Undisputed_ How to Become the World Champion in 1,372 Easy Steps - Chris Jericho [104]
I was getting cocky at this point because he wasn’t moving. In the back of my mind, I still had the idea that he was going to morph into a savage animal, throw me off, and draw and quarter me. But he never did. It seemed that the Goldschlager was all smoke and mirrors. Maybe he’d always gotten by on the intimidation factor and had never been tested. Maybe he was being nice and didn’t want to fight back because he was the new kid on the block. If that was the case, this muscle-bound Joey McIntyre was getting manhandled.
With adrenaline surging through my veins and my confidence rolling, I thought of the Japanese magazines Funaki had brought into the dressing room earlier in the day containing pictures of Royce Gracie fighting. Gracie’s calling card was a front facelock with his legs scissored around his opponent’s midsection, and after seeing photos of him doing the hold I decided to give it a try. I egged him on as I crossed my legs around his midsection: “C’mon, Mr. Shooter! Try to get out of this one!” He got to his feet again and we busted through the doors at the back of the dressing room, straight into the hallway filled with surprised fans who got a bonus match that night.
We scuffled back into the dressing room and were finally broken up by Arn Anderson, Terry Taylor, Hurricane, Christian, and Booker T. Nash Mantis continued to sit in his chair in the corner of the room watching the festivities.
Goldfinger and I were separated, and if you’ve ever been in a fight that’s been broken up by your friends, you can probably relate to what happened next. As Christian and Hurricane were restraining me they were inadvertently setting me up to be murdered at the same time, because when Goldsworthy broke free of the pack they still had my arms pinned to my sides.
“Let go! Let go! He’s going to kill me!” I screamed, closing my eyes and preparing to have my face caved in.
They realized what was going on and let me go at the last minute, but it was too late. He broke through and reared his fist back. I tensed up and prepared for him to knock my block off, but—he started pulling my hair instead.
I couldn’t believe that the mighty Berggold was tugging at my hair like a five-year-old during play time. What was up with this guy?
I figured if he hadn’t knocked me out yet, he was never going to. So I pried his hand out of my hair and pie-faced him as hard as I could. He stumbled back and stared at me in surprise.
I was done with this bitch fight and I screamed, “What the hell is wrong with you, man? You’re acting like a goof!”
Goldrush screamed back, “Your mother is a fucking goof!”
Booker T got the most quizzical look on his face as he chewed on the unlit cigar he always seemed to have in his mouth and said, “Hold up! Did you just say his mother is a fucking goof? That’s the worst insult I ever heard, man.”
We continued jaw-jacking back and forth until we both calmed down. We were separated into our respective corners, and after a few minutes I walked back over to Billbo and said matter-of-factly, “Here’s the deal. You can shake my hand right now and we can forget about this. Or we can come to work and do this every single week. I don’t give a shit either way. Your call.”
GoGoBoy looked me in the eye, stuck out his hand to shake mine, and we called a truce.
I walked back to my chair and saw a text on my phone from Disco Inferno, who had already heard that Goldbone and I had gotten into a fight. It had been ten minutes.
Telephone, telegraph, tell a wrestler.
For the next week, everybody I knew in the business called or pulled me aside to ask me about the BIG FIGHT. I was forced to relay the lion’s tale over and over again to everyone from Bruce Pritchard to Jim Ross to Gerry Brisco to the champ himself.
I was