More Than Meets The Mind: Robot Therapist -- Episode 10: Wheeljack (Autobot)

WHEELJACK:  Skywarp.

The guy can teleport. How does he DO that?

I've been thinking about it non-stop. It's the ONLY thing I can think of. Every project I'm working on has fallen behind.

Short-distance teleportation is impossible. Hell, LONG distance teleportation is impossible without a Space-Bridge and those need to much space and use too much energy to be compacted down to an onboard version. Plus a space-bridge needs a station at both ends of the jump.

Skywarp doesn't. He can go anywhere he wants within a short range. Line of sight maybe? In the air? I've never seen him go air-to-ground or through a wall. But does that mean he can't? Is it just the limits of my observation? There are so many questions, the biggest one being how the fuck did he figure out how to do it in the first place?

Skywarp is a moron. When it comes to scientific and technical acumen he makes Sludge look like Perceptor.

I'm sorry. You're asking me about Charon.

I know the answers you want to hear.

I know the things that SHOULD bother me: The destruction, the loss of life, the senselessness of it all. Beings are dying, planets are being ripped apart, whole galaxies are threatened by our war. I've seen death, destruction, horrors unimaginable.

But over and over, now matter how much I try to care about those things, to make myself remember how they used to make me feel years ago, I can't.

The only thing I keep coming back to, the only thing I can make myself feel anything for is Skywarp's teleportation ability.

How does he do it?



"Wierzbowski and Crowe Are Down!": Schrodinger's Water Dancer

WIERZBOWSKI: You know, maybe it's a personal thing, but I only really have one question about Game of Thrones.

CROWE: I bet I know what that question is.

WIERZBOWSKI: Really?

CROWE: Yes, I wrote it down on this piece of paper when you started reading. Would you like to ask the question first, or should I read it?

WIERZBOWSKI: I'm impressed by your presumptuousness. I'd love to hear what you think my question is. After all, we are talking about a single question drawn from five books written over the course of roughly fifteen years, literally thousands of pages of, sprawling characters, convoluted plot developments, unanswered questions, themes of choice vs. predestination, death and life, responsibility and duty, the struggle to match ideals with reality, not to mention some problematic issues with women that--

CROWE: (reading) 'Whatever happened to Syrio Forel?'

WIERZBOWSKI: (long silence) Fuck you.

CROWE: Am I wrong?

WIERZBOWSKI: Fuck you.

CROWE: But am I wrong?

WIERZBOWSKI: No. No, you aren't wrong.

CROWE: It's a fine question. Certainly worthy of discussion. In fact, Syrio's ultimate fate has been the recurring subject of many an online discussion. Frankly, when I first read the passage, I thought he had perished heroically at the hands of Meryn Trant. The only reason we did not see his demise was that Arya, our point-of-view character, had fled the scene. Certainly, there is no evidence that he escaped or was imprisoned.

WIERZBOWSKI: Agreed. Except that there is never any confirmation of his death either. And let's be honest, despite the series' reputation as one where no character is safe, there are far more examples of characters being reported dead and then showing up again than there are main character deaths. In fact, I would go so far as to say that the author's consistent use of such cliffhangers weakens the series as a whole. Between false reports, identities being switched, magical illusions, magical resurrections, and authorial fake-outs mixed with the occasionally legitimate death it becomes impossible to trust what we are reading. Not only that, most of the characters lives seem so fraught with physical, political, and psychological misery that death doesn't seem like such a bad alternative. When A Dance With Dragons climaxed with yet another such event, instead of being shocked breathless or wondering what really happened and what would happen next, my reaction was a combination of emotional numbness towards the character and annoyance at the author. Instead of feeling dramatic, it felt cheap and manipulative.

CROWE: Yes, but it most of the cases you're citing involve major characters. Syrio Forel played an important role, but the former First Sword of Braavos was not an important character in and of himself.

WIERZBOWSKI: Perhaps.

CROWE: Does that depress you?

WIERZBOWSKI: You know it does.

CROWE: Because of your own uncertain fate?

WIERZBOWSKI: Exactly. A scream and a camera going blank. Was I killed? Was I captured and impregnated by the facehuggers? Did I escape only to be killed when the Atmospheric Processing Plant exploded?

CROWE: Maybe you escaped and got clear of the blast. Perhaps you are a lone wanderer on LV-426.You know, walking the earth, meeting  people... getting into adventures. Like Caine from Kung Fu.

