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I brought Penzer a new jacket (only to tear it to pieces again later) and begged the crowd for their forgiveness. They gave it to me at first until they caught on to what I was doing and started booing me. Those boos were like hearing trumpets from heaven because they meant that I was actually getting over. The fans were forming an opinion about me and for the first time were interested in what I was doing.

Terry suggested that I start using a submission move as my finish instead of the Lionsault. He felt a submission would give me credibility and add a serious side to what was essentially an amusing character.

Terry’s idea was to use a Fujiwara arm bar. In Japan I’d used a version of the Boston Crab where I would lean all my weight onto my opponent’s neck, and I thought it would work better. I even had the perfect name, the Liontamer. Terry dug it and Lion Heart Chris Jericho’s WCW career officially kicked into overdrive.

I decided that as a heel I wanted to be the polar opposite of the nWo. I had no interest in being the cool heel that defied authority and was intimidated by nothing and nobody. I wanted to be a coward and a blowhard. The type of person you wanted to punch in the face but didn’t quite dare, so you hoped that he’d step in dogshit and track it all over his new carpet instead.

I modified my look by growing long sideburns and tying a Gene Simmons/poodle topknot in my hair. I had a white leather vest airbrushed with a big picture of myself on the back. I wore elbow-length gloves and walked to the ring with an arrogant, almost effeminate glide. I barged into the TV truck and changed my music from the wimpy Basketball Highlights #12 to the slightly less wimpy Basketball Highlights #17. It went from a lame Journey rip-off to a lame Pearl Jam rip-off, but at least it was a step up.

I gave myself nicknames such as the Paragon of Virtue, Your Role Model, The Ayatollah of Rock N Rolla (shamelessly ripped off from The Road Warrior), and the Epicenter of Excitement.

I would apologize about a dastardly deed and claim that I would Never Eeeeeeeever Do It Agayn, pronouncing “again” in a Canadian accent, pissing people off even more. I spewed out whatever came into my head, the more preposterous the better.

Signs started to appear in crowds proclaiming “Jericho Is a Crybaby” or “Jericho Sucks,” proving Jimmy Hart’s theory correct.

I’d mispronounce the names of the other performers as if I held them in such low regard I wasn’t quite sure what their names were: Don Malenko, Roy Mysterio Jr., Jojo Dillon, Chris Benoyt, Tony Skiavone, Tooker B. The more juvenile the better.

Before every match I’d cut an inane promo, starting with “Onta Gleeban Glouten Globen” or “I Want You to Want Me!” Then I’d leap into the air with an Eddie Van Halen split-legged jump and my tongue sticking out.

I got serious during another promo and took off my shades, only to reveal a second pair underneath. I would rarely admit to losing and when I did I’d claim that my opponent was a one-hit wonder like Dexys Midnight Runners.

I was totally obnoxious and did whatever I could to make the fans think I was a jerk and an idiot.

People began to seriously hate me but even though I was becoming one of the most entertaining parts of the show, I was still relegated to my caste. At least I was having fun, which was the whole point of wrestling in the first place.

When Eric decided that he didn’t want the Mexican luchadores to wear masks anymore, even though they were a part of their culture and tradition, it was decided that I’d beat Juventud Guerrera for his mask.

I insulted Juvie incessantly for weeks talking about how ugly he was without his mask, how he resembled Quasimodo, how the people would beg me to allow him to keep his mask on, etc. Juvie wasn’t very strong with his English—his butchering of the English language was legendary. Combined with a voice that sounded like Fez, it was impossible for him to verbally defend himself.

After claiming for weeks that I was going to take his mask, I did by making him submit to the Liontamer