A Lion's Tale: Around the World in Spandex

by Chris Jericho

  “You’re not sleeping with any of the girls! What kind of a babyface are you?”

  If Cornette had introduced me to ONE female SMW fanatic that caught my fancy, I would’ve been happy to play hide the blooming onion. But he didn’t, so I kissed no grits.

  CHAPTER 26

  TRUE TO THE CREW

  The only pretty girls I met during my whole time in Tennessee were in a strip club in Knoxville called the Mouse’s Ear. I had to have a membership card to get inside, but it was worth it when I met a buxom lass with long jet black hair. I was so desperate to rock that it didn’t bother me when she said she was a vampire. However, it did bother me when she said she wanted me to unleash my life-force inside of her so she could absorb me into her spiritual being and live with me always. I unleashed my life-force out of her apartment and absorbed myself back to Morristown instead.

  My sad-sack existence finally gained purpose when the Thrillseekers vignettes began running on television. As cheesy and overacted as they were, they still created a buzz and when we made our SMW debut at a TV taping in Dungannen, Virginia, the fans went nuts for us right off the bat. A lot of the reaction was garnered simply because we entered the gym from the babyface dressing room. To build us up instantly in the ring, Jimmy had brought in Well Dunn (Steve Doll and my short-term roommate Rex King), a former WWF team that had ended up in SMW.

  They’d been around for years and cut a really good promo airing their grievances about the Thrillseekers. Even though I’d learned a little about promos from Bulldog Bob Brown, I was still so green that I thought that doing a good interview consisted of having the fans cheer every word I said. The fans didn’t really know me and I overcompensated for the lack of reaction by shamelessly mugging to them in hopes they would cheer. It was like seeing a bad stand-up comic (golden topping) laughing at his own lame jokes.

  I mentioned that my dad had played in the NHL and I said in an overexaggerated babyface voice, “Since you guys are cheaters, we want to help even the odds. We want to face you in the very first penalty box match [crickets chirped]. In hockey if you do something wrong, you have to go to the penalty box for two minutes. In this match if one of you guys breaks the rules, then that guy has to go sit in the penalty box for two minutes as well.”

  “So what you’re telling us,” Steve confirmed, “is if you guys break the rules—and you will—there will be two of Well Dunn versus one Thrillseeker.”

  “Yeah, but if you guys break the rules,” Lance fired back, “it’ll be two Thrillseekers versus one Well Done!”

  You put your chocolate in my peanut butter.

  I decided I needed a big finishing line to drive my point home.

  “We’re going to show you how we do things, the Canadian way,” I proudly proclaimed. Problem was we weren’t in Canada and we weren’t heels. We were babyfaces in Tennessee, flaunting our foreign roots in the middle of one of the most xenophobic regions in the country.

  Cornette was convinced that the penalty box match was a great idea and pushed the concept hard on the TV shows leading up to the first one in Marietta, Georgia. Georgia was the heart of WCW country and Corny was convinced that SMW had arrived. “We’re going to stick it to WCW boys!” he bellowed before the show.

  He’d arranged for Chris LiPuma, a goon from the Atlanta Knights minor league hockey team, to be the special guest ringside enforcer for the box matches. The pattern of the match was similar to how the fining system worked in Germany; one of the Well Dunns would cheat and the ref wouldn’t see it. One of the Seekers would retaliate, get caught, and be forced to sit behind the desk that was playing the part of the penalty box. There were times during the match that I wanted to get up and help Lance when he was being beaten two on one, but the power of the desk compelled me not to.

  While the match was an interesting concept on paper, it was a stinker in execution. The idea was too unbelievable and the rules were too complicated to follow. The fans shit all over the match and it was a terrible way to debut a new, supposedly hot team. It was another nail in the Thrillseekers’ coffin.

  The only thing that got a reaction from the fans was our finishing move, a double drop kick from the top rope. Both of us climbed up to the same top corner post and with perfect timing hit a high double drop kick. It was a spectacular and original move that I’ve never seen anybody do since.