WIERZBOWSKI: So I decided to be a bum?

CROWE: Heaven and Earth, Horatio.

WIERZBOWSKI: Given the choice, I would pick Earth.

CROWE: I believe you. I think I would too. But our discussion raises an interesting point.
By ending Syrio's tale the way he did, the author has given himself an out. If he ever needs the character to make a surprise reappearance, the door is open. If he doesn't, the character can continue to rest among the non-living. Until then, he remains Schrodinger's Water Dancer, neither alive nor dead.

WIERZBOWSKI: Bully for the author. On behalf of minor characters everywhere, I would like to voice the opinion that I would have appreciated knowing one way or another.  Even minor characters appreciate closure.

CROWE: No offense, 'Ski, but calling you a 'minor character' is a gross exaggeration of the part you played in the narrative.

WIERZBOWSKI: Fuck you, Crowe. I'm glad you got killed in an explosion.

CROWE: Me too. At least I can rest easy with the satisfaction of knowing what happened to me.

WIERZBOWSKI: Like I said. Fuck you.

More Than Meets The Mind: Robot Therapist -- Episode 9: Smokescreen (Autobot)



SMOKESCREEN: I hear Red Alert has been giving you the gears. Sorry about that. You know how he is. There are times I think he should be coming to see you himself.

Unfortunately, I can't help anyone who doesn't want to be helped. Even those who are manadated to see me...well, they can be ordered to come, but they can't be ordered to tell me anything they don't want to.

SMOKESCREEN: Must be frustrating.

It's part of the job. I learned long ago to keep my personal feelings out of it.


SMOKESCREEN: Personally, I think you do good work. I don't know if you know this, but I'm the sort of guy people like to talk to. I'm a good listener, but sometimes people tell me stuff I don't know how to deal with. I'm glad they have you now. It makes my job a little easier.

Thank you.

SMOKESCREEN: I'd like to see this project keep going. I know you've faced some opposition, and I'd like to help you. I'm not exactly one of the top brass, but...well, like I said--they listen to me. If there's anything I can do to help, let me know.

I'll keep that in mind. Of course, I'm not stupid.

SMOKESCREEN: Say again?

I'm well aware of your specialty. I'm also quite familiar with the good cop-bad cop routine.

SMOKESCREEN: Curses, foiled again. Well...out of professional curiosity, how's my good cop?

You are very likable.

SMOKESCREEN: I'm tempted to ask for a reference. Got a performance review coming up.

You have a sense of humor. That's rare among Transformers.

SMOKESCREEN: I'm serious. I'm willing to help you, any way I can. If there was something you could give me, something to maybe get Red Alert of your back, so you can do your job in peace...

You're doing it again.

SMOKESCREEN: Can't blame a guy for trying. That being said,I'm not kidding. I think it's important work. There are a lot of us, who would like to see this war end. I'm sure you've even talked to a couple. Maybe even on both sides. Anyway, I'm not going to pry into your business. Just letting you know I'm here, if you need someone to go to bat for you.

I appreciate that.

Brawling In The Deep: Pacific Rim



It’s been a few years since I lost my younger brother to a climbing accident, but that didn’t make the opening of Pacific Rim any easier to watch.

It changed the way I watched the movie.I saw a different story than was on the screen.

Superficially, the movie asks:  Who’s tougher: Giant robots or giant monsters? It then presents its evidence in the form of two hours of chest rocket-firing, acid-spitting  and punching. Lots and lots of punching with great big robot fists. There are so many biological and technological weapons on display that the combatants themselves sometimes fail to keep track of them.

KAIJU: Oh yeah, I forgot. I have wings.

JAEGER: Oh yeah, I forgot. I have a big-ass sword.

And while the punching and clawing and monster-robot arms race is interesting enough (KAIJU: Surprise, motherfucker. I can shoot EMPs from my shoulderblades!) I spent most of the movie sitting there in 3D glasses, thinking about what it means to rebuild intimacy in the face of loss.

The interesting thing about the pilots in Pacific Rim is the way they are connected to one another. They are husbands and wives, parents and children (both natural and adopted), siblings, friends, and potential lovers who are connected  via mind-meld. While the movie touches on it, I wish the movie had spent more time exploring how those relationships are affected by a) the Drift process and b) the emotional weight of going into battle side by side with someone with whom you have an intimate relationship.

