes watching his back as they exited, but most of all, he felt strangely that he could feel one specific pair of eyes on him once more, looking over a bent pair of sunglasses.
After the show, Shawn and Marty hit up a bar they'd heard their coworkers had commandeered. The figured that they'd better try and mingle a little bit, so as not to come off arrogant as they had been before. The heat from outside followed them inside, but in a different form. Being so hated by these guys was a worse heat than the unbearable temperature outside. Even with the shadowy fall of evening, the summer swelter had yet to really cool off much. Before the two of them could even sit down, Dynamite Kid approached them and in his thick accent, gave them the advice that they ought to go around and shake hands with all the other guys, or 'blokes' as he put it.
"I don't care who ya are or whatcha done, but thing is ya got a shit ton a' heat from the other fellas. If ya keep off to yourselves an' don't talk to none of 'em, it's only gonna get worse. Their gonna think you're a couple a' snobby little pricks. Go on, ya gotta jump in an' show 'em otherwise. Least shake hands and say hello."
Shawn glanced around the room at some of the faces staring their way.
"Uh, well thing is…" He rubbed at the back of his sweaty neck. "We don't wanna cause any problems here."
"But that's just how it is. They think you're a couple prima donnas. Ya do the right thing and show 'em a bit of respect by shakin' their hand and sayin' hi, and ya don't owe 'em nothin' else after that. Ya just can't come in an' not talk to anyone."
"Oh. Well we…uh, didn't know." Shawn thanked Dynamite, and he and Marty headed over to the bar, still a little unsure. The guy seemed sincere enough, but he could be setting them up. After some debate and a couple of shots, Shawn pulled Marty off of his stool and they made their rounds. They went to each guy they recognized from the roster, extended their hands, and gave a simple 'hello'.
Bret noticed Shawn from the table in the back, where he sat with one foot propped lazily on an extra chair. His shower damp hair was held back with those bent sunglasses, which he'd swept up into his hair, because Davey wouldn't quit about how ridiculous they looked on him being crooked. Bret nodded now and then at the conversation between his in-laws, but he wasn't really giving it much attention.
From the moment Shawn and Marty had entered the bar, one of them had commandeered Bret's full attention, and set his nerves to tingling once more. He was going to have to get over this, or at least hide it the best he could. Shawn looked prettier than ever, and Bret couldn't stop watching him move around the bar, the way his tight jeans hugged his tight looking ass, the way his hair fell over his shoulders, the way those captivating blue eyes fell onto him when Shawn approached them.
Bret was thankful for the cover of the table, hiding the embarrassment of the arousal that prodded at his jeans. It took him a moment to realize Shawn had already shook the hands of Davey and Jim, and was now extending his offer to Bret. The pretty hand hung there in the air over their pitcher of beer, waiting for acceptance. Shawn interpreted the wait as a hesitation that Bret was snubbing him, and slowly drew his hand back. Bret leaned over the table and grabbed it. He didn't want to touch Shawn's hand for too long, and yet he wanted to see if it was as soft as it looked. He was flustered. The end result was a handshake that was quick and limp, and had Bret inwardly cursing. He shoved his hands into his lap, rubbing the sweaty cold palms against his jeans.
Lacking such confidence was such a foreign feeling to him, but right now all of his arrogance could not be found. If Shawn had been a woman, Bret would have easily been all over it, flashing her a grin, flirting and pouring on the Bret Hart charm, wooing her with each word and glance. When Shawn was near, he only wanted to hide, because he shouldn't be feeling such things—such a strong attraction. Why couldn't the little fucker have just stayed away and out of the WWF? It would have made life so much easier. But there was the given answer to that, Shawn was good in the ring. He'd been good the first time around, and the second time he'd shown that he'd gotten even better.
"Just wanted to…uh…say hello." Shawn said, glancing at Marty, whose extended hand was being completely and awkwardly ignored.
