Human beings and animals alike have an unwritten rule that if you borrow someone else’s stuff, you are not supposed to break it. And if you break it, you’re supposed to get it fixed. And to get it fixed, you must be willing to walk through the worst scourges of this cold earth, fighting man and beast and nature to ensure the borrowed broken item is repaired and returned, lest you be exiled forever to amateur wrestling school. Or something like that.

So it was back in the primitive days of 2003, when Langley, BC was primarily an uncharted, unexplored polar expanse of ice and tundra. Kendra (my then-girlfriend, my now-wife) had been borrowing her RA’s rustbucket car for back-and-forthing to hockey practices. Unfortunately, one night, she accidentally snapped the ignition key in half while starting the car. This was where it all started.

Understanding the extent to which some lenders can carry the borrow-break-die rule, and not wishing to see my girlfriend suffer, I took possession of the key and vowed to have it repaired. The next day, I asked my friend Harrison to give me a ride into town to get it fixed, thinking that somehow, it would actually be that simple.

For some reason, somebody had once told Harrison that in order to fix a broken key, the skills of a blacksmith will be required. Personally, my knowledge of blacksmithery is rather limited, but it seemed like a reasonable suggestion. Probably, the local blacksmith would…heat the key in his raging forge and then hammer the pieces back together or something. We were willing to try it out. In the rustic, rural town of Fort Langley, we were sure we could locate a decent blacksmith.

After a lot of researching, calling, and driving around, it became clear that blacksmithing is no longer a very popular trade. But then I had a flash of brilliance: maybe a horseshoeing shop could perform the same services - they probably have blacksmiths working for them, hammering out hoof-wear for local horses! We got in Harry’s car again and took off, but we were so stoked about the idea of getting to visit a real blacksmith that we ended up getting completely lost.

Instead of finding the horseshoe people, we found ourselves in the shadow of a shady warehouse just off 64th. There was a sign outside, and in neon green letters it said: “Welcome to Langley’s very own underground wrestling federation: the HOUSE OF PAIN!” We got out of the car and stood in the parking lot, gazing up at the building. It was a castle-like construction, built of stone and covered with graffiti. The complex was surrounded by pick-up trucks and discarded championship title belts. The Rock was passed out over by the dumpster. Although we couldn’t have known it then, the House of Pain’s official website tells us that, “The building is excellent for training with a high ceiling so we can teach you all of the high flying moves you want to learn.”

How sweet is that? I don’t know about you, but I can think of at least fifteen “high flying moves” I’ve been dying to learn, since like, forever. I knew you’d be excited too, so I did you all a favour and found out where you can sign up for training camp. Their highly qualified instructors - such as “Vance Nevada”, “Scotty Mac”, and the legendary “Disco Fury” himself - will turn you into “a well rounded wrestler, teaching you something from every aspect of the field of wrestling, including the art of creating a character”.

We left the wrestling warehouse and found our horseshoe shop. It smelled faintly of Alabama and other misfortunes. After we explained our situation, the man at the counter loudly informed us that we were complete idiots (“D’you see any keys in this shop? Huh? We make horseshoes! Do you even know what horses are? Get out of my shop!”), while the lady beside him sweetly suggested that maybe we should look for a locksmith. Not a blacksmith.

We saved the locksmith visit for the next day (after we had spent the night wallowing in self-pity and trying to recover from our overwhelming feelings of shame and hatred for ourselves.) During that night, while I was sleeping, I had a dream that House of Pain wrestling guru Disco Fury (in a neon-green spandex wrestling outfit) visited me and said, “If you don’t get down to my wrestling school and start learning some high flying moves, I’ll make your life a HOUSE OF PAIN!”

I think the message is unmistakably clear.

by Kevan Gilbert