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I couldn’t stop my verbal diarrhea and told him that Big Titan (who, ironically, would become the WWF’s Fake Razor Ramon) and I had come up with names that would still allow them to use similar gimmicks.

“Instead of Diesel and Razor Ramon, you should call them Octane and Philoshave Phil,” I said with a grin. Eric didn’t respond and I wilted like a sixty-year-old man’s boner.

Awkward silence.

After I ate my lunch of crow, we went back up to Eric’s office and he got right to the point.

“I’m not going to waste any time with bullshit, I want you to come work for WCW. I think you have the potential to be our version of Shawn Michaels. You have the look and the charisma and you could be a big asset for us. I want to bring you in and start you off hot.”

I was honored by his compliments but I was confused by Eric’s next statement.

“I’d love to see a Chris Jericho–Brad Armstrong feud. I mean, I really see this Brad Armstrong–Chris Jericho thing.”

Talk about a mixed message.

Eric had just compared me to Shawn Michaels, one of the WWF’s biggest stars. Then in almost the same sentence, he talked about starting me off in a feud against Brad Armstrong, who was universally regarded as a great worker but had been portrayed by WCW as a much smaller star than Shawn Michaels.

A feud with Brad didn’t seem to be a fast ticket to stardom, but I respected Eric’s vision and agreed. Then he asked me how much money I wanted per year. This was the moment of truth. I’d done a little math and figured out how much I was making in Japan and how much I thought I was worth to WCW. I summoned up my courage, took a deep breath, and went for it.

“Well, Eric, I thought about it and since I’m making good money in Japan, I can’t see myself coming in for any less than $100,000.”

There...it was out.

It was a ludicrously high number and I expected him to laugh my inflated-self-worth ass right out of his office. Instead Eric nodded and said, “I see you in the category of Dean Malenko, Eddy Guerrero, and Chris Benoit and I don’t want you to make any less than they do. I’ll give you $135,000, which is what they’re making.”

My eyes bugged out of my head like Jim Carrey in The Mask.

A hundred thirty-five thousand dollars to do something I loved? Was he high?

But Eric wasn’t finished.

“I’m also going to want you to move to Atlanta and that’s not going to be cheap. So I’ll give you another $30,000 a year to help you cover the cost of the move. And I want you to sign the deal for three years.”

I was blown away by his offer despite the fact that he was negotiating against himself and telling me how much my fellow employees were making, and I was ready to sign for ten years. Keep in mind that the most I’d ever made in a year up to that point was about $50,000 and you’ll understand why I was in shock. I’d just been exposed to the magical generosity of ATM Eric.

I accepted his offer, left his office, and called my dad to tell him what had happened. He was as awestruck as I was, but he told me a story about his first contract negotiation with the New York Rangers almost twenty-five years earlier.

In 1970, he’d had a really good season with the Rangers, so he went to renegotiate his contract with the team’s general manager, Emile Francis.

“You know, Emile, I had a good season and I think I showed my value to the team. I’d like to ask you for a raise to $27,000 a year.” He’d been making $25,000.

Emile offered him $30,000 instead.

My dad walked out of Emile’s office with a smile. A few minutes later, he began feeling like he’d made a mistake because Francis had given him more than what he asked for. A good negotiator asks for more than he thinks he can get and settles for less. If my dad had asked for $35,000, maybe he would’ve gotten it.

I’d fallen into the same trap. Had I asked for $200,000, maybe I would’ve gotten it but I didn’t know any better. I had Constanza-d myself and negotiated for less money.

But I was still ecstatic with Eric