  Politically it wasn’t the smartest choice for a finish, as the Rock ’n’ Roll Express also used a double drop kick for their finishing move. The difference was they delivered theirs from the mat and connected about waist-high, if they even connected at all. But they were the top dogs in the company and as the number two pretenders to their throne, we had basically stolen their finish.

  It was a breach of wrestling etiquette and a big rookie mistake. Nobody told us not to do it again, but rumors circulated that the Rock ’n’ Roll were furious and had buried us to the boss.

  They were all smiles to our faces though. It was another of wrestling’s unwritten rules that when someone makes a mistake, nobody ever tells him about it. They just tell everybody else instead. It’s a confusing concept. I compare it to someone on a hockey team needing to work on their slapshot but never being told about it. Instead, the rest of the team is told and everyone gossips and laughs about the guy’s shitty slapshot behind his back. As a result he never gets better, gets cut from the team, and ends up selling fruit on the side of the road.

  The Rock ’n’ Roll Express were an institution in the South and had earned a lot of money over the years. They were still earning a lot with their lucrative SMW gimmick sales.

  Ricky Morton was one of the most underrated wrestlers of all time and one of the top three babyface sellers ever. He would get the shit kicked out of him every night and he made the girls and guys cry out in sympathy for him with his movements and facial expressions. He made them believe that he was in terrible pain and on his last legs. They would be on the edge of their seats begging for him to tag Robert, much the same way I begged for Greg Gagne to tag Jimmy Brunzell in the Winnipeg Arena. Ricky was small and kind of pudgy and he had a cigarette in his hand at all times before the match, but he never got tired or blew up in the ring. Robert didn’t have the work rate or the charisma that Ricky did, but the two of them had chemistry and the IT factor. Because of it, the Rock ’n’ Roll always had one of the best matches on the show.

  Ricky and Robert were the epitome of tag team, both in the ring and out. They followed each other around everywhere finishing each other’s sentences and making jokes like a modern-day Abbott and Costello.

  “Ricky, I didn’t get much sleep last night.”

  “I haven’t slept for sixteen years, Robert.”

  “I figure we’ll start the match slow, Robert.”

  “And taper off from there, Ricky.”

  They continued their wacky duo act by pulling ribs on anyone they could reel in. They’d goad an unsuspecting victim to point at a spot on the wall and then challenge them to try to walk up to the wall and touch that exact spot with their eyes closed. When the guy began to walk toward the wall, Robert would pull down his pants and the guy would end up sticking his finger up Gibson’s ass.

  I couldn’t believe how moist and warm it was.

  Another howler saw Ricky take a quarter and stick it onto the middle of his forehead. Then he’d hit the back of his head causing the coin to fall off his forehead into his hand. I thought it would be an easy task, so they stuck the quarter onto my forehead. I whacked the back of my head progressively harder and harder, until I was belting it full force and wondering why the hell the coin wasn’t coming off. They broke out laughing when they held up the coin that they’d pressed into my head and then pulled off. The coin still felt stuck to my head and I never realized it was gone.

  I’m from Canada. What the hell do I know about NASCAR?

  They were also notorious for bragging about all of their wrestling accomplishments. Whenever someone mentioned an old promotion or a Podunk town, Rick
y would pipe up, “When we came into (insert name of town here) there were only 200 people in the building. We worked an angle with (insert name of opponents here) and sold the place out. We popped that territory and there were motherfuckers hanging from the rafters trying to get in. We made (insert name of opponents here) look like a million bucks, isn’t that right, Hoot?”

  “That’s right, Punky.”

  Hoot was Robert’s nickname and Punky was Ricky’s nickname.

  Three days later they’d be talking about another Podunk town. “When we came into (insert name of town here) there were only 200 people in the building. We worked an angle with (insert name of opponents here) and sold the place out. We popped that territory and there were motherfuckers hanging from the rafters trying to get in. We made (insert name of opponents here) look like a million bucks, isn’t that right, Hoot?”

  “That’s right, Punky.’

  No matter what town or territory came up in a conversation, Rock ’n’ Roll told the same story verbatim. It became a game when they started talking, “Ricky’s going to tell the story. Let’s see if he says the same stuff!”

  He always did.