The monster/mindmeld dynamic makes for a metaphor between the fears of engulfment (the Drift) and abandonment (death via giant monster) that characterizes family/intimate relationships

How would your relationships change with your family if you could see each other’s innermost thoughts, if you were able to see past events from their perspective, if you were able to see the parts of them that they kept separate from you? How would you feel to know that you no longer have any secrets from someone that close to you?

And what would it feel like to know that if you screwed up, weren’t quick enough, or were just unlucky, that person could be taken away before your eyes?

As Raleigh shows us, loss changes a person, and not always in big ways.  Not necessarily in the “I will never pilot a giant robot again,” but in small decisions. This time instead of risking it all to save a boat, we use the boat to bash the monster’s head in.  Most importantly,  this time, when we defeat a Kaiju, we make damn sure it’s dead.

Loss also gives us a chance to empathize and connect. Our grief experience means we are in a better position to recognize the loss of others.  As Raleigh does when Mako Drifts into a traumatic memory of Onibaba’s attack on Tokyo, we can help others work through their own emotions, simply by being there.  

This healing is not just a one way process. In being there for other’s losses, we come to terms with our own. By helping them, we help ourselves.

In order to give and receive this kind of help though, we have to open ourselves to intimacy. Sometimes, especially after we’ve had someone or something we’ve been intimately connected to ripped away, that’s a hard thing to do.

The “Australian(*)” father and son team of Herc and Chuck Hansen is an example of this. While the source of the tension between them  is never explained on screen (if you’re interested, their backstory can be found here), it’s clear that they have some problems. They alternate between bickering and silence. The only way they can show affection towards each other is through the pet bulldog that serves as their emotional surrogate.

The father admits that he doesn’t “know whether to hug him or kick his ass.”

Later, after being injured, Herc tells his son that when you Drift with someone, you also think nothing has to be said, that words are unnecessary. He wonders awkwardly and aloud to Chuck if maybe there were things he should have said more often.

Is that not true of the way many of us behave in relationships with those closest to us? We experienced shared events with them and we expect them to know what we were thinking or feeling. After all, they were there. How can they not know how we feel about them? It’s written in our faces, on our bodies, threads through every word that comes out of our mouth.

Sometimes we even believe we know what they were thinking or feeling. They’re the people we know best after all. We believe we know them better than they know themselves.

And yet…

And yet for good or ill, it is often the people we think we know the best who surprise us the most. We take them for granted. We make assumptions. We hold them to expectations both spoken and unspoken.

As a wrestling theme goes, we think we know them.

We don’t think—or don’t think we should have to—say certain things to them. 

Often we find out we’re wrong.

And sometimes, sometimes that discovery comes when it’s far, far too late to do anything about it.

Loss strikes at the heart of us. It attacks our past and future as much as it does our present. We feel the pain we’re going through now, but it also reminds us of the past with this person we can’t go back to and a future we will never have with them.

It’s particularly tough when our loss is something that enables others to gain, such as Chuck Hansen’s sacrifice in Pacific Rim.

Action movies often wallpaper over grief-- Luke Skywalker shows no signs of grief over the loss of Biggs, for example. Films  either ignoring the loss completely (there is a spoof of this in the deleted scenes of the original Austin Powers movie), wallpaper over it with a simple “He died a hero” or—most crassly of all--use it as a plot point: “I will avenge you, my brother”. Maybe that’s the nature of the genre. Showing death is okay, but showing bereavement is verboten. 

That’s what makes Herc’s understated but unmistakeable grief during the celebration scenein the control room poignant. While everyone else is celebrating victory, Herc remembers the cost.  

You can make the argument that Chuck died a hero. You can say he was doing what he loved. You can talk about freedom and sacrifice and victory all you want. But is that really comfort to a bereaved father, a grieving widow or an uncomprehending child.

He died doing what he loved. He made the ultimate sacrifice.

Good for him.

But what about me?

 What about those of us left behind? Brothers and children. Parents and lovers. Aren't we important too? How could he just...just leave us?

Was it worth it? 

On paper it makes sense, yes. Intellectually, sure.  But in our heart of hearts…?

Pacific Rim doesn’t try to tell Herc the answers.

Why should it? Sometimes there are no answers to give.

But while it tells us nothing, it shows us a lot. Through Raleigh and Mako we see  grief can change and shape us, the way it can either cut us off from others or bring us closer, and the way we can make peace with it by allowing it be a part of us without being consumed by it.

