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You have to understand that in Germany heavy metal isn’t just music, it’s a way of life. The people of Hamburg seemed to me to be strict, cold, and tough with a pissed-off edge. Heavy metal was the perfect soundtrack for their lives.

Jorn showed that toughness by cruising the streets of Hamburg with his friends, one of them being Kai Karczewski, whose father, Uwe, painted the cover of the Walls of Jericho album...see how it all ties together?

They roamed the city looking for fights...with skinheads. While the Nazi-influenced punks patrolled the Reeperbahn looking for drunken partiers or homosexuals to beat the hell out of, Jorn’s gang patrolled the Reeperbahn looking for skinheads to beat the hell out of.

There was still a big Nazi influence in Hamburg existing even in its architecture. In the middle of the city, there was a black fortress of a building perched like a bloated spider casting a dark shadow across the streets. It gave me a bad vibe, so I asked Jorn what it was. I found out it was called the Hafenbunker, a Nazi stronghold where Hitler himself stayed when he was in Hamburg. If there was ever such a thing as a haunted house, the Hafenbunker was it.

One night Jorn and I went to Ante’s for a few beers. But the beers he ordered were a lot different from the Labatt’s I was used to drinking. He’d got me a Guinness and I couldn’t believe how dark and syrupy it was. It was like drinking a stein of Aunt Jemima’s and I was still forcing down my first one when the next round came. Apparently German drinking rules are similar to wrestling drinking rules. Jorn got angry and sternly told me, “You are in Germany. You must drink like a German!”

So I did.

I ended up totally loaded and spent the rest of the night going absolutely crazy. The highlights of which included a foot race between Jorn and me over the roofs of cars parked on the street and a schnitzel-eating contest, which was not a good decision. Holy heartburn, Batman!

I woke up the next morning next to a naked hermaphrodite—whose picture was in the stack of porno magazines scattered across my room. I had spent all of my deutsche marks on such classics as He’s a Woman, She’s a Man, Midget Titties, and Caviar Deluxe (normal Caviar wasn’t enough for this mag) and didn’t remember a damn thing.

Later that night in the dressing room I told my Caviar Deluxe story after taking a post-match shower, while Doc messed around with a movie camera he’d brought with him from Liverpool.

“Hey Lion Heart, what would you do if I was filming right now?” he inquired.

I checked and saw that there was no blinking red light on the camera, so I decided to put on a show.

“I’d take off my towel and shake my shit like this!” I whipped off the towel and started flapping my horn back and forth like a paddleball.

Then I performed a sweet electric slide and a swank Pee-wee Herman tequila dance while my Arthur Digby Sellers whipped to and fro.

“And what if I told you I really was filming?”

“Well, you’re not. The red light’s not blinking.” I started to pogo.

“Actually, it is,” he said and ripped off the piece of black electrical tape that had been hiding the blinking red light.

I scrambled to cover up my Uncle Albert/Admiral Halsey with the bunched-up towel at my feet. “Promise you won’t show that to anyone,” I begged. “It’s freezing in here!”

Later on, all the boys and a ton of fans congregated at Ante’s for the nightly after-show party. I was making some headway with one of Ante’s gorgeous daughters when the whole place suddenly burst out laughing. I turned to the big-screen TV behind the bar and saw my Tico Torres staring back at me with a one-eyed grin.

I felt like George Costanza as I explained how cold the dressing room was. And that shower...there was NEVER hot water in that damn shower. The laughter got louder when my Pee-wee (poor choice of words) Herman dance began.

I was furious and I didn’t speak to Doc for a week. He finally cornered me in the dressing room and said, “Listen man if you want