"That's good." Bret replied, his eyes trying to look at something other than Shawn's. They fell finally onto Marty's hand. "Oh—sorry. Hi." Bret took Marty's hand, being sure to give it a manlier reception than Shawn's received. Bret decided to shut his mouth, and say nothing else. Davey and Jim were giving him odd glances, and Davey was trembling, his lips pressed tight together but his eyes glimmering with the laughter he was so desperately and obviously trying to hold in. The guy looked in danger of explosion.
Shawn nudged Marty, and they went back to their seats at the bar.
"Well, we did what we were supposed to. We mingled. It didn't go too bad." Marty mused, taking a drink of his beer.
Shawn glanced over his shoulder, towards the table at the back where the big British guy and the one with the crazy goatee were bellowing laughter. Bret's face was set into a scowl, his dark, damp hair beginning to dry and frizz up a bit into curls that looked soft, and untamable, completely worthy of being stuck to that handsome face after a bought of mind-blowing sex. Shawn raked his teeth over his lower lip, and moaned softly. He imagined those amazing dark eyes, full of burning, raging, hot-hard lust for him.
"Shawn…you okay?" Marty asked, his voice low, his soft blue eyes smiling at Shawn.
"We need to go." Shawn said, paying for their drinks, not giving Marty time to respond. It really didn't matter if Marty was ready to leave or not, what mattered was that Shawn did, and Marty would unquestioningly follow him.
The two made it back to their hotel room, and Shawn made quick work of being all over Marty, pawing at him and disrobing himself and the other man. Shawn tried to ignore the fact that Marty didn't have enough alcohol in him to have real good sex tonight. The guy always did it better when he was lit. When he wasn't, he managed to make sex into a thing that was dull, mechanical, and quick, as though he was more concerned about getting it over with than actually enjoying Shawn's body writhing beneath his.
Marty went to work right away, stroking and pumping Shawn's twitching erection. He was still and quiet, with watchful eyes, as Shawn moaned and squirmed beneath him.
"Come on Marty, kiss me or somethin' while you touch—I wanna feel more of ya."
Marty leaned into Shawn, softly kissing his lips as he stroked. Shawn surprised him by biting and nipping at his lips, and then forcing his tongue dominantly inside. Shawn's fingers wrapped into Marty's hair and pulled hard at the dark strands. Marty broke the kiss a little, and timidly questioned Shawn, but his answer was for Shawn to shove his head back down and slam their lips back together, teeth clicking, Shawn's tongue filling Marty's mouth once again and urging Marty's to respond. The only response he got was for Marty to wriggle and finally pull out of Shawn's grip, and roll away from him, gently touching his battered and swollen lips.
"Shawn…what are you doin'?"
Shawn sat up, irate and horny as hell.
"What do you mean what am I doin', ain't it fuckin' obvious? Oh yeah, gotta explain things real slow for ya, don't we Marty? I want ya to fuck me Marty. I want it hard, unbridled, full of passion and cursing and…" Shawn shoved Marty down onto the bed, and straddled his waist. "Lemme show you how I want it, Marty. Maybe a hands on lessen will get the point across. Ya only do it decent when you're drunk, and even then, it's still all the same. When you're sober ya just don't know what the hell you're doin, do ya? Haven't ya ever fucked somebody with passion before? With fire? Haven't ya ever made somebody scream your name out an' beg you not to stop?"
Shawn's own words were making him even harder, and Shawn reached for his own erection, and stroked it for a moment. Marty gave him no answer, just looked up at him with an expression that was nearly blank, and just the slightest bit fearful.
"What's wrong, Marty? Ya don't like this? Ya don't want me to kiss you like I fuckin' mean it? Ya don't want me to fuck you like you've never been fucked before?" Shawn's eyes began to burn with tears of rage and hurt. "Well maybe I want ya to kiss me like ya fuckin' mean it—pretend if ya have to I don't give a damn! Don't just take care of me like ya have to, or somethin'! Like it's your fuckin' duty, so might as well get this shit over with, is that what this is?"
