Hitman My Real Life in the Cartoon World (79 page)

passed before my eyes.

On Sunday morning, I called Vince at home. He was friendly and more than a little quick as far as I was concerned to advise me that I’d done the right thing. He still wanted Shawn to beat me at Survivor Series the following weekend. I cut him off. “I’m sorry, Vince. I’ve always done everything you’ve asked, but I can’t do that. I’ll put over anybody you want, but I will not, under any circumstances, put over Shawn Michaels.”

“Where do you get this stuff?”

“Come on, Vince. I made myself clear to both you and Shawn in Tulsa. I’ll drop it to Austin or Taker.

Hell, I’ll even drop it to Lombardi at the Garden. Vince, you told me I could leave any way I wanted!

Remember?”

“I’ll have to sue you.”

“In my contract, I have creative control for my last thirty days.”

“We could tie our assholes up in court for years over this.”

I told him again that I wouldn’t do it. “Everything has been geared toward the Canadian hero winning this match. It’ll kill me off to lose to Shawn in Montreal after everything he’s done. He’s picked his nose on TV with the Canadian flag, and just last week he said that Stu is dead on international TV. I’d lose all my selfrespect. If he puts me over, I’ll be happy to put him over. We’ve got over a month until I go to WCW, Vince, surely we can come up with something.”

For the rest of the week we went back and forth. He’d tell me I could win, then he’d tell me I couldn’t. I stood my ground and refused to lose—for the first and only time in my career.

41

THE MONTREAL SCREWJOB

IT WAS NOVEMBER 8, the night before Survivor Series ’97. I was in the dressing room at Cobo Hall in Detroit. Vince and I were still stalemated. I was worn out with conflicting emotions, grief vying with an adrenaline rush of clarity. I was convinced Vince would ruin me just for the sick pleasure of it. I kept reminding myself that if I’d stayed in the WWF, Shawn and Hunter would have done all they could to drive me out anyway. Jack Lanza pulled me aside to tell me that I was doing the right thing for the business: “I wouldn’t drop the belt to that little motherfucker either!” I never knew whether Jack meant what he said or was trying to provoke a reaction out of me that would somehow play into his boss’s hands.

I called Earl Hebner into a dingy dressing-room bathroom. I looked him right in the eyes and said,

“Tomorrow, Earl, they’re going to ask you to fuck me.” His mouth twisted and his eyes filled with tears as he promised, “I swear on my kids’ heads, I won’t do it. I’ll quit first! If they ask me to do that, I’ll tell them to go fuck themselves, Bret, I swear!” I calmed him down, saying that all he had to do was tell me what the plan was, and I’d take care of it. I told him that I was going to insist that he be the ref because I trusted him to watch my back. The longer we talked the stronger his resolve became. I’ll never forget the tears in his eyes as he shook my hand.

Word had leaked out that I was going to WCW, and all during the six-man tag that night I was tormented by a jeering mob chanting, “You sold out!” It bothered me that they didn’t know I was pushed out, but at the end of the match, when I took my walk around the ring, my fans hugged me, and many broke down crying.

I kept feeling as though I was alive at my own funeral. My worries about what would happen the next day in Montreal tormented me all night long. Vince and I were eyeball to eyeball and nobody was blinking. I’ll never understand why Shawn couldn’t simply put me over, with me immediately dropping the belt to him on Raw, where a much bigger audience would see his win. I’d have my respect, and Shawn would have the belt.

I met Julie and the kids at the hotel in Montreal, and in no time at all, it seems, I was barging up the back ramp of the Molson Centre with them, Paul Jay’s camera crew filming every step. Though Paul had wrapped up filming in September, I’d suggested he might want to film my last match for the WWF in Canada. Julie and the kids were swept up in emotional farewells. Blade and Beans were too young to understand completely what was going on, but they knew it wasn’t good.

I went looking for Vince, and Paul suggested that I keep my hidden mic on. Vince said hello to Julie and the kids, smiling and kidding with them briefly, before we headed to his dressing room for a talk.

He spotted the bright red poppy pinned to my shirt, and I explained how it was a Remembrance Day tradition. I brought up how this Canadian angle had really painted me into a corner: “It would be hard for me to come up short as a hero today.” I bluntly asked, “So what is it that you want to do?”

Vince was grim-faced. “What do you want to do?”

