We were having a drink at the MGM Grand the night before the show and Terry Taylor approached me to say that they wanted Gedo to go over. It made no sense, as I was under contract as a regular employee and Gedo was only going to be in WCW for a week.

"Well at least you'll be on the show. The boss can take a look at you and see what you can do."

See what I can do? I'd been in the company for a whole year!

If Eric didn't know what I could do by now, losing to a foreign exchange student certainly wasn't going to help. When Eric showed up at the bar, I couldn't contain myself any longer. I'd never complained about doing a job before, but when I told him the plan he was just as surprised as me.

"Why are you supposed to lose, who are we promoting here? I'm going to change that immediately."

Maybe I shouldn't have said anything about the finish, because the next day Gedo almost killed me.

In the middle of a decent match in front of an apathetic crowd who had no idea who either of us were, I prepared to give Gedo my standing Frankensteiner off the top rope. It was the move I'd been using ever since Drew McDonald had suggested it in Hamburg years earlier.

For some reason when I jumped up to wrap my legs around his neck (no filthy remarks please), he gave me a double arm push to the chest. I didn't get the leverage I needed as a result and when I swung my head backward, I didn't clear the mat. I landed straight on top of my head with my legs flipping directly over my neck. A second later Gedo, who had still taken the proper bump, landed right on my head with his full weight.

The whole crowd in the MGM Garden Arena went silent and I lay there for a few seconds too scared to move, fearing I'd suffered the same fate as my mother. I was so terrified of what had just happened, I jumped straight up to my feet trying to prove to everyone (including myself) that I was okay.

It's interesting that when you're in a match and you really get hurt, it's hard to sell it. There is such fear of not knowing how badly you're hurt that it's hard to pretend you are and you just want to hop up on your feet as if nothing is wrong. It's the same principle as when you trip and bust your ass in front of a bunch of people.

The Lord was with me that night and I was fine-even though everyone who saw the botched move knew that tragedy had been narrowly avoided. I've never watched that match and I never will.

The office's original decision to put Gedo over in our match erased the last shred of optimism I still had that I might have a future in WCW. I started thinking about working someplace else because I believed I deserved better than what the company was giving me.

WCW was a great place for veteran stars to make easy money and be lazy doing it. However, it was an awful place for a young guy to try and make a name for himself. I knew that the WWF mission statement was to create new stars and that's where I needed to be more than ever.

I had an ace in my pocket to help me in my escape from the proverbial Alcatraz.

Even though I'd been working in WCW for over a year I had never signed my contract. I wasn't holding out for more money or having a legal disagreement, I simply had never put the pen to the paper and returned the contract to WCW's lawyers. Nobody seemed to realize it and I decided to see how long I could go without signing. It was astonishing that no one in the office had ever followed up with me about it, but this was the same company that once sent me a FedEx with nothing inside, so it wasn't too hard to believe.

As a free agent, I made a call to my friend Don Callis. I'd come up through the business with Don in Winnipeg and we'd worked together many times on the Tony Condello tours. He was working in the WWF as the Jackal and had the ear of head booker, Vince Russo. I asked Don to ask Russo if he would ever be interested in hiring me.

"Russo said whenever you want to come to the WWF, just say the word," Don reported a few days later. Those were the words I'd waited to hear since I pulled out of my mom's driveway eight years earlier at nineteen years old. I could show up in the WWF the next week and toss the WCW cruiserweight belt into the garbage if I wanted to. I was legally clear to do so and there was nothing stopping me.

Except myself.

As much as WCW had ignored me, I still couldn't justify walking away and screwing them over. I had never given up on anything in my life and if I quit WCW, I'd be admitting to everyone that I'd failed.

Plus Eric had given me a chance when the WWF never did and had even given me a raise (in good faith) a few months earlier. As much of an asshole as some of the bookers and wrestlers had been, Eric had always been fair with me and I didn't take that lightly. I signed with him for three years and if I backed out on that deal I would've felt like a real shithouse.

