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Until Milwaukee.

It was Goldfinch’s first Raw, and I worked with HHH vs. Shawn and Booker T. After the match I was pulled aside and informed that Goldsmith had spent the entire match barking to Nash about how I didn’t know how to sell properly and how I hadn’t wanted to do business with him in WCW.

This pissed me off, because I never had a problem selling for him or anybody else for that matter. I’ve always done business, and it was business I was trying to do when I wanted to put Bill over properly in WCW. But it was obvious that he still had a chip on his shoulder when it came to me. It made me mad that he had only been with the company for a little over a week and he was already up to his old tricks. It was time to put a stop to it right now.

I marched straight into the dressing room and saw Nash sitting in the corner like a giant praying mantis acting like he owned the place, while Billy Boy sat across from him with a self-indulgent smile on his face. Throwing caution to the wind, I stood in front of him and stared directly into his eyes.

“I heard you were saying some stuff about me during my match. I don’t know if you realize it, but things have changed. This isn’t WCW. If you have something to say to me, say it to my face.”

Goldbug gave a shaky laugh and said, “I didn’t say anything about you.”

“Bullshit. I know you did.”

Something snapped in the Bergermeister and he jumped to his feet. “Oh yeah? What about all that stuff you were saying about me on the Internet?”

Internet? Internet?? You’ve got to be kidding me! I didn’t spend enough time on the Internet to check out Club Jenna properly, let alone talk shit about Bill Fucking Goldeye.

“What are you talking about?”

A vein in his neck popped out like a worm as he shouted back, “Mike Tenay told me that you said stuff about me on the Internet!”

I looked at him in disbelief and said, “Listen, Bill. It’s simple. I could be your best friend in this company or your worst enemy. We’re probably going to be working with each other at some point, and I could either make you look like a million bucks or make you look like shit, and you wouldn’t know the difference! We’re all here to make money and do business together, so just fucking relax!”

“You never wanted to do the job for me in WCW! You’re a prima donna!”

“You’re totally wrong about th—”

Before I could finish the sentence, Goldfish grunted like a Neanderthal (the vein in his neck now resembling a corpulent slug) and grabbed me by the throat.

Now, let me preface the rest of this story by saying that I’m not the toughest man in the world, nor have I ever claimed to be. However, when someone puts their hand on my throat and begins to squeeze, it’s time to throw hands. Am I right? Let’s take a vote to make sure: All in favor that a hand on the throat preceded by a prehistoric growl is provocation to fight, say aye.

Okay, we’re all in agreement on that, then—except for that one guy in Peoria, and your case is weak.

Once Goldster made his move, I reacted the only way I knew how. I swatted his hand off my throat and gave him a two-handed push to the chest. He rushed forward with his head down and tried to tackle me, like the ex– NFL lineman that he was. I stepped to the side like the world’s worst matador and grabbed him in a front facelock. It was the only shoot hold I knew, one that harkened back to my days bouncing at Malarkey’s in Calgary. I think I surprised the shit out of him with my lethal hold and was able to power him down to the ground, applying pressure because I knew if I pushed his throat into his chest long enough, he might pass out. I really hoped that he would go to sleep, because I was sure that he was going to fire up and kick the shit out of me. I mean, come on, have you ever seen this guy? He is massive!

I continued to hold my ground and couldn’t figure out why he wasn’t fighting back. I got a little lazy and released the pressure slightly, and suddenly he rolled on top of me. I was freaking out at this