Hitman My Real Life in the Cartoon World (78 page)

“Let’s not worry about it right now, let’s concentrate on the match.” I wanted to blast Leon and say,

“No, let’s worry about Brian instead of the fucking match!”

That night was a blur as I worked with Davey Boy against the ill-conceived team of Vader and The Patriot.

When the fans tuned in to see the live Raw from Kansas City the next day, before the opening sequence even ran, Vince was in the ring announcing Brian’s death, as all the boys broke character to stand together at the top of the ramp, breaking kayfabe in solidarity for a fallen comrade for the duration of a stirring ten-bell salute. Rude, Owen, Davey, Jim and I sadly bowed our heads. There were only two wrestlers who didn’t come out—Shawn and Hunter.

All that day I’d been uncomfortable: Shawn said he wanted me to denounce him and Hunter as

“homos,” but I worried it would only lead to more tension between us. Since both of them were part of the booking committee, I did as I was told. “But I don’t want you to say this kind of crap about me,” I warned Shawn. The night deteriorated into a lame storyline, with Shawn and Hunter taking shots at me while I stupidly led The Hart Foundation in search of them everywhere in the building, never finding them. Duh.

I watched on the monitor backstage as Vince posed probing questions to Melanie Pillman, Brian’s pretty, young, clearly distraught wife, live via satellite from her living room. She said to the camera,

“It’s a wake-up call. Your husband could be next. . . . He lived for this business and died for this business. I hope no one else has to die.” Owen and I felt so sorry for her. The whole thing struck us as a ratings ploy, exploiting this poor girl’s misery for all the world to see, as if suddenly the WWF

had turned into The Jerry Springer Show.

Things only got worse the next day. The camera came into the dressing room in Topeka to allow the fans to see Shawn pulling down his trunks and mooning them on the big screen and then kissing Hunter on the lips. Shawn, Hunter and even Chyna pointed at one another’s crotches and told everyone, “Suck it!” Hunter called out to me, in the first glimpse I’d had of his obsession with his own penis, “I’m bigger than you, and I’m better than you, in more ways than one.” Shawn then looked in amazement at Hunter’s fly and winced as he exclaimed, “Good God! You could put an eye out with that thing!” The dressing room was full of grieving, confused wrestlers, all wondering where the business was going.

As I drove back to Kansas City after the show, I looked up at a stunning autumn sunset and wondered what any of these antics had to do with wrestling. I also wondered why Shawn seemed to have such a hold on Vince. More and more air time was devoted to sleazy soap opera as the artistry of great work faded from the collective consciousness of the fans. Vince used to be the biggest fan of all: He had a passion for technicians, a love for characters and a deep appreciation for storytellers. I couldn’t fathom how he could be the one encouraging the sabotage of what he and the old-school boys, and even the long-time fans, held so dear.

I felt like I’d been tossed in the air and hadn’t landed yet, out of control and totally blind to what lay ahead. Because I was an independent contractor, my living depended not just on talent but on reputation. Remembering what Vince had done with Hulk and others, I felt a sense of foreboding: Vince was about to tear me down, destroying my credibility and marketability. I never understood how he could be so disloyal whenever he parted ways with those who’d sacrificed so much for him and his business. But for Vince, loyalty was almost always a one-way street.

My heart kept going back to Brian. Thirty-five years old with five kids. He went to sleep not knowing that his wife had just found out that she was pregnant again. Flyin’ Brian was flyin’ with the angels now. I recited the Lord’s Prayer to an orange Kansas sky, adding a plea for myself: “God, I’ll probably never be here again. Please get me home in one piece.”

A couple of days later, I was in L.A. to do an appearance on Mad TV and was able to arrange a meeting with Eric Bischoff, who also happened to be in town. He was still interested in me, he said, but he couldn’t negotiate until I had clearance to do so from the WWF. Eric told me that there were all kinds of ongoing legal battles between the WWF and WCW, going back as far as when Alundra Blaze, the champion of a short-lived women’s division of the WWF, showed up on Nitro and dropped the WWF belt in a garbage can. Since Vince’s logo was on the belt, Vince had WCW by the balls for trademark infringement. The latest court battle had Vince charging Eric with tortuous interference over the Hall and Nash deal, saying Eric had encouraged them to breach their contract with him.

