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“Hi, how are you doing, Chris? I’m a big fan of your work.”

I thanked the kid and started looking for security to help him find his parents. “How did you get backstage, buddy?”

“I work here now.”

Work here? Okay, maybe he was a hot dog vendor or somebody’s kid who was on the payroll as a gofer. I asked him in my most patronizing tone, “Really. So what do you do?”

“I’m the new writer for Raw. My name is Brian Gewirtz and I’m looking forward to working with you.”

The new era of the WWE had arrived.

No longer would I be responsible for writing all of my promos, as Vince had decided to utilize scriptwriters the same way that Hollywood TV shows did. From now on every one of my promos would be written and delivered to me. I had the option to make changes, but the days of writing everything down on a legal pad in my room and bringing it to the shows were gone. Brian was in charge now—and he looked like he wasn’t even old enough to drink a beer. But we had a lot in common and we got along right away. He understood my character and was a fan, so for the first time since Russo left I had an ally on the booking team.

I figured that after I beat Chyna for the title that my sentence with her was over and I’d move on to a feud with someone who had a dinky, but I was wrong. For some reason Vince liked the chemistry I had with Chyna and wanted to continue the story— and in doing so he came up with the all-time worst angle I was ever involved in.

He called us into his office, and as we sat in uncomfortable silence you could cut the aversion with a knife.

“The writers and I have been talking and we’ve decided that the two of you are going to be the co-holders of the Intercontinental title. For the first time ever in the WWE we are going to have co-champions. You’ll both defend it and you will constantly debate with each other about who the champion really is. Quite frankly I think it will be an incredible dynamic.”

I sat there looking California and feeling Minnesota. I couldn’t believe that I’d have to share the title with her. I would’ve been happier just dropping it to her so I could wash my hands of the whole Chyna experience and move on to something (anything) else.

However I had once again been given my orders, and it was my job to make chicken shit into chicken salad.

But I had a feeling I was about to embark on Mission Impossible, and I ain’t talking about Tom Cruise.

So we became co-champions after I German suplexed (whatever happened to that move?) Chyna and both of our shoulders ended up on the mat. The ref counted to three on both of us, and instead of calling it a draw, he decided that we would become the co-holders of the Intercontinental Championship.

Dumbest.

Idea.

Ever.

Vince’s initial thought was that either of us could defend the title, but it usually ended up with me wrestling and her at ringside. At this point, I suddenly became a babyface. One week I was smashing thumbs with hammers and the next week I was slapping babies and kissing hands with Chyna in my corner rooting me on.

The turn started when the fans began cheering me against Chyna, but instead of building it up and making it mean something, the turn was never made official and the overall response was lukewarm at best.

I would be wrestling Gangrel, and when his valet Luna got involved, Chyna would hit Gangrel with the Pedigree behind the ref’s back. I would then hit the Lionsault and cover him and get the tainted win, which as a babyface was brutal. The fans were starting to get sick of us as well and wanted to see me get involved in something new. Thankfully, Vince knew that his experiment wasn’t working and decided to put it (and me) out of its misery. Somehow poor Bob Holly got dragged into it all and we had a three-way match for the title at the Royal Rumble in Madison Square Garden, with the winner becoming the undisputed IC Champ. After my anemic debut as a performer in MSG, I wanted to make my mark with my debut match in the Garden. I even flew my dad in for the show. It was his return to the building