My desire to go to the WWF only got stronger when I went backstage at the Canadian Stampede PPV in Calgary. I wanted to see how the other half lived and I liked it. Hairstylists and makeup ladies touched up the performers while seamstresses worked on costumes. The wrestlers congregated together going over their matches with their agents, old-time wrestlers assigned to assist the young guys with their finishes. It was a far cry from Sullivan delivering a finish by holding his thumb up or down, leaving you to sink or swim unassisted.

I walked around the building until I ran into Vince McMahon himself. He stood broad-shouldered and imposing like Goliath in an immaculate suit, not a hair out of place. His do was so perfect I wondered if it was a toupee. He was the most intimidating individual I'd ever met. This was the man who had engineered the entire wrestling boom and I was standing before him.

"How do you like my town?" I asked, continuing the tradition of saying stupid things upon first meetings.

He looked at me sternly and said, "I like it just fine," and turned away. The man I'd dreamed of working for my whole life had just jobbed me out.

But I'd had enough of a taste to know without a doubt that the WWF was where I wanted to be. I placed one more call to Russo and he reiterated to call him as soon as I was legally able.

Only two more years to go.

In true Jericho fashion, I decided I was going to give it my all for those two years, so I devised a plan to get noticed and to get better. The first step was to do an interview with 1wrestling.com, challenging WCW to give me a chance and guaranteeing success if they did. I'd noticed that whenever Hall and Nash complained about something (which was often) they usually got their way and I followed their lead. The squeaky wheel most definitely gets the oil in this biz.

Second, I picked the brains of the handful of vets who seemed to give a shit about the younger guys: Arn Anderson, Ric Flair, Jimmy Hart, and Terry Taylor. Arn helped me with my matches and my selling. Flair came through with little details like how to kick out of a pin attempt with authority so that every fan in the building could see it. Jimmy complimented me on my vast array of ring costumes and pointed out that the majority of the crew wore the same gear in dark colors.

"This is show business, baby. You have to have some color and be flamboyant to stand out, darling." Jimmy was an old hipster and could get away with calling me darling.

He also had another interesting point.

"You can always tell who is over with the fans by the signs in the crowd. We can influence them to cheer and boo for who we want, but we can't walk into their houses and draw signs for them." He was right and whenever I tried out a new catchphrase if it appeared on a sign over the next few shows (like Ayatollah of Rock N Rolla), I knew I had a winner. If not, it meant the phrase wasn't going to stick (like Wocka Wocka Wocka).

Terry read my interview on the Web site and told me that I'd done the right thing. "Eric knows about it and you should go ask him for your release. I think you'll be surprised with his answer."

I didn't need a release since I wasn't under contract but I still met with Eric the next week and he cut to the chase.

"I read your little interview and I think you're right in a lot of ways. You're spinning your wheels and you're doing nothing. The problem is I can't do anything more with you right now because you don't have the familiarity with the fans that the top guys with years of TV exposure have."

You mean being on Winnipeg television didn't count?

It was a bullshit theory. The Rock didn't start off as WWF champion, but he still had feuds and angles from the moment he walked through the door, after never being on national television before.

"I think you have talent and I don't want to lose you, so just be patient."

Patience wasn't one of my strong suits but I had gotten my point across and I didn't have the guts to walk out of WCW anyway.

Next I started hanging around before every Nitro Nitro in the Box. The Box was a portable studio where all of the promos for the syndicated shows were filmed. Every week the company would make a list of wrestlers to come into the Box and do promos for the matches that would take place in the various towns the next week. in the Box. The Box was a portable studio where all of the promos for the syndicated shows were filmed. Every week the company would make a list of wrestlers to come into the Box and do promos for the matches that would take place in the various towns the next week.

"Listen up, Menomonee Falls, WCW is coming to town Monday, August 30, and I'm going to kick Clint Bobski's ass," or what-have-you.

