Undisputed_ How to Become the World Champion in 1,372 Easy Steps - Chris Jericho [99]
Most of our fans couldn’t afford to buy tickets to the events, and the shows were held in half-filled arenas or makeshift venues consisting of the ring set up in a parking lot with plastic chairs and plastic fencing surrounding it. During one of the parking lot shows, RVD pointed to the foliage across the street from the ring and said, “Dude, there’s people in the trees.”
I thought he was just stoned, but when I followed his finger, he was right. There were a dozen people, entire families, sitting in the thick branches of the tall trees, watching the show with a bird’s-eye view of the festivities.
After the show I was introduced to Mr. India, a literal giant of a man with a massive movie-theater-sized chest and arms as big as an elephant’s trunk. Through a translator, he told me he was a big fan and was hoping to become a wrestler someday. He was over seven feet tall and I figured he could pretty much do whatever he wanted in wrestling and he did. The guy’s name was Dalip Singh, better known as future WWE World Champion the Great Khali.
The next night I was teaming with Christian in an actual arena in Mumbai, and during my prematch promo the fans started chanting, “Asshole.” Taking it all in stride, I said, “I’m not the asshole, you’re the assholes! I hate this place!”
The next day, one of our reps gave me a copy of Today, New Delhi’s paper, and told me to look at the front page. I read the news today oh boy, and the headline said, “Rotten WWE Show Turns into Sick Joke.” Underneath, the sub-caption read, “India is a very very bad place and all Indians are assholes.” Signed: WWE Tag Team Champion, Chris Jericho.
The story inside was even worse, explaining how the evil confidence men of the WWE had tried to pass off their shoddy product as a real fight when it was obvious that it was show business. I couldn’t believe how the reporter had twisted my words to back his theory that we were heinous con artists who had come to India to rip off the paying customers and insult them in the process. The way this guy was talking, I thought I was reading a review of a Toots Mondt show from 1942.
The last show in Bangalore was another parking lot classic where I amused myself by wearing Hurricane’s cape and a Halloween mask while brandishing a mudflap for a run in on Kane. But the joke was on me as Kane thought I was an unruly fan and was about to tear my masked head off, until I screamed in a terrified girly-man squeak, “It’s me, Glen! It’s me!” Realizing that the idiot wearing the Scream mask was really his little buddy Jericho, he guffawed (funny word) and let me go.
During the course of the tour, Lance Storm, Tommy Dreamer, Al Snow, and Booker T all got sick to varying degrees. When we got back to the States, Regal was feeling weak and ended up being diagnosed with some form of heart parasite, which still affects him to this day. I definitely made the right call with my peanut butter and oatmeal.
We flew back from India straight into Charleston, South Carolina, for Raw. When I arrived, Brian told me that Vince had challenged him to make him laugh with that week’s show, and Brian had obliged. The show was based around Booker T and Goldust stealing Christian’s and my clothes out of the locker room, forcing us to spend the rest of the night nakedly searching for our threads.
The story would conclude with us (sporting towels around our waists) onstage in front of the live crowd confronting Booker, who would be in the ring with our stolen bags. As we argued, Goldust would come up from behind and pull the towels off. It all sounded fine and el dandy, except for one thing: Vince wanted us to really be naked underneath our towels.
Yep, I said it. Naked.
I thought Brian was ribbing, but when he assured me he wasn’t, I told him, “There’s no fucking way I’m standing naked in front of the crowd, and I don’t give a shit what Vince says. You