  The SMW roster included quite a few other seasoned veterans and I learned the ways of the road from all of them. When I first met Dirty Dick Murdoch, one of wrestling’s true legends, I thought he was a literal dick. He was a potbellied, skinny-legged old-timer with a fat face and a W. C. Fields nose. His nickname was Captain Redneck although at first I thought it was Obnoxious Racist.

  So when Cornette asked me to drive Dick around I was pissed. In retrospect, it ended up being one of the highlights of my career. As I got to know him I realized he wasn’t a racist, he was just honest and fair. He hated everyone equally.

  On the long trips from town to town, he told hilarious stories and taught me how to hit speed limit signs with a beer bottle while driving eighty miles an hour. If you think it’s easy, give it a try. It takes a lot of timing, a lot of miles, and a lot of beers to get it right. Murdoch had all three and I never saw him miss a speed sign when he threw a bottle....never.

  Murdoch was too big a star to lodge at SMF, but Corny’s next hire wasn’t. Jimmy had seen a guy called Johnny K-9 working in Detroit and recruited him to be a powerhouse heel named Bruiser Bedlam. To save on hotel fees, he invited Bruiser to stay with us at SMF, unbeknownst to Anthony and me. Bruiser was built like a cigarette machine with a head on it and that head was shaved bald with a sole shock of hair sprouting out of the side of his skull. He had gold hoops hanging off each ear, a huge handlebar mustache, and a cache of prison tattoos that he’d received, coincidentally, in prison. The biggest one was an entire sentence written across his stomach saying TRUE TO THE CREW (which was his catchphrase). I saw this tattoo because he never wore a shirt—ever—only flip-flops and gym shorts.

  He was really friendly and called everybody “buddy,” but the man truly did not give a shit. He’d walk into Wendy’s (sans shirt), grab a dirty tray and use it for a buffet plate—no charge of course. When he needed new flip-flops he’d walk into Wal-Mart (party central), put on new ones, and walk out.

  He’d bench-press six plates on each side of the bar and, after a few reps, pretend that he couldn’t lift the weight off his chest. When people panicked and came to assist, he’d laugh maniacally, yell “Fuck you!” and do an additional three or four reps. He constantly talked about sex and bragged about all the girls who’d enjoyed “Honking on Bobo.”

  After Bruiser had crashed uninvited with us for a few days, he decided to repay our hospitality by doing the dishes. The next day, I went to get a plate and noticed that it had a bunch of crusty shit all over it. On closer inspection, I found that all of the dishes had crusty shit on them. Fearing the worst, I watched Bruiser the next time he washed the dishes and saw that for him “washing” consisted of holding the dirty dish under the faucet for a few seconds before putting it back into the cupboard. No soap, no scrubbing, no hassle.

  He had been getting on my nerves from the first day he stayed with us, and when I told him that I would take care of the dishes from then on, he got really pissed and insisted HE would do them. The debate escalated until I finally boiled over: “You know what, man? You’re obnoxious and you’re getting on my nerves with this TRUE TO THE CREW bullshit. What does that even mean?”

  “Buddy, I’m going to show you what happens when you disrespect THE CREW! I’m gonna whip your ass right now.” He put up his dukes and got into a fighting stance. “I’m gonna throw hands, prison-style.”

  As I said, this guy was a convict and twice my size but I didn’t give a shit. It was one of the stupidest decisions of my life, but if I was going down, I was taking him with me. I’d already decided that I was going to rip the pirate hoop out of his ear if he got close enough.

  Since I didn’t have a CREW to be TRUE to and I’d never been to prison, I wanted to let him know that I was no slouch.

  “I’m gonna throw hands Winnipeg-style!”

  I wasn’t sure what that meant but I was hoping it would scare him.

  Instead, a smile broke out on his face. Then he burst out laughing and dropped his dukes.

  “You know what, Winnipeg? I’ve got a lot of respect for you. I’m not going to fight you. You’re TRUE TO THE CREW, buddy.”

  I was a huge fan of the Shout at the Devil record, but that wasn’t important—Winnipeg had saved the day.

  With that, I established myself as the king of the SMF castle. That is until Boo Bradley came a-calling.