I hadn't done a promo in WCW yet, but that was where the money definitely was. You had to be able to sell yourself. You had to have the ability to connect with the crowd. Scott Hall was great at it and that's what made him a superstar...even though he didn't know how to do a small package. I'd learned two major lessons regarding promos from Bob Brown and Jim Cornette, but I was going to have to rock the mike at a higher level if I wanted to take my career to a higher ground.

So one afternoon, after a useless debate with Disco Inferno about whether or not Martin Short was funny (he is), I asked around if anyone would mind me hanging out in the Box. I sat in the corner and watched some of the greatest talkers in the history of wrestling sell themselves.

Flair, Anderson, Piper, Raven, Savage, Sting, Glacier-they all issued threats, boasted about themselves, insulted the fans, told jokes, and did whatever was necessary to entice the fans to buy a ticket. The promos were conducted by Gene Okerlund, the master of his craft. I learned just as much from watching him because he always knew how to get the point across, no matter what the skill level of his interviewee.

Like an Oscar-winning actor, the best talkers became their characters completely and lost all inhibitions. That's when it started clicking for me and it was the third major lesson I learned about delivering promos.

One afternoon Lex Luger refused to do promos because he had to go tanning. Since I was hanging around, I was asked if I wanted to give it a try. I jumped at the chance and my first official WCW promo was for Peoria, Illinois.

Would Jericho play in Peoria?

Not very well unfortunately-the promo wasn't very good. I was as wooden as a stake and didn't have much to say, but it was a start. From then on, whenever someone didn't show up or flat-out refused to do interviews, I filled in.

Pretty soon I was able to cut a decent forty-five-second promo. Shortly after that I was added to the weekly promo list and believe me I never turned down a chance to do one because I had to go tanning or eat a PB&J. I treated the Box as promo boot camp and it's where I finally developed into a good talker.

Doing interviews added an extra feeling of anticipation about going to work. I literally sat by the phone every week hoping to get the call to go to Nitro Nitro. When it finally came, I'd hang up the phone and do the Nitro Nitro Dance. If you want to see the Dance. If you want to see the Nitro Nitro Dance just ask me and I'll be happy to show it to you. Dance just ask me and I'll be happy to show it to you.

CHAPTER 48.

CONSPIRACY VICTIM.

I took Eric's advice about waiting things out but my patience was wearing thin, until I ran into Terry at a took Eric's advice about waiting things out but my patience was wearing thin, until I ran into Terry at a Nitro Nitro taping in Macon, Georgia. taping in Macon, Georgia.

"What's up?" I asked.

"Just your career. We're going to turn you heel."

It was music to my ears because I'd been lobbying to turn heel for months. I'd even asked to become a member of Raven's flock of misfits, but Eric had shot down the idea.

But he had finally decided that it was time for me to become eeeeeeevil and he was right. I'd achieved my greatest success as a heel and I knew I wouldn't be so handcuffed if I could act like the asshole that I was. It's much easier to make people hate you than it is to make them like you.

The plan was for me to go on a losing streak (I was already on one anyway), and after each loss I would snap and have a temper tantrum that would make a five-year-old proud. Terry was specific in his direction.

"Don't play it for laughs. Play it seriously like you just lost control."

So I pitched fits, smashed chairs against the ring post, and ripped the suit jacket right off of ring announcer David Penzer's back. Then I calmed myself down and, filled with remorse, apologized to him and the fans.

I brought Penzer a new jacket (only to tear it to pieces again later) and begged the crowd for their forgiveness. They gave it to me at first until they caught on to what I was doing and started booing me. Those boos were like hearing trumpets from heaven because they meant that I was actually getting over. The fans were forming an opinion about me and for the first time were interested in what I was doing.

Terry suggested that I start using a submission move as my finish instead of the Lionsault. He felt a submission would give me credibility and add a serious side to what was essentially an amusing character.

Terry's idea was to use a Fujiwara arm bar. In Japan I'd used a version of the Boston Crab where I would lean all my weight onto my opponent's neck, and I thought it would work better. I even had the perfect name, the Liontamer. Terry dug it and Lion Heart Chris Jericho's WCW career officially kicked into overdrive.

