Undisputed_ How to Become the World Champion in 1,372 Easy Steps - Chris Jericho [133]
Completely terrified at this point, I sputtered meekly, “Can I please get some roast beef?”
He put the thinnest slice of roast beef I’d ever seen on my plate.
“Please, sir, can I have some more?” I asked pathetically, feeling like Oliver Twist.
“No! There’s a limit on roast beef!” said the Buffet Nazi.
I shuffled down the line, like George Costanza buying soup. “Can I have a Yorkshire pudding?” He gave me the smallest one.
“Is there any way I can have another one of those?”
“Only one! Everyone only gets one!”
I nodded at Buffet Nazi, happy that he hadn’t beheaded me, and sat down to eat the most delicious meal of the tour. The Yorkshire pudding was delightful and it alone was worth the browbeating I received. I wiped my plate clean and patiently waited until everyone else had eaten. Then I made my move and approached Buffet Nazi timidly.
“Excuse me, sir. Now that everyone else has eaten, may I please have another Yorkshire pudding and another slice of roast beef?”
Buffet Nazi stared at me, deciding if I was worthy of a second helping. Finally Buffet Nazi acquiesced and with a death stare begrudgingly put the food on my plate.
I nodded thanks, and as I left to eat my food Buffet Nazi leaned over the buffet and whispered menacingly, “I’m a big fan.”
Fozzy had been approached to do a track for a Judas Priest tribute album and we’d decided on “Metal Gods.” I was on my way to Atlanta to lay down the vocals and was at the gate waiting to board the plane when my cell rang. It was Shane McMahon, which was a surprise since I hadn’t talked to him for months. But as soon as I heard the somber tone of his voice, my stomach dropped ’cos I knew somebody had died.
“I have some terrible news …”
“What is it?” I asked.
“Eddy Guerrero is dead.”
I was hit with a horrible case of déjà vu and felt the same way as I had ten years before when Norman Smiley told me Art Barr had died. My body went numb and I lost all the strength in my legs as I collapsed. I tried to ask Shane what happened, but a stifled squeak was all I could manage.
“I know this is terrible. I know how close you guys were. He was in a hotel in Minneapolis and he wasn’t answering his phone, so Chavo and Dean went into his room and found him dead. We don’t know the cause.”
I buckled into a seat and sat there stunned. Tears welled out of my eyes as I thanked Shane and muttered I’d call him later. I hung up and was about to dial home when Jess called me first. She was in a panic: “Shane just called the house—”
Before she finished the sentence, we both started crying together.
I said, “I don’t know what to do. Do I come home or go record this song …?”
But as always the show must go on, and I decided to get on the plane and just keep on keepin’ on. I still don’t know if it was the right thing to do, but it was a plan, something I could follow that would keep my mind off of what I had just heard. I flew to Atlanta, went into the studio, and sang better than I ever had in my life.
Singing is a lot like acting—the more you relate to the vibe and feel of the song the better you’ll do. I was so angry and filled with raw emotion that I nailed the song in two takes and said, “Fuck it. I’m out of here.”
We had to cancel the first few shows of a Canadian tour we had booked so I could attend Eddy’s funeral. A few days earlier, I’d received a call from “Superstar” Billy Graham, asking me if I would say a few words at the service. I was honored but a little confused as to why Graham was in charge. It wasn’t like he and Eddy were the best of friends.
When I got to the funeral home Superstar handed me a rundown sheet, as if it was an episode of Raw. “Okay. You’ll be up fourth and you have five minutes. Make sure you don’t go overtime as we have to make sure that Vince has as much time to talk as he wants.”
Five minutes? What was he going to do if I talked longer—go to commercial? It was a funeral,