The Best in the World

by Chris Jericho

  When Eli started the movie, Tarantino’s former shyness was left on the cutting room floor and he became a fountain of information, analyzing and explaining every minute detail of the film. I was excited to hear what observations he would have.

  “Those saddles were handmade in Italy to Leoni’s exact specifications.”

  “The flies on that dead body were imported from America. Leoni wanted bigger flies and they weren’t available in Italy, so he had them flown in.”

  “Did you notice how the color balance shifted there? It’s obvious the camera was getting slightly overheated.”

  He was giving us a crash course on spaghetti Westerns, western spaghetti, cinematography, entomology, scatology, leatherworking, mustache grooming, speaking Italian, acting Italian, Technicolor, technology, and technical ecstasy. At first it was an interesting look into the mind of one of the greatest directors of all time, but as he kept talking and excitedly interrupting the dialogue on a constant basis, it wasn’t long before it got just plain annoying. He became the guy talking loudly behind you in the movie theater who won’t shut up. I wanted to turn around and “shhhh” him. If I had popcorn, I would’ve thrown it at him. But I was a guest in Eli’s house, and Tarantino was his bro, so as he continued talking I excused myself and walked out of the room. I could still hear him yapping as the door closed.

  “Eastwood and Leoni left for linguini after this scene!”

  Boots

  SummerSlam 2009 was in Los Angeles and I thought it would be fun to have Speewee fly out for a few days before the show to hang, and my bro John Howarth, the head of RIOT Records, Fozzy’s label at the time, decided to join us. We holed up at the Roosevelt Hotel in Hollywood for three days listening to music and drinking Grey Goose. We christened our gang the GG3 and roamed the halls at five A.M., looking for the ghost of Montgomery Clift (who died in the hotel and has been haunting room 928 ever since), hung at the Rainbow with Ron Jeremy (Speewee regaled him with tales of the boner contests