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Confused, I asked him what he meant.

“People have been calling me all day and laughing at me. Well I don’t do the comedy bullshit that you do and I just want you to know you’re gonna pay the price for it.”

I was surprised at his reaction because I thought we were on good terms. We both loved hockey and once went to a Boston Bruins game together. I thought he would’ve gotten a kick out of Dwarfberg. But as popular and successful as Bill was he was still very green about the business. As a result the backstage vultures were clouding his brain with manipulation, drooling at the thought of being the one to end his winning streak.

“I just work here, Bill. I wish I had the power to book the matches, but I don’t.”

He grunted and as he walked away he repeated, “I hope it was worth it, Jericho.”

It really wasn’t, because the segment wasn’t very memorable. But someone must’ve liked it, because the next night at Thunder I was told to go to the ring and challenge Goldberg to a fight even though he wasn’t at the show.

I didn’t care that he was pissed about the previous night’s show and I was happy to have an angle. So I went to the ring and bragged to the crowd about my won-loss record of Jericho 1, Goldberg 0. I challenged him to a match and had the ref count to 10. When he didn’t show, I won the match by count-out and now it was Jericho 2, Goldberg 0.

Then I cut a scathing promo about how I’d been the one to finally tarnish his name. He was no longer Goldberg because I was renaming him Greenberg, a name that matched his experience in the business.

“Who’s your daddy, Greenberg? Who’s your daddy?”

The next week I went to a T-shirt shop and had a shirt made that said, “Jericho—2, Goldberg—0” and wore it to the ring. I knew the feud was getting over because there were signs scattered throughout the arena keeping score and saying “Goldberg Fears Jericho” and “Jericho’s Next.”

The angle that Terry Taylor booked to give me something to do on a Sunday afternoon had turned into one of the hottest angles in the company and, like my last hot angle, my opponent wasn’t directly involved with it. But I was involved 200 percent and had a ton of ideas to further the story.

One of my bits (directly ripped off from Spinal Tap) had me getting lost on my way to the ring for a match against Wrath. I was planning to continue my mocking of Goldberg by coming to the ring led by a security team, one of his trademarks. (Supremely Cool Author’s Note: If Goldberg was so tough, why did he need a full security team to take him to the ring? Things that make you go hmmmm.)

I debated using the local wrestlers in the building as my security force, but I thought it would be funnier if I came to the ring led by a crew of misfits instead. I had the perfect guy in mind to start off with.

I’d always see one of the company truck drivers hanging around and he had, shall we say, a very unique look. His hairline receded to his neck and he sported a massive gut. He frequently flashed a friendly smile that accentuated his missing front teeth and a pair of fanglike incisors that protruded out of each side of his mouth. He had a face only a mother could love and Mother Jericho wanted him for a bodyguard.

I approached him and asked him if he wanted to be on TV.

“Sure,” he said with a punji stick grin. “Whaddya want me ta do?”

I patted him on the chest (cutting my hand on his teeth in the process) and handed him a cut-off wifebeater that caused his gut to hang over the belt of his dress pants. Then I took a marker and wrote on the front:

JERICHO

PERSONAL

SECURITY

The JPS was born.

My new bodyguard needed a name and I’d just seen the 1970s horror movie Blood Sucking Freaks. The flick featured a maniacal Oates (as in Hall and...) looking dwarf named Ralphus. The rest is Jeric-History.

Ralphus knocked on my dressing room door and we began our walk to the ring. But we weren’t quite sure where it was. I opened one door and found a broom closet. Another led me into catering. I shouted “Hello Cleveland!” in tribute. Then