Because word about me leaving had leaked out, I suggested some kind of run in. I told him I’d win tonight, and then I’d forfeit the belt on Raw in Ottawa the next day. This was a suggestion, not a demand. We talked about how we both felt betrayed. I brought up that nobody was supposed to know that I was leaving, but he was already smearing my reputation. Vince likened it to sticking me with a stick, which I took as his admission that he’d been poking at me intentionally to provoke me.

Finally Vince said that he was determined to see this come out the right way. I sighed with relief, believing I now had the dignified exit I sought. Vince’s tone softened as he said, “All we’re talking about is Ted Turner. That’s what’s coming between you and me. That’s all. I can’t tell you how appreciative I will always be for everything you’ve done for this company. I’ll be damned, even if it is Ted Turner’s money and all that kind of shit, that’s no reason for two people who’ve spent as much time as we have together, worked closely through the years, it’s no reason to have any problems.”

“I couldn’t agree more,”?I said. “I didn’t want to ever leave here. What matters to me is what happens to me right now. It might be all that I’m ever going to be remembered for. I don’t have high hopes for down there. I loved my story here. My history will always be here, which is why I’ve been so stubborn. After fourteen years, to end it here on such a bad note wouldn’t be right. I’m going to miss this place. So we’ll leave it on that?”

“Uh-huh. Okay.”

“Feels better.”

“Yeah.”

I smiled then and said, “Ya never know, you might have me back someday.”

Vince chuckled. “Love to!”

I pushed for clarity, “So, what is it you want to do today then?”

Vince then described in detail how DX would interfere when I had Shawn in the sharp-shooter. The Hart Foundation would charge out to my rescue, and we’d end up in a big “schmazz,” or brawl, where he wanted me to deck Hunter and even Chyna.

“The marks out there are thinking this is a shoot,” he said. “I’m going to capitalize on that. I won’t be out there commentating, and there’ll be a slew of uniformed security at ringside. I’m open to anything.”

“All right,” I said and shook his hand. “I’ll go find Shawn and go over all this.”

“Whatever you want,” said Vince. “I put you with Pat—he’s the master—to work it through.”

A few minutes later, Carlo took me around back of the Molson Centre, where I told him that Vince had decided to let me leave with my head up. Carlo broke down crying. In many ways, Carlo had brought me to this moment. He’d helped to structure the contract that gave me way too much power for it ever to rest easy with Vince or to allow to stand as a precedent. I trusted that contract to protect me. If it wasn’t for me, Carlo wouldn’t be where he was and neither would I.

After taking my mic off and changing into my gear, I found Shawn. One last time, I tried to be straight with him. He was visibly nervous and said he wanted no problems with me, that he had no problems doing anything. Pat told me that he thought it would be a helluva spot to let Shawn put me in the sharpshooter and then reverse it on him. It would be a great spot that would set the stage for a fantastic second half.

“Who’s the ref?” I asked.

“Earl,” Pat said.

I smiled to myself. “Okay.”

I ran the whole scenario by Earl, Owen, Davey and Rude while Hunter and Chyna meekly nodded their heads in approval.

Vader pulled me aside to warn me. “Be careful out there, brother. Vince is known for fucking people in these kinds of situations.”

“I’ve got it covered,” I assured him, lowering my voice.

People still ask me, “Didn’t you see it coming?” The truth was, I’d been reasonable in every way, and with Earl watching my back I thought I had nothing to worry about.

I paced around backstage and waited. When I heard Shawn’s music drowned out by boos, I had no idea that he had just pretended to wipe his ass with the Canadian flag and then laid it out in the middle of the ring and pretended to fuck it hard. Back home in Calgary, Stu was watching in disgust.

He took very real offense to Shawn’s actions, as did everyone in the building and all across Canada. If I’d done that in the United States, I might have been lynched.

I grabbed my own flag, handed it to Blade and said, “Let’s go, boy!” He marched all the way to the curtain with me, Jim, Davey and Owen, with Paul Jay’s crew trailing right behind us. Hunter was not where he was supposed to be for the run in. An annoyed Rick Rude was suspicious. He pursed his lips and told me, “I’ll watch your back in case they try to jump you or pull anything funny on you out there.” Excitement and doubt pulsed through me as my music blared. I disappeared through the curtain to an explosion of noise.

I entered the ring tense but unafraid—and proud. If Shawn so much as tried anything, I’d take him out hard and fast. Shawn jumped me before the bell, but I battled right back, and we began working.

