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I racked my brain and decided to exact my revenge by stuffing raw eggs into his wrestling boots and cutting the laces minutes before his match. I put my plan in motion and stifled a giggle when Doc stuck his foot into his boot, cracking the eggs. I waited for him to freak out, alerting everyone to my master plan. Instead he diabolically diffused my rib by silently cleaning out his boots and tying knots in his laces and nobody was ever the wiser.

I learned two important lessons that day:

1. Never sell a rib, and

2. Never whip out your Dustin Diamond in front of a camera.

Did I mention how cold the dressing room was?

Now reunited, Robbie, Doc, and I had a couple of strippers take us on the two-hour drive to Hanover to visit the boys in the CWA. The Catch Wrestling Association was the WWF of Germany and I wanted to check out the difference between Rene’s promotion and the big leagues. Their tent was fancier than ours and the crowd was a little bigger, but other than that it was pretty much the same scenario as Hamburg, with one notable exception.

The quality of the workers in Hanover was head and shoulders above our group. The best of the lot was Fit Finlay, an Irishman who was the king of the heels in the company. That night I watched his match and he commanded five fines against a young guy I’d never seen before or since. Fit was a friend of Robbie and Doc and when they introduced me he said, “What are you doing here?”

“I’m wrestling in Hamburg right now.”

Finlay smiled his gap-toothed grin. “Give those guys in Hamburg a message for me,” he said cheerily.

“Sure,” I replied just as cheerily.

“Tell those cunts to fuck off.”

I returned to Hamburg and told everyone that Finlay had wished them well in their future endeavors.

Toward the end of the tourney, a sign was posted in the dressing room announcing that Kinder Catch would be held the following Sunday. Kinder Catch was probably the worst idea I’d ever heard. The basic premise was that you would baby-sit a bunch of kids under the age of ten and tell them wrestling’s secrets. We should have told them that Santa Claus was bullshit too while we were at it. Now playing the role of Catfish Charlie...Chris Jericho.

I arrived that morning straight from the Kaiserkeller sporting a horrible hangover. Rene had all the kids line up in the ring and showed them our tricks, like a turncoat magician at a child’s birthday party. The kids ran around the ring doing drop kicks and taking bumps while we tried to make sure they didn’t break their Kinder necks.

When the last day of the tournament arrived, nobody seemed to know who was in the final. When the tournament started there’d been a chart in the front lobby listing all the standings, but it had been taken down a few days later because I don’t think Rene knew how he wanted the tournament to end.

I was in the tourney and I was confused, so I can just imagine how the fans felt. It wouldn’t have been hard to figure out a point system or a round-robin bracketing, but Rene was just too lazy. He didn’t think people would care about such details, even though it was a TOURNAMENT.

But I found out that I’d advanced to the semifinals (who knew?) and would be facing Drew McDonald to decide the third-place winner. There’d been zero buildup for the match but the crowd was still buzzing when we stood across from each other in the parade. It was hard to keep a straight face during the staredown as he was flexing his thigh and the tits of naked girl tattooed on his leg’s were bouncing up and down. It was actually a lot cooler than it sounds.

We had great chemistry and the match went perfectly. During the entire tournament, Drew had been trying to convince me to try a move he’d thought of where I would do a Frankensteiner with the both of us standing on the top rope. I thought it was impossible but he kept bringing it up and I finally agreed to do it for the last match. We both climbed to the top and I jumped up on his shoulders,