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“I know you like to wear stuff like this, and if you ever need me to make anything for you, here’s my card,” he told me as he gave me his card with his cell number written on the back. We invited him to eat dinner with us before the show one night. In the middle of the meal, he asked me an odd question.

“Chris, will you please hold up your fork?”

I held it up, and he just stared at it until it started bending in half. It was unbelievable, and he didn’t stop until it looked like a 7. I had taken the fork out of the random napkin it was wrapped in, so there was no way it was a gimmick or a plant. It was totally amazing, and to this day I still don’t know how he did it.

Even though I’d seen him a few times at our shows, I still wasn’t sure what his name was.

“That was incredible, man! What’s your name again?”

“It’s Criss. Criss Angel.”

A mindfreak indeed. Damn, I wish I still had that card.

Months later I saw him at the World and he told me that he was planning on submerging himself in a tank of water for twenty-four hours in the middle of Times Square. I was wrestling at Madison Square Garden that night, so I told him I’d stop by to lend my support. After the gig I went to the World where he had set up shop, stopping to grab a slice of pizza and a strawberry yogurt first. I walked into the lobby and there he was, submerged in a tank of water. He’d been in the drink for over twelve hours at that point, but when he saw me he waved weakly in my direction. His skin was fish-belly white, and with his mane of jet black hair floating around him he looked like a gothic Luke Skywalker floating in the bacta tank.

I was damn proud of him and gave him a thumbs-up as I took a bite of my delicious pepperoni pizza. He stared back at me glassy-eyed and feebly clawed at the glass that separated us. I figured he was delirious at that point but was probably happy to have a friend to cheer him on. I finished the scrumptious slice of ’za and peeled the tinfoil lid off the yogurt, shielding myself from the inevitable storm of tiny strawberry splotches that followed. As I licked them off my fingers, Criss kept staring longingly at me, and even though it was starting to get a little creepy, I gave him the A-OK sign. I took a big spoonful of the delectable dessert, and just as I put it to my lips, a hairy arm slapped on my shoulder and dragged me around the corner.

I looked up as a burly guy with a mustache (Eli Cottonwood represent yo) got in my face.

“What the hell are you doing? You can’t stand there in front of Criss eating! He’s been in that tank for twelve hours … he’s starving in there and you’re taunting him!” I sheepishly threw my yogurt in the trash and waved goodbye to my valiant friend whom I’d been torturing for the last ten minutes like a college student in Hostel. Criss gawked at me longingly, and even though he was completely submerged with a scuba mask on, I’m pretty sure I saw him drooling.

* * *

What Fozzy lacked in original material we made up for with our live show. During our concerts we would tell jokes, bring fans onstage for beer-chugging or stage-diving contests, have them sing the choruses and rock the shit out of some of the best rock and roll songs of all time. After doing enough jumping, running, and headbanging to make the cast of Celebrity Fit Club sweat, I would always close the show with the same farewell to the faithful:

“We are Fozzy and We Are Huge Rock Stars!!”

I’d learned from wrestling that to market yourself, you needed a great catchphrase, and we had found ours. We expanded from two guitar players to three and for a short period we boasted the first ever four-guitar lineup when Andy Sneap, a Grammy-winning (Petty Author’s Note: It was a Swedish Grammy so it barely counts.) producer who had worked with Fozzy and Stuck Mojo, joined us whenever he was available.

Sneap became Lord Edgar Bayden Powell, a direct descendant of King Arthur. His stage garb consisted of a full-body chain-mail outfit that made him look like one of the Knights