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The show went off without a hitch, and after the show Edge, Christian, and I decided to make the 20-hour drive back to Tampa. We finally got back home on Friday and had to fly out for Raw in Memphis three days later.

It was surreal walking through the deserted airport a mere six days after the attacks. There was nobody there, as the majority of the country was too scared to fly. Not that I wasn’t, but what choice did I have? The show must go on, remember?

I got on the plane, and even though it was early morning, I stayed wide awake during the entire flight, waiting for some motherfucker to storm the cockpit. I envisioned what would’ve happened had the Taliban tried to hijack a plane carrying the WWE crew. Boxcutters versus the craziest mofos on the planet?

Game over, jihad.

Over the next few weeks, traveling to work got a whole lot more difficult. Pre 9/11 you could check in for a flight thirty minutes before it took off and breeze straight through security without a glance, but after the attacks all that changed. Now you had to check in an hour before and security had increased sevenfold. The airlines and the authorities weren’t taking any chances and became very strict with their rules for passenger conduct.

At least most of the time.

I was on a redeye from L.A. to Philly a few months later trying to catch some sleep. I was about to turn off my mind, relax, and float downstream when I heard some mumbling from a few rows behind me. Since I was sitting in first class (I can’t go back—I won’t) and away from the riffraff, I paid the mumbler no attention. Then the mumbling became a rumbling.

“Hey! I need another drink right now!”

Okay, so here we were only a few months after the worst terrorist attack in U.S. history and there’s a belligerent drunk on a plane demanding another drink. It was only a matter of time before the flight attendant took care of this assclown, I thought to myself.

“Gimme another drink, dammit!!”

My good-natured patience was running out as I was tired and hadn’t been able to sleep the whole flight. It was almost dawn, with the first faint rays of sunlight peeking through the clouds, and I was getting cranky. I rang my call button and asked the stewardess if there was anything she could do about this moron.

“I’m sorry, sir, but he was cut off already,” she said curtly as if I was bothering her.

I couldn’t figure out why she was allowing Sir Soused to continue making such a scene. A few of the other passengers had woken up and were giving him side glances.

“This airline is a piece of shit!” he screamed. “This is bullshit!”

He continued complaining, his voice getting louder, and I decided if the stewardess wasn’t going to do something about it I would.

I walked over to his seat and got within inches of his face. Then I whispered menacingly in my best Dirty Harry voice, “Sir, I’m trying to sleep and I’m sick of listening to you complain. Shut your mouth and stop yelling right now. Don’t make me come back here again.”

He looked back at me innocently as if he hadn’t said a word. I gave him a wink and felt a tap on my shoulder.

“You need to return to your seat and stop making a scene, sir,” the attendant said confrontationally.

I was making a scene? How had I become the scene maker?

I sat down, but sleep had escaped me for good on that flight. I was so pissed off that I did nothing but stare out the window for the remainder of the flight, while Three Sheets to the Wind snored underneath his sheet.

We finally landed in Philly in the pouring rain and stopped at the gate waiting to be towed in. MC Hammered awoke from his passout and started up again. “Why the hell are we waiting? I’m fucking late enough as it is!”

We reached the gate and everybody stood up to get off the plane.

“Come on, let’s get fucking—”

I cut him off midsentence. “Listen, jackass! There are kids on this plane and you need to watch your language and keep your mouth shut, do you understand?” I warned, as the other passengers nodded in agreement. El Buzzo looked at his feet as I grabbed