I didn’t tell Eric that Vince had said he wanted to help me make this deal, but I did tell him that Vince said I could leave any way I wanted, even as champion. Eric made it clear that it didn’t matter to him at all whether I was still champion, advising me simply to leave on good terms.

I retained the title in a triple-threat match in San Jose on October 12 with Stone Cold, Hunter and my boy Shamrock. Shawn was the guest referee. After the match, with Jim Neidhart and Ken beside me in the dressing room, I made a short speech to Shawn, knowing that it was official that we would face each other in a title match at Survivor Series ’97, which was going to be in Montreal this time. “I just want you to know that despite any differences we’ve had this past year, I have no problem working with you. You can trust me in every way to be a professional. What you need to know, Shawn, is that you’re not in any danger.” I added, “I also want you to know that I have no problem dropping the belt to you if that’s what Vince wants.”

He glared back at me. “I appreciate that, but I want you to know that I’m not willing to do the same thing for you.” And then he left.

Jim snorted, “I can’t believe that he just said that!”

There was no way I could ever drop the belt to him now: he’d just showed complete disrespect not only to me, but to the position of champion, which was an affront to old-school traditions and a betrayal of each and every wrestler who ever looked to me as a leader in the dressing room, or who had been a leader himself. What kind of arrogant little prick would say that to a champion offering to put him over? Since my deal with Vince was that I had creative control of my character for my last thirty days in the WWF, it was up to me whom I lost the championship to. I figured I’d drop the belt to Stone Cold instead.

Bischoff’s offer from the WCW came through: $1.8 million a year for three years. I told Eric if he couldn’t get me $2.8 to forget about it. He said he’d have an answer for me by the middle of the next week. If it turned out that I had to leave the WWF, I started to envision one last interview, thanking the fans, all of the wrestlers and Vince, for everything he’d done for me. I still couldn’t decide whether Vince was going to kill me off or if he was actually looking out for me, as he made out he was. Was it really so much to ask to be able to leave with my head up?

Oklahoma City Raw on October 20 was more of the same. Shawn pulled his pants down on camera while Hunter blocked the view with a cardboard D-Generation X sign. (New York Post columnist Phil Mushnick was the one who coined the phrase, in an article that was actually critical of the drift of the WWF into sex, sleaze and soap opera, and away from wrestling. Then Shawn and the clique took it proudly as their name, and DX came to life in the WWF as a rebel group of wrestlers out to defy authority and take over the business: The original members were Shawn, Hunter, Kevin Nash, Razor Ramon, 1-2-3 Kid and Chyna.) Even worse was the storyline where a gang of militant black bad-asses called The Nation of Domination had their dressing room trashed and sprayed with graffiti and Canadian flags. By the end of the show I wasn’t just portrayed as homophobic but as a racist too.

These antics contrasted poorly with Vince’s idea of honoring past NWA champions on this same show. I felt a little embarrassed when I shook the hands of Lou Thesz, Dory and Terry Funk and Danny Hodge, who was a champion boxer and also an Olympic silver medalist in wrestling.

The following day at a taped Raw in Tulsa I informed Vince where I was with WCW, stressing that the window he’d given me to negotiate with them closed on November 1.

“Well, whatever happens, we’ll deal with it,” he said. He told me that he was trying everything—

even selling property—to be able to afford to keep me. Then he said, “I wanted to talk to you about Survivor Series. I want you to drop the belt to Shawn, but you’ll win it back for a sixth time at the December 7 pay-per-view in Springfield, that is, if you’re still with me.”

“If I end up staying, it doesn’t make any sense to me that you’d want to beat me in Canada and then have me win the belt back in the States,” I replied. I told him word for word how Shawn had told me he wouldn’t put me over. Vince’s face got tense and red, and he asked me if I’d mind repeating everything I’d said in front of Shawn.

“I’d be happy to.”

Later that night, Vince called us both to his office, and when we sat down he blurted out, “Shawn, I’m putting the belt back on you!”

Shawn began to cry, thanking me and telling me how much he respected me.

I said, “Shawn, you just told me four days ago, in San Jose, that you’d never put me over.”