That, to me, is why Pacific Rim, for all it's scorpion-tail spearing and rotor-blade-arm slicing (and punching, of course. Let us never forget the punching) is ultimately not about giant monsters and giant robots.

It is about normal-sized humans.

And that's plenty big enough for me.

(*) The Accent Police were out in full force for the Australians, presumably the same folks who complained about Kevin Costner in Robin Hood and Connery in The Hunt for Red October. They seemed ok with Mickey Rourke cutting his way out of a giant monster baby after being eaten alive though. I guess we all have our limits for suspension of disbelief.

HULK SMASHED: Addictions, Anger Management & the Avengers

His name is Bruce and he’s a Hulkaholic.

If we were going to label any of the characters in the movie The Avengers as candidates for addiction, most people would pick Robert Downey Jr.’s Iron Man. Iron Man's alter ego Tony Stark is the Marvel super-hero most associated with alcoholism from the comic book story 'Demon in a Bottle.' But  Marc Ruffalo’s  Bruce Banner/Hulk that is the closest thing to a man battling with addictions we see on screen .

And in The Avengers—unlike most film and TV versions of the Hulk--Banner is winning.

Most TV and film versions of the Hulk story show Banner white-knuckling his way through life. He fears the Hulk. He is ashamed of being the Hulk. Like Johnny Blaze does with the Ghost Rider, Banner is constantly struggling to control, repress, or eliminate his alter-ego.

Banner's solution? Since the Hulk emerges in response to anger, he’ll simply stop becoming angry.

Most times, it doesn’t work so well.

One of the characteristics of an addict is the inability or unwillingness to face certain feelings. It’s not anger that brings out the Hulk. It’s the attempt to suppress that anger.

Banner is ashamed of his anger. He feels guilty for the destruction it causes. He wants it to never happen again.

“You won’t like me when I’m angry,” is the classic line from the original show. But a more accurate version would be Banner saying, “I don’t like me when I’m angry.”

The Hulk is Banner’s way of avoiding the consequences of his own rage: I didn’t do it. The Hulk did it.

Bruce Banner will do anything to avoid his own anger. He runs. He hides. At one point in the Avengers, he alludes to a suicide attempt. He is afraid of the Hulk’s potential for destruction and he feels guilt and shame for the Hulk’s uncontrollability.

All of these are normal feelings for addicts. Unfortunately, they are often also the feelings an addict is most trying to avoid.  The result is a cycle of self-destruction as the thing the addict uses to cope with unwanted feelings are the very things causing those unwanted feelings in the first place.

The alcoholic is ashamed of being an alcoholic. He drinks to get away from the shame. The more he drinks, the more shame he feels. The more shame he feels, the more he drinks.

To paraphrase Homer Simpson, alcohol becomes the cause and the solution to the alcoholic’s problems.

Alcohol is not the only addiction out there, though. There are drugs. Gambling. Shopping. Sex. The internet…any process or substance can turn into an addiction. Because the addiction is never about the addictive substance or behaviour.

It’s about the addict. Or more specifically, the addict’s relationship with the addiction. An addiction can be anything from crystal meth to ultrarunning. Any process, any substance, any behaviour over which we have no control can be an addiction.

Banner has no control over the Hulk. The Hulk is unmanageable. And so is Bruce Banner’s life.

At least it was.

Yet somewhere along the way, he starts to understand. At some point between the events of the Incredible Hulk and the Avengers, Banner has changed. Not only does he no longer look like Edward Norton (or even Eric Bana), he has made an uneasy peace with his resentment.

Like many recovering addicts, Banner is still a work in progress. He still hasn’t completely come to terms with the Hulk as a part of himself, referring to his Hulk-self as ‘The Other Guy.’

He is also prone to slips. Midway through the movie, a stressed out Banner transforms into the Hulk, chases a Russian spy around a flying battleship and gets into a fistfight with a Norse God. That sort of misadventure is all well and good in college, but for a respectable grown-up scientist who is one of the greatest scientific minds of his time in the fields of biology, chemistry, engineering, physiology, and nuclear physics…a little immature. He’s supposed to be setting an example.

A slip is a dangerous time for a recovering addict. During the beginnings of recovery an addict might feel invincible, like he’s got this thing licked. Being reawakened by a slip can bring all those thoughts back again. The feelings come back.

The fear returns. The shame comes a-knockin’.

This is where the recovering addict needs to make a choice.