We fought through the crowd, with me decking agents and referees one after another. Somewhere in the middle of it I locked eyes with Vince and shook my fist at him. Shawn was flopping and flying for me everywhere. Before long I had a blue-and-white Que-bec flag wrapped around Shawn’s neck, and the Molson Centre was coming apart at the seams. Only when I finally got him into the ring did the bell signal the start of the match.

Halfway through what was to be a thirty-minute match, I made my way to the top corner. When I leaped off, Shawn pulled Earl in front of me, and the collision left both me and Earl sprawled out on the mat. Shawn then stepped over me to put on the sharpshooter, but he crossed my legs wrong, so I called up to him, “The other way,” and he switched them. As Shawn turned me onto my stomach, I saw Earl for a split second motioning with his fingers and Vince, strangely, standing at the ring apron wearing an angry scowl. Then he screamed at the bell ringer, Mark Yeaton, “Ring the bell! Ring the fucking bell!” Yeaton, in stunned disbelief, couldn’t bring himself to do it. I frantically tried to reverse the sharp-shooter on Shawn as Vince snapped hard at Yeaton—and the bell clanged, over and over.

I couldn’t believe Earl fucked me.

It felt like all the blood in my veins had just evaporated.

Earl jumped out of the ring and ran away as fast as he could toward Jack Lanza and Dave Hebner, who were waiting at the top of the ramp with a car running.

My first thought was that I’d somehow let the whole country down.

Shawn put on a show, cussing and carrying on as if he wasn’t in on the whole thing.

I saw Vince on the floor. The thought crossed my mind to jump out and go crazy on him. I looked over at Mark Yeaton, his mouth open and tears in his eyes. I leaned over the top rope, carefully aimed, and spit at Vince, hitting him right between the eyes. I saw Shawn hoisting the belt in the air in victory, and then being hustled away down the aisle by Hunter and Jerry Brisco. Vince kept trying to wipe my spit from his eyes.

The crowd totally got what had just happened and began angrily chanting, “Bullshit! Bullshit!” The Montreal fans were outraged: a spark was all it would take to have a full-scale riot—and that was a bad idea. I had to calm myself and think smart. What would my dad do?

Looking out at the stunned crowd, I fought the tears that were swimming in my eyes and thought, Don’t you dare give these backstabbers the satisfaction of seeing you cry over any of this! Don’t you dare cry! I worked so hard for him, fourteen years, all I wanted was my dignity.

They’d cut the ring mic, but the cameras were still rolling, so I painted WCW in giant letters in the air for all to see. Owen, Davey and Jim soon surrounded me. Owen said, “You don’t look bad for this, they do! You were all class!” When I met their eyes, I could feel myself dying inside.

My lower lip start to quiver, so I bit it.

Owen stood beside me, and his strength helped me keep it together. He told me that he and Rick had been duped into looking everywhere for Hunter, when Hunter was at ringside all along. For what seemed like an eternity, I looked out at the sea of sad people who felt as betrayed as I did, knowing what disrespect had been paid to me, my family and millions of fans all around the world! I told myself to never forget this feeling, ever.

I jumped down from the ring and commenced smashing Vince’s expensive TV monitors to the floor and tossing his headsets out into the crowd, surrounded by security guards who couldn’t quite figure out whether this was part of the storyline. On my way backstage I passed by Blade, who looked equally sad and puzzled, then by Julie and the rest of the kids, all of them shocked to silence.

Surrounded by Paul’s crew, I headed straight for Vince’s office and tried to break the steel door down. I gave up and walked back toward the dressing room, hounded by Japanese reporters who thought I’d explain everything that had happened for them right then and there. I felt like The Terminator. I wasn’t the only one. I saw the Harris twins kicking over barrels of garbage and punching the walls. The wrestlers were ready to riot too.

Nothing to do but go home now. Blade trailed after me as I headed to the dressing room, but when I got to there, I found my bag sitting out in the hallway. I picked it up and walked inside only to see Shawn sitting in the corner.

“Shawn, you weren’t in on that?”

“I swear to fucking God, I had nothing to do with it!”

“You weren’t in on it?”

“So help me God, I don’t know anything about it!” He threw the belt on the floor and said he refused to wear it. Paul Jay’s camera crew were right behind me filming everything they could. I wanted to rip Shawn to shreds—deep down I knew he was in on it all the way—but I didn’t want to lose my cool in front of Blade. “Shawn,” I said, “I’ll judge you by what you do tomorrow on TV.” I looked around at a roomful of stricken wrestlers and calmly said, “If they can do this to me, they can do this to anyone. Remember that.”