I decided that as a heel I wanted to be the polar opposite of the nWo. I had no interest in being the cool heel that defied authority and was intimidated by nothing and nobody. I wanted to be a coward and a blowhard. The type of person you wanted to punch in the face but didn't quite dare, so you hoped that he'd step in dogshit and track it all over his new carpet instead.

I modified my look by growing long sideburns and tying a Gene Simmons/poodle topknot in my hair. I had a white leather vest airbrushed with a big picture of myself on the back. I wore elbow-length gloves and walked to the ring with an arrogant, almost effeminate glide. I barged into the TV truck and changed my music from the wimpy Basketball Highlights #12 to the slightly less wimpy Basketball Highlights #17. It went from a lame Journey rip-off to a lame Pearl Jam rip-off, but at least it was a step up.

I gave myself nicknames such as the Paragon of Virtue, Your Role Model, The Ayatollah of Rock N Rolla (shamelessly ripped off from The Road Warrior The Road Warrior), and the Epicenter of Excitement.

I would apologize about a dastardly deed and claim that I would Never Eeeeeeeever Eeeeeeeever Do It Agayn, pronouncing "again" in a Canadian accent, pissing people off even more. I spewed out whatever came into my head, the more preposterous the better. Do It Agayn, pronouncing "again" in a Canadian accent, pissing people off even more. I spewed out whatever came into my head, the more preposterous the better.

Signs started to appear in crowds proclaiming "Jericho Is a Crybaby" or "Jericho Sucks," proving Jimmy Hart's theory correct.

I'd mispronounce the names of the other performers as if I held them in such low regard I wasn't quite sure what their names were: Don Malenko, Roy Mysterio Jr., Jojo Dillon, Chris Benoyt, Tony Skiavone, Tooker B. The more juvenile the better.

Before every match I'd cut an inane promo, starting with "Onta Gleeban Glouten Globen" or "I Want You to Want Me!" Then I'd leap into the air with an Eddie Van Halen split-legged jump and my tongue sticking out.

I got serious during another promo and took off my shades, only to reveal a second pair underneath. I would rarely admit to losing and when I did I'd claim that my opponent was a one-hit wonder like Dexys Midnight Runners.

I was totally obnoxious and did whatever I could to make the fans think I was a jerk and an idiot.

People began to seriously hate me but even though I was becoming one of the most entertaining parts of the show, I was still relegated to my caste. At least I was having fun, which was the whole point of wrestling in the first place.

When Eric decided that he didn't want the Mexican luchadores to wear masks anymore, even though they were a part of their culture and tradition, it was decided that I'd beat Juventud Guerrera for his mask.

I insulted Juvie incessantly for weeks talking about how ugly he was without his mask, how he resembled Quasimodo, how the people would beg me to allow him to keep his mask on, etc. Juvie wasn't very strong with his English-his butchering of the English language was legendary. Combined with a voice that sounded like Fez, it was impossible for him to verbally defend himself.

After claiming for weeks that I was going to take his mask, I did by making him submit to the Liontamer in the center of the ring. No cheating, no controversy, no nothing. It was a shit deal for Juvie but when I appealed to the office to allow me to cheat to beat him, my suggestion was met with apathy. So I sat back and enjoyed being on the other side of the fence for once.

I wanted to remain the hated heel, but the bookers were making it more difficult than algebra. I'd already beaten Chavo Jr. a dozen times when we were booked together again in Fargo and given the usual finish: I would win with the Liontamer in the center of the ring.

It was an uninspired finish that we'd already done many times so I wanted to spice it up a bit. Chavo was doing a crazy gimmick where he'd made friends with a hobby horse named Pepe. I was supposed to beat Chavo clean and snap Pepe in half afterward. Keep in mind I was the bad guy.

Before the match, Chavo and I drove to a Toys R Us and bought a giant pogo stick and stuck its head on the end of an aluminum bat. We went back to the arena and stashed the bat underneath the ring.