One way to get rid of that shame and fear is to go back to the old addictive behavior. The slip is proof that they can’t do it. They are worthless, powerless to beat this thing so they might as well give in to it and go back to their old ways.  The pain will come back no matter what they do, so perhaps its best to just numb it the best way they know how.

There is also another way.

That way is to go through the pain, to experience the feelings completely and come out the other side. To do that the addict must trust. He needs to trust that he can handle this setback and survive, that he has become stronger, that this is a slip, not a fall.

What’s the difference between a slip and a full-blown withdrawal?

In the case of Bruce Banner, the realization comes when a security guard played by Harry Dean Stanton remarks on the way Hulk made sure not to kill or injure anyone when he fell from the HeliCarrier. Banner realizes that things could have been a lot worse.

More than that, he is starting to learn that Hulk is part of his him and may even share his values. Instead of being a mindless slave to his anger, it might be possible to direct it and use it effectively.

 “I’m angry all the time,” Banner says later, and in that moment, he has made peace with his resentment. Acknowledging his anger does not make him more out of control. Instead, it gives him the ability to accept and remain calm. It allows him to channel the Hulk into the pursuit of something bigger than himself.

He doesn’t need to be afraid of the Hulk anymore. The Hulk is part of who he is. He always has been.

In twelve step programs, the addict’s first job is to admit that he or she is an addict. It seems strange to ask someone to admit to being the thing they want to be free of, but maybe that’s the strange paradox. Only by embracing what we are can we ever hope to let go of it.

Robert McCammon’s “The Five”…

…is an amazing novel by one of my favorite authors. It reminds me a lot of “Gone South,” my previous favorite novel by him.  Along with King, and the twosome of John Skipp & Craig Spector, McCammon is one of the three eighties/early 90s horror writers that most influenced my own fiction. “The Five” is a beautiful meditation on compassion, loss, music and the people who pursue music as a living long after the chances of them making a living at it have passed them by.

I could say a lot about it, even if the book says most of those things itself, only better.

Unfortunately, all those good things are overshadowed in my mind by one burning question.

WHY THE FUCK DOES THE BASS PLAYER ALWAYS HAVE TO DIE FIRST?

Moulin Rougeau



You don’t hear the Fabulous Rougeau Brothers names much these days except as “the guys who sucker-punched Dynamite Kid.” What you don’t hear about is how good they were.

I didn‘t realize this when they were active, of course. In fact, I HATED the Rougeau Brothers.

I should have liked them. They were Canadian, for one thing, and we denizens of the Great White North tend to cheer for fellow Canucks regardless of alignment (often to the WWE‘s dismay). Les Freres Rougeaus were also the type of wrestler I most enjoyed watching: a tag team of smaller guys who defeated larger foes with quickness, athleticism, and teamwork (*). Nonetheless, I hated them.

I hated Jacques smug expression and Raymond’s stupid moustache. I hated the tiny little American flags they waved when they came to the ring (They called themselves the All-American Boys even though they were clearly French-Canadian). I hated the way they cheated, even against enhancement teams--using the fake handshake-then-boot-him-in-the-gut or Raymond screaming “Look at me! Look at me! Hit me!” and turning his back to his opponent while Jacques crept up from behind and nailed him in the lower back with a forearm.

The Rougeaus were insufferable front-runners when winning, bragging and showing off, but when they were behind they tended to run away and provide comfort for one another in an unmanly embrace.

Most of all, I despised the way they had embroiled my favorite tag-team of all time, the Rockers, in an endless feud. Worse still, in many of the matches I saw, the Rougeaus, who were clearly the inferior team, WON the match via some underhanded chicanery.

This happened to the Rockers a lot, now that I think about it. They may have been my favorite team, but Sweet Daddy Singh did they lose a lot of matches. In addition to the Rougeaus, the Rockers padded the resumes of Demolition, the Brain Busters, the Orient Express, Power and Glory, and countless others…always in the most frustrating way imaginable.

No team was better than the Rockers at snatching defeat from the jaws of victory, mostly because they were forever getting distracted by a manager or being baited into the ring at the wrong time.

I loved the Rockers. I had their poster on my wall and was awe of their ring skills and popularity with the chicks. But in my quietest, most private moments, even I had to admit the truth: For all their wonderful qualities, my heroes were really fucking dumb.

I digress.

The point is, I hated the Rougeau Brothers. Which was exactly what they wanted.