  Cornette brought Boo (who became Balls Mahoney in ECW) in to be Candido’s partner and gave him the gimmick of a strange simpleton. The best gimmicks are extensions of real-life qualities and while I’m not sure if Boo was simple, he sure was strange. He was obsessed with Satanic death metal and constantly sang songs in a high-pitched, King Diamond soprano. He never seemed to have any clean clothes and had a stench cloud surrounding him. Cornette should’ve given him a Pigpen gimmick.

  Even though he reeked, I could’ve dealt with him, as he was no worse than Bruiser. But the straw that broke the moose’s back was when Anthony and I decided to clean his room. It was a mess, so we put on rubber gloves and collected all the garbage strewn about, picked up his filthy clothes, and went to change the sheets on his bed. When we lifted his mattress off the box spring, I almost had an aneurism when I saw the nest of roaches living there. They looked up at me, I looked down at them, and all ninety of us screamed. It was exactly like the movie Creepshow: They scuttled off the bed and quickly disappeared.

  This stupid bastard would sit in bed and eat sandwiches, but instead of throwing the crusts away he put them between the mattress and the box spring. Apparently the roaches had heard about the fine buffet offered at SMF and decided to set a spell.

  Do I even need to tell you that at that moment I was finished with SMF?

  CHAPTER 27

  STRANGE KENTUCKY PEOPLE

  Things were even stranger on the road than they were at SMF.

  We’d arrive in a town like Hyden, Kentucky, where the census population was 200 and 400 people would turn up for the matches. People would literally come down from the hills to see the show. I hate to stereotype, but this was pure Deliverance–type shit and the evidence of inbreeding was impossible to ignore. I saw one kid with purple skin and another with hands like lobster claws. I know it’s a cliché to say that rednecks have no teeth, but it’s just plain creepy to see so many people in one place that literally have no chiclets. But they loved to watch their rasslin’.

  I don’t know where they got the cash, but the people in these towns bought more gimmicks than fans anywhere else did. I was signing pictures at the table in Virgie, Kentucky, when a guy came up and asked me for an autograph.

  “Sure thing, bud,” I said with a smile. “I’d be happy to.”

  He looked at me with sleepy-eyed wonder, his gut peeking out of his greasy wifebeater, and asked with complete seriousness, “How did you know my name was Bud?”
/>   You can’t write stuff like this.

  I was hanging around between matches at another of our regular towns, Paintsville, Kentucky, when a girl came up to me and gave me a videotape. She stared at the ground while she stuttered and spit out, “Chris Jericho, I love you. I made a tape of your matches just for you. It’s got all your matches that you ever had in SMW.” Then she turned tail and split. I was honored that she’d put them all on one tape as a present but when I watched the tape, it didn’t contain any matches. What it did contain, however, was much more entertaining.

  The tape featured the girl and her hillbilly mountain family performing for me...and what a show it was. It began with her looking into the camera like a deer in headlights. She resembled Chris Farley dressed up as Meatloaf circa 1977 and was wearing a shirt with a rebel flag on it that said, “You wear your colors, I’ll wear mine.”

  She began her dissertation and said, “I made this tape for you, Chris Jericho [she always called me by my full name]. We love you, Chris Jericho. You’re my favorite rassler, Chris Jericho, and I really love you, Chris Jericho.” She wiped the snot out of her nose.

  Then she became Annie Wilkes from Misery and started speaking gibberish like, “Well look. Here’s a white googleberry. Fleezin fibble foo!” She began dancing as the rest of her family came into frame like Oompa Loompas. They were all smacking each other’s butts and doing the most bizarre version of the Electric Slide, while chanting in unison “Electric Slide, Electric Slide, Electric Slide,” like some kind of disco cult.

  Then a kid who I’m guessing was her brother or her husband—or both—explained how much he liked watching rasslin’, then farted twice. Then his mother or his wife—or both—who literally had NO teeth, patted him on the butt and commented on its fragrance. There was a bed in the middle of the living room and on the wall behind it were two pictures: one of Jesus and one of Ricky and Robert. Both photos were at the exact same level, which I’m sure was a huge honor for the Savior.