"Shawn-" Marty began, timidly, but wasn't allowed to finish. Shawn rolled off him, and yanked him off of the bed, up to his feet, and then shoved him back a couple of steps. "Get the fuck out, GET OUT!" Shawn screamed, grabbing the nearest object to him and throwing it for all he was worth at Marty. The clock sailed by his head, and smashed onto the floor in pieces. Tears streamed down Shawn's face, and he barely heard the rest of the horrible things he yelled as Marty gathered his clothes and dodged Shawn's flying boots.
Marty scrambled into his jeans, barely able to keep his own tears from falling. They filled his eyes and clinged to his long lashes, but didn't fall. He kept himself quiet, the hurt tightening in his chest. He cared for Shawn more than Shawn would probably ever realize, and he tried to show it in his undying loyalty, because he knew he wasn't so good at showing it in other ways. What Marty really wanted right now was to just get away from Shawn's screaming, and drown himself in a bottle. He knew deep down that he and Shawn were only biding their time together, that it would be something that one day would be gone, because he knew that he couldn't give Shawn everything he needed. That failure haunted him often. He would never be good enough for Shawn, or as good as Shawn.
"Go drink yourself ten ways to stupid like ya always do, Marty! Go make love to your fuckin' booze 'cause we all know that's the only thing ya got passion for!" Shawn's boot hit the door as Marty pulled it shut behind him, wiping at the tears that fell once he stepped out into the hallway. Shawn was right about him, and that's what caused the deepest pain.
Shawn stormed around his room, eyes streaming, curses beginning to die on his lips. He found his suitcase, and dug through it, fishing out a small bottle at the bottom. He'd been trying to lay off of these a bit, but tonight called for a couple. He needed to blot it out, and just pass out. Tomorrow morning he'd find Marty somewhere, hung over, and they'd be okay again. That's how things were with Marty. At least one thing Shawn could depend on, was that he would always come back. With a sigh and shaking hands, Shawn popped the pills and swallowed them dry. He scraped his hair back off of his face, and got a pair of sweat pants to put on.
After a little more pacing, he began to find a bit of calm again. After the pills began to kick in, the tension slacked off even more, and he began to think that he should go find Marty now, and drag his ass back into bed so they could both just go to sleep. With a sigh, Shawn went to the door, and stepped out into the hallway. He looked to the left, seeing no one, and then to the right. His eyes stopped on a familiar form that was just down the hallway. It was Bret, with a woman.
He pushed her up against the wall, and she emitted a small squeak of delighted surprise. Her hands swept over the curvy, tanned, muscles of Bret's arms and then gripped his strong shoulders. He smirked down at the woman, an expression of complete confidence, as he pinned her hands to the wall and then kissed her fiercely, their lips chasing each other in a fast paced, hard hitting, battle, that drew moans and sighs from the wanton female. Shawn could hear Bret's name whine out in a needful cry from her puffy lips, her red lipstick smeared, her eyes rolling with pleasure. Bret's hips bucked into her hard, complying with her demand, grinning as she cried out.
"Is that what ya want, baby? Want me to fuck you like you never been fucked before?"
"Yes!" She cried out, arching into him. He had let go of her wrists, and her hands twined into his mess of curls.
"You're gonna remember my name, 'cause you're gonna be screamin' it all night long."
"Ah—g-god!" She whimpered, as Bret's hand latched onto her breast, giving it a good hard squeeze, and pinching at the erected nipple that clearly tented the thin fabric of her shirt.
"Oh yeah…that's it." Bret growled, and lifted her up. Her tiny skirt was rode up so high it might as well have been a shirt. Her long, curvy legs, curled around him. "That's right…I'm your god tonight." He moved her towards the door to his room, fiddled with they key, and they both disappeared inside.
Shawn sank back against his door, his legs feeling unsteady. He was hard as fuck all over again…and pissed as hell that he wasn't that woman, wrapped around Bret Hart.