But the real reason my flame for the Rougeaus has been rekindled is the opening sequence of a match in London between them and the Rockers. I wouldn’t go so far as to call it Best Opening Ever, but I think it’s absolutely, well, fabuleux, and I’ll tell you why in a second.

First, I’ll tell you what happens.

After a quick opening brawl in which the Rockers clear the ring, things settle down with Jacques Rougeau squaring off against a fired-up Marty Janetty. Marty moves in, but instead of locking up, Jacques waves off the Rocker, drops on his back to the mat, and does a kip up. He then challenges Marty to do the same.

Marty wants to Jacques to quit stalling and wrestle, but Jacques will have none of it. When Marty refuses to try the kip-up, he accuses the Rocker of cowardice, first trying to start a chant with the non-plussed crowd and then walking around the ring flapping his arms like a chicken.

Finally, Marty repeats the move. The fans are delighted. Jacques, not so much. He exits the ring and uses the ropes to somersault back inside. After several exasperated moments, Marty duplicates it. Again, the fans go crazy.

Now Jacques is ready to go, but this time Marty waves HIM off. Jannetty then tags in Shawn, who does a back flip off the top turnbuckle and land on his feet. Now it’s the Rockers doing the chicken dance while the crowd roars appreciatively.

After a confab with a dubious Raymond, Jacques decides to attempt the back flip. He climbs gingerly to the top rope, balances himself precariously….and immediately climbs back down.

Jacques is not done though. He just needs quiet. He holds his fingers to his lips, trying to shush the crowd, the Rockers, and in one inspired moment, the camera as though the noise from the folks back home are interfering with his focus.

Finally, he dusts off his hands, wipes his feet on the mat, and with an exuberant “Here we go!” he springs to the top turnbuckle wear he wobbles unsteadily for several moments…until finally the Rockers shake the ropes, crotching the younger Rougeau on the top turnbuckle.

At that point, the match begins in earnest, with the Rockers taking things up to a breakneck pace with some speedy double-teams (not to mention illegal switches-**). The match is good, possibly even great. Would it have worked without the extended opening. which actually takes up a third of the match? Possibly. Maybe even probably.

In his autobiography, Michaels credits the Rougeaus with coming up with the sequence out of laziness to fill time without actually wrestling. If so, they wouldn’t be the first.

Most veteran workers I’ve seen have tricks like this in their arsenal. I’ve seen robe-removal stalling and cowboy hat stealing. I’ve seen posedowns and threats to “walk out of here right now if you people don’t quiet down and show some respect!” and extended foreign object hide and seek games involving a hapless referee and a Popsicle stick wrapped in tape.

Lazy?

Maybe.

Smart?

Definitely.

Good wrestling?

That’s a matter of taste, I guess. If you ask me, the Rougeau/Rockers was an example of this sort of business done right. It fulfills the three greatest qualities of an opening spot a) it tells the audience about the wrestlers’ personalities b) It entertains the crowd and c) no one gets hurt.

Too bad things didn‘t go the same way with the Dynamite Kid. A lot of things might be remembered differently if they had (***).

(*) A lot of people say heels shouldn’t use flashy holds and double-teams, but the Rougeaus made it work for them. Part of it was the nature of the moves; most of their tandem offence was variations on the cowardly theme of “You hold him and I’ll hit him,” but I think most of it was because they were just so damn obnoxious.

(**) When talking about this particular match, wrestling connoisseurs (hey, connoisseurs sounds better than internet geeks with nothing better to do) cite this match’s weird psychology. The good-guy Rockers were the first to cheat, starting off by bushwhacking Jacques and then following up with some illegal switches. The crowd loved the Rockers shenanigans though, and I think critics mystified by that audience reaction are missing the forest for the trees. Remember, the first portion of the match is to show the baby faces outwrestling, outsmarting or outpowering the heels. The Rougeaus whole gimmick was based on their being treacherous, opportunistic cheap-shot artists without peer. The crowd wasn’t digging the cheating so much as the Rockers beating the Rougeaus at their own game.

(***) Where are they now department: Jacques became the Mountie and later one half of the Quebers/Amazing French Canadians, scored a clean win over Hulk Hogan, and currently works in suicide prevention. Raymond retired to a broadcast position before leaving wrestling and being elected to city council(You would think being part of a pre-meditated violent assault on an Englishman would make people think twice about voting you to public office…in Quebec it may have actually helped.).