I beat Chavo, and when I did, I snapped Pepe in two. While the crowd booed the hell out of me, Chavito went under the ring and pulled out JosPepe's big brother. When I turned around, Chavito nailed me in the stomach and Josxacted his revenge. The crowd loved it and the whole thing aired on live TV.

We didn't get anybody's permission to do the Josngle, but nobody in the office said jack shit to us about it afterward. If I would have tried the same thing in Vince McMahon's company he would have fired me on the spot.

It was becoming a joke to see if anyone in the office was paying attention to my matches, so I started rubbing the front of my hair as hard as I could until it stood straight up like a member of Poison in 1986. I walked to the ring with a cheese-eating grin plastered across my face, looking like I was caught in a wind tunnel. I demanded only brown M&M's in catering. Strangely, some people in the crowd were starting to love it. Despite my efforts, I was becoming the dreaded cool heel.

But I was still being booed by 90 percent of the crowd when I orchestrated my WCW masterpiece: an angle with Dean Malenko. Dean wanted to take some much needed time off, so after defeating him on a PPV in Birmingham, Alabama, he did an interview saying he was going home.

In the course of three months, I built a hot feud with a guy who wasn't even on the show.

I made fun of him for taking his ball and going home. I buried his father, Boris, who had been a wrestler and was now actually buried as well. I called him Stinko Malenko and claimed he was now working the grill at Harry's Burgers in Tampa, all the while mocking his serious demeanor and wrestling style.

Dean was known as the Man of 1,000 Holds so I stole the Floyd Creachman angle I'd seen as a teenager and began calling myself the Man of 1,004 Holds. I knew four more.

On a Nitro Nitro in Chicago I pulled out a stack of connected computer paper and began reading off each one of my holds. in Chicago I pulled out a stack of connected computer paper and began reading off each one of my holds.

"Number 1-Arm Bar. Number 2-Body Slam. Number 3-Arm Drag. Number 4-Mexican Arm Bar." We went to commercial break while I was still listing them off. When I knew we were off the air, I started insulting the crowd and whipping them into a frenzy. When we came back from the break, I was now at Number 366-Russian Arm Bar, with the crowd booing the shit out of me.

I was finally interrupted by Prince Iaukea (currently residing in the "Where Are They Now?" file) and my pages were flung up into the air. I chased them around like a toddler chasing bubbles, screaming, "My holds, my holds!"

The comedy never ends...

I kept the feud alive by getting a negative of Dean's promo picture and blowing it up at Kinko's. Then I carried around a giant framed picture of him as a tribute. The ring crew wouldn't let me leave the portrait-sized picture on the truck, so I had to transport it (and the easel I rested it on) to and from work every week myself.

My incessant needling was paying off. The people were begging Dean to come back to shut me up. But I couldn't be stopped. I interviewed the portrait and when it didn't reply to any of my questions I commented, "This picture has more charisma than the actual Dean Malenko."

The whole angle culminated with a battle royal at a PPV in Worcester, Massachusetts, where I was immediately going to wrestle the winner for my cruiserweight title. I grabbed a mike and insulted the contestants as they made their way to the ring like I was hosting the Ugly Miss America Pageant.

"Here comes Silver King...with another 20,000 frequent flyer points, he'll be upgraded to Gold King. This is Billy Kidman...in a few more years he'll be twenty-one and will change his name to Billy Manman. Here is Juan Epstein's little brother el Dandy...and he's pissed!"

I was the Henny Youngman (dated reference #2) of wrestling.

Since there were only a few cruiserweights with any credibility, the majority of the combatants were jobbers that had little name value such as Lizmark, Lenny Lane, Ciclope, and el Grillo. El Grillo meant cricket in Spanish and was a character created by Dean and me as an inside joke on Eddy. He was infamous in the locker room for slapping his burrito on his inner thigh, making a sound resembling a cricket. Or so he claimed.

At the end of the battle royal, Juvie and Ciclope were the final two in the ring. Ciclope was low on the totem pole and it was surprising he'd lasted that long. Everyone assumed Juvie was going to be the victor.