Shawn brushed away his tears, sniffling. “Sometimes I say the stupidest things. I always put my foot in my own mouth.”

I had to get out of there. “I don’t know what’s going to happen at Survivor Series, and I’m not agreeing to anything yet,” I said. “We’ll see where all of this is going, and, Vince, you know what I’m talking about.”

I called Eric, leaving him numerous messages over the next three days, but I never heard a peep.

When I arrived at the Nassau Coliseum on October 24, Vince was there to greet me. He told me that he could pay me after all, that my money was no longer a problem. I told him I hadn’t heard a thing from Bischoff and that if the money problem was solved I’d likely stay, but I also told him that until I heard back, I’d have to keep my options open. Then I left on a four-day tour of the Middle East, thinking that Bischoff was just jerking me around and that I’d likely have to stay on with Vince.

At the airport in Muscat, Oman, kids of all ages enthusiastically greeted me waving huge Canadian flags. I wondered where they’d got them and then realized that they were all hand sewn. There was a mosque right next to the hotel, and from the balcony of my room I could hear chants of prayer. I found myself praying to any God there was to help me make the right decision.

At the final show, in Bahrain, I retained the belt when Taker was disqualified. Despite being tombstoned, I was proudly clapped to my feet and presented with an Arab championship belt and a huge, bowl-like trophy. I was still a hero everywhere outside America.

October 31, 1997. As soon as I walked in the door of my house in Calgary, Bischoff called. He told me they were up to $2.5 million for 125 days a year. “What else is it going to take to get you down here?” he asked. I told him I’d talk to my people and get back to him right away. I called my lawyer, who kept saying over and over, “We have a sweetie of a deal.” I decided to think everything through and call Vince first thing in the morning.

So on Saturday, I called Vince and told him what WCW had offered. “I want to stay with you, Vince, and my contract is fine just the way it is, but I need you to tell me where I’m going and what I’m doing. What’s the rest of my story going to be?”

Vince told me that he’d think about it and call me back. But as the deadline crept closer, he still hadn’t called. I finally tracked him down getting his hair cut in Manhattan. “Vince, I’ve only got until midnight.” He told me not to worry about the deadline and to call him Sunday morning.

Minutes later I had my lawyer on the line telling me that Vince’s word over the phone meant nothing in a court of law.

I had one last talk with Eric, who happily said, “What else? Whatever it is that you want, you better say it now!”

I hesitated, but then said, “I can be late sometimes. I’ve never missed a show in fourteen years or hurt another wrestler in my career. I’ll always be on time for my match, but with Vince I’m allowed to get there at show time.”

“What else?”

“Injury insurance. With Vince I’m totally covered for everything.”

“We’ll get you insurance. Anything else?”

After a long pause I said, “That’s it.”

“Done!”

“Done?”

“Done!”

I guess we had a deal. While I waited for the document to pop out of my fax machine, I called Vince.

No answer.

It was nearly midnight on the east coast when Vince finally called back. His message to me, expressed with smug good humor, was that I should think with my head and not my heart. When I asked him what he had in mind for me, he gave me that stupid laugh of his and told me that first I’d put Shawn over at Survivor Series, then I’d put him over at a final four pay-per-view next month that would lead into a ladder match at the Royal Rumble, where I’d put him over again. Finally I’d challenge him to one last match on a Raw, where I’d promise that if I didn’t win, I’d quit forever.

Everybody would think I was going to lose but, Vince chuckled, “We’ll fuck him and you’ll get your hand raised.”

“You’ve got to be kidding,” I said. “I thought you’d come up with something to make me stay!”

Vince got irritated with me now. “I dunno, you tell me, what do you want to do?”

“Hell, Vince, you’re the genius. You made me turn heel, made me say all kinds of things about Americans, and they all hate me now. You turned off my heat and gave it all to Shawn, and all I am anymore is a lukewarm heel. I don’t even know what to do with me.”

Vince told me again to think with my head, not my heart, and take the WCW offer.

After we hung up, I checked my fax machine and saw the WCW contract coming in. I sat alone, in the dark, with tears in my eyes. I signed, put the contract back into the feeder, dialed the number and pushed send. I found myself reciting the Lord’s Prayer as my fourteen-year career in the WWF