Death Clutch - Brock Lesnar [23]
I loved working with Show because, just like with Undertaker, I’m in there with someone even I would call a monster. A lot of people consider me to be a monster, but Big Show really is one, so I didn’t mind bumping my ass off for him. The difference in working with Taker and working with Show, besides that mystique Undertaker had, is that Show legitimately weighed five hundred pounds. That wasn’t just a made up gimmick. He weighed five hundred pounds! Picking him up was a bitch. It hurt.
As big as he was, and as much as it hurt to pick his big ass up off the canvas and toss him, I had to do it, and I had to shine when I did, because WWE was planning to have Show beat me for the title. The story would have Paul “double-cross me,” and help Big Show win the championship from the unbeaten Brock Lesnar. So, to set it up, I had to throw this five-hundred-pounder around every night, and that took a toll on my body fast.
The match at Survivor Series was very simple. I F-5’d Show, but Paul would then reveal that he “sold out Brock Lesnar” by breaking up the referee’s count. About a minute later, I would get screwed out of the title. I was the biggest “heel,” or “bad guy,” in WWE, and I had just been robbed. The fans knew my character was going to go after Show and Paul for “revenge,” which made me a new “babyface,” or hero. I can’t say my character became a “good guy,” I was just going to beat up the guys people were willing to pay to see me pound on.
One night in South Africa, Show and I were working in the main event. We had been working with each other for months, and had come up with a pretty easy match we could do every night and make the people happy they had paid their money to see us. He’d go out to the ring with Paul, and Paul would cut a promo, getting the crowd all riled up, which wrestling people called “getting up the heat.” Then I would come in, and we’d start the match hot, with me dumping the big bastard on his head a bunch of times. Show would get his heat, miss something, I’d smash him, F-5 him, and then F-5 Paul after the match. The fans loved it. I loved it, because we knew the routine, and it worked. No problems, right?
There we were in some city in South Africa. Think about it. South Africa. Keep it simple. Same routine. It was safe, it worked, and I was hurting enough just throwing this five-hundred-pound monster around every night. I was tired . . . I was injured . . . and I didn’t want any surprises.
Right before our match, Show came over to where I was dressing, smoking a cigarette. That alone is funny, because a cigarette in that huge hand looks like a cutoff toothpick. I hate cigarettes, and he had to know that. After I made him put the damn thing out, he said, “Let’s change the match around tonight.”
We’re as far away from home as we can be. We might as well be on the planet Mars. We knew the match. It was easy. Why change it? Show got all upset with me, and he kept saying over and over again, “I’m a veteran, I’m the heel, I get to call the match!”
I couldn’t believe he was serious. OK, we were all dealing with the stress from traveling halfway around the world. Bad news for Show, though. I wasn’t in the mood for his shit that night.
“Whatever you wanna do is fine with me,” I told the big grump, “just call it out in the ring.”
So here’s this seven-foot-tall, five-hundred-pound giant, and he’s mumbling to himself as he walks away from me. It’s so funny when I think about it now, because Show is the most likeable guy you’ll ever meet, but he had me ready to kick his ass over in, of all places, South Africa!
Show was all huffy and puffy going out the ring, determined to call the match the way he wanted it to go, but as soon as I hit the ring, I snatched him