A Lion's Tale_ Around the World in Spandex - Chris Jericho [92]
I even gave my prescription for them to a wrestler named Brian Lee, who was quite concerned. “Hey man, doesn’t your arm hurt?”
“Strangely it doesn’t,” I said. “I don’t think I’m gonna need these painkillers.”
“Thank God, I was so worried,” Brian cooed. Then his concern melted away and he said, “Can I have your prescription then?”
I spoke to Tom and Jimmy, my Heavenly Body opponents, before the match and told them even with a fractured radius I refused to change a damn thing about the match. We would do it just the way we’d planned it a few days earlier. The iron will that I’d inherited from my mom was in full force that day.
During the match I was a machine, throwing left-handed punches, drop kicks, executing flips, and taking hard bumps. I even slammed Jimmy Del Ray with one arm—not that I had that much to do with it mind you. The Bodies were consummate pros and took such good care of me, you never would have known that I only had one functional arm.
Cornette had worked a deal to have Jim Ross, the greatest wrestling announcer of all time, announce the matches for the TV show. His work in calling the bout gave it a major league feel as he sold both the match and the story line behind it to the fans at home as something special. He also covered for me and said that I’d broken my arm in a motorcycle accident earlier in the day, rather than saying that one of the top babyfaces had broken his arm by screwing up a move that he had no business trying in the first place.
Cornette’s plan for the finish was for me to get the living shit kicked out of me, until I ended up covered in blood from the same crazy bump that Cornette had raved about seeing me do on Lance’s original audition tape. Referee Brian would make the decision to stop the match but before he could award it the Heavenly Bodies, I would beg him to let it continue. The Thrillseekers would then beat the odds with our courage and win the match putting us at a different level in the fan’s eyes. It would’ve worked too, if it wasn’t for those meddling kids and that darned broken arm.
Everything about the match was picture-perfect. Lance called it one of the most incredible experiences of his entire career. The fans were behind us, every move was crisp, and I ended up covered in more blood than Sissy Spacek in Carrie. It was as if I had a bucket of it poured over my head. Even Lance was worried and on the tape of the match you can even see him ask me, “Are you okay?”
After Lance super-kicked Jimmy Del Ray, allowing me to roll him up for the 3-count, I rolled onto the floor, my hair soaking wet with gore. Brian came to check on me and both of us were covered in plasma, when a stereotypical redneck fan with overalls and a cowboy hat said, “That ain’t real blood!”
How could it not be? Did I have an invisible tube running up my back to the top of my head? Did I dump a bag of Karo syrup on myself when no one was looking? Give me a break, assclown! Then he dipped his finger in the pool of my DNA and put it in his mouth.
“Yeah, that’s not real,” he said knowingly to his friend. Bad call, Foghorn. How did I taste?
My tights were soaked with blood and after I took a shower in the dressing room, the stall looked like an abattoir. I had a three-inch cut on my forehead to match the broken bone in my arm. At least I already had hospital time booked the next day. Maybe I could get a two-for-one.
The night got even worse when I had to hawk Thrillseekers gimmicks during intermission and a plethora of girls wanted me to paint the town red (poor choice of words) with them after the show. I’d love to go, ladies, but I have to get a three-inch plate and seven screws inserted into my arm tomorrow. How ’bout a rain check?
Twelve hours later I was in an operating room with a gas mask over my