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“Well at first I enjoyed it but now I know that it’s time to go it’s a good place for the older guys but for a young guy like me it’s a dead end I’ve been doing everything on my own and I’ve been getting over good without any help from the office I feel I have a similar talent as The Rock only he’s in the WWF getting a push and I’m stuck in WCW.”

I went on and on, just pouring my heart out to this total stranger who was technically my occupational enemy. But to Vince’s credit he listened intently, nodded when he should’ve, and gave me a chance to vent, even though I sounded at best like a raving lunatic and, at worst, a total mark who was comparing himself to The Rock.

But I’d been watching Vince for so long that I felt like I knew him and I just had to spill my guts and get it all out. I was hoping that he was going to say, “Well we’re going to hire you and make you a big star!” But he kept his cards close to his chest and merely insinuated that we may work together someday. After all I was still under contract to the enemy.

After our little chat, the meeting resumed and when I was asked my opinions on the show, I gave them. They made me feel like I was already a part of the company. It was a total smoke-and-mirror show designed to impress me. It did.

After the meeting was done, Vince’s housekeeper brought in a big plate of brownies and they were spectacular. The whole experience was surreal.

I’d been scraping and clawing my way around the world with the sole intention of someday working for the WWF. Now before I’d even had one match with the company, I was sitting at a table at Vince’s house eating brownies and participating in a booking meeting.

It was like walking out of the black and white Kansas of the WCW world into the color Oz of the WWF world. Here’s Vince McMahon wearing a suit in his own house in comparison to Bischoff slumming around in sweats and biker gear in front of his employees at a flagship Nitro event. Here’s a team of professionals planning the show weeks in advance compared to a bunch of guys scrambling to get their shit together twenty minutes before the show. Vince was a larger-than-life presence, not some wannabe following the cool kids around, like Eric appeared to be doing at times.

After Vince and I finished our brownie, there was a moment where each of us silently debated whether or not to have another one. When we both looked at the plate at the same time our eyes met and we knew exactly what the other was thinking. It was a bonding moment that I’ll never forget because it showed that Vince was human, just like me.

“Well, let’s have another brownie,” he said with a hearty laugh. “Nothing wrong with two gentlemen having a second brownie, right?”

So we did and shortly after I left his house. If I’d had Dr. Emmett Brown’s DeLorean, I would’ve driven to 88.8 jigowatts (I know, I know) and gone ten months into the future. In my head, I was already having an occupational affair and mentally cheating on my bitchy WCW wife with the much hotter WWF girlfriend.

As far as I know, Eric never found out about my secret meeting (unless he’s reading this book...sorry Eric) and he was on a mission to have me sign that contract. I couldn’t hold him off anymore and finally told him I wasn’t going to sign.

Truth be told, I felt bad about my decision because my word had always been my bond and I was going back on it. But I justified my actions by telling myself that since he’d taken five months to get back to me about the contract, he was in breach of our verbal agreement. I know I’m grasping at straws here, but if you’re going to say I went back on my word at least add an asterisk.

Bischoff was furious. “You can’t do that! What’s wrong with you? We had a deal. You went back on your word.”

To an extent he was right, although I could’ve brought up all of the promises he’d made to me that never transpired, but what was the point? I was OUT.

Eric wasn’t going to let it go, calling me an asshole and a fucking liar. Then he said, “Well if you won’t sign,