Death Clutch - Brock Lesnar [48]
When it came time for the finish, I cracked him upside his big melon head with the title belt just like I planned. Big Chad dropped to the canvas, I covered him, and the entire arena went quiet. Dead silence. Not a single sound from the crowd. The audience wasn’t buying it. They didn’t pay to see a “fuck finish,” and they’re too intelligent to buy into a cheap horseshit heel victory like that. What a dumb-ass mistake I had just made!
The referee dropped down and started counting, and I’m saying to Big Chad, “Kick out, you son of a bitch, kick out.” One . . . two . . . and the instant before the referee hits the canvas for the three count, Big Chad gets his arm up in the air, and the people went nuts.
We ended up doing some ridiculous finish that served no purpose except to piss off the Inokis, but at least Big Chad cared enough to give them the best match we could manage, and I think, all things considered, it was one hell of a match.
The fact that Big Chad and I could put together a solid match didn’t surprise me. He’s a trained athlete with a lot of pride, and so am I. What did surprise me was that the Inokis didn’t try to get me to drop the title before I left Japan. They probably knew better than to make me feel like I was being backed into a corner, because I was already pissed off that they started playing games with my money.
I thought I was being smart when I went to Japan, because I insisted on private transportation, first-class hotel accommodations with all expenses paid, you name it. If I have to travel halfway around the world to work, at least I’m going to be comfortable while I’m over there.
Part of my deal with New Japan was also to get paid up front. My lawyers set up an escrow account in the United States, and our deal was that I don’t get on a plane until the Inokis wire my money into that account. Then, when my match is over, the money is released directly to me so I never have to worry about going over to Japan and getting stiffed on my payoff. The system worked . . . for a while.
On one of my last trips to Japan, I didn’t get all my money up front, but I got on the plane anyway. I figured the Inokis needed me because I was their champion, and I wasn’t going to step into their ring until I got the word that all of my money had been deposited into the U.S. account. What could go wrong?
Plenty. But I should have known that. Another lesson in life. And, I guess, an interesting story for this book.
When my match was over, the Inokis threw me onto the bus with all the other boys headed to the airport. What the hell? It was in my contract that I was supposed to have a car and driver from the time I land in Japan until the time I’m dropped off at the airport to go home. That bus ride is just brutal, and I wanted no part of it. The Inokis knew I wasn’t expecting to end up riding the bus, and I kept wondering to myself why they would give the IWGP World Heavyweight Champion such a bush-league send-off.
What game were they trying to play with me?
I had been schooled on all sorts of shenanigans the Inokis could try and pull on me. Brad had smartened me up to a famous negotiating trick the Inokis liked to use. They take you to lunch or dinner, and then just stare at you, trying to make you feel uncomfortable. They want you to do all the talking so that you reveal your cards and expose your own business strategy. The first three times I met with the Inokis, that’s exactly how they tried to play me.
Thanks to Brad, I was wise to that tactic, so it didn’t work with me. I would stare back at the Inokis, and talk about whatever popped into my head. I’d keep saying things like, “How about this weather?”; “This food is really great”; “What a beautiful country you have.” I would go on about anything and everything . . . except business. I knew their game, and I was ready for it. That probably drove them crazy.
Another game I was ready for was the Inoki Slap. I guess part of the initiation over in Japan is that all the newcomers end up getting slapped