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Kuala Lumpur was the final night of the tour and we ended things with a bang—literally. After I beat him again, I was walking back to the dressing room when Rock grabbed the mic and informed me that because I’d cheated to win, everyone in the crowd thought I was an asshole. Ten thousand Malaysians smelled what he was cooking and began chanting at the top of their lungs that I was an anus orifice. I was heading back toward the ring, ready to begin our routine for the evening, when I spotted a blue balloon floating in the aisle. I had just seen Tom Hanks in Castaway and got an idea. I grabbed the balloon and held it close to me as I stepped between the ropes.

“Everybody in this arena hates me and thinks I’m an asshole, including you, Rock. But there’s someone here who still believes in me. Someone who will always be my friend. Someone named Ziggy!”

Then I held my Wilson up in the air like he was the Holy Grail. The place began booing and I found it amazing that I got an inanimate object more over as a heel than half the locker room. Rock did his trademark eyebrow raise as I continued: “Everybody in this country hates me and loves you and it’s not fair. But Ziggy here, Ziggy loves me. Ziggy is my only friend and the only thing I need in this toilet of a country! I’m going to hug him and squeeze him and stroke him and never let him go!”

Rock eyed me up and down, pausing as the crowd cheered in anticipation of what he was going to do.

“Ziggy’s your only friend?”

“Yes!”

“Well, then Ziggy must be an asshole too.” Ten thousand chants of “asshole” began again, this time directed toward my poor Ziggy, who had done nothing to deserve such verbal abuse.

“Ziggy’s not an asshole!” I yelled, jumping up and down as the Zigster nodded silently in agreement.

“Well, maybe I was wrong. Can The Rock introduce himself to Ziggy and apologize to him?”

I looked to Ziggy, who gave his approval. “Okay, Rock, but you better be nice to him.”

Rocky responded with his trademark dazzling smile. “Of course, Chris, The Rock is always nice!” Rock gently cupped Ziggy in his hands and said, “Well hello, little Ziggy! Let The Rock ask … are you Chris Jericho’s friend?”

Ziggy gazed silently at Rock, letting him know that he was indeed my boy.

Rock continued talking to Ziggy as if he were a child. “Well isn’t that nice that you’re Jericho’s pal. But do you know what The Rock thinks of you being Chris Jericho’s only friend?”

Ziggy contemplated the question and took the fifth.

“The Rock thinks this …” and he popped my little buddy.

The Rock killed Ziggy.

The crowd went wild, jumping up and down and screaming as if he had just assassinated Pol Pot. I freaked out and threw a tantrum. I collapsed onto my knees, wailing “NOOOOOOOO!” like Captain Kirk in The Wrath of Khan after Spock died.

But Ziggy was much frooter than Spock. He was my everything, and I remembered all of the good times we had. The time we double dated in high school. The time we built a birdhouse in the November rain. The time our Flock of Seagulls cover act won a battle of the bands in college. All those hopes and dreams we discussed in our jammies as we huddled together during a cold winter’s night.

Rock had taken all of that from me.

I looked up at my nemesis with tears in my eyes, just as The Rock extended his hand in an act of remorse. I dropped Ziggy’s carcass like a used blue prophylactic as The Rock told me that I didn’t need Ziggy anymore, because he wanted to be my friend. We shook hands and embraced like the newfound brothers we were. Rocky wiped the tears from my eyes and clapped me on the back. I reciprocated, but as I went to walk away he changed his mind and pulled me in for the Rock Bottom.

Instead of executing the picture-perfect rendition of the move we’d been performing nightly, we were so sweaty that my hand slipped out of his. Our timing was off as a result and we awkwardly collapsed in a heap onto the mat. The fans were so primed for the moment that there was an audible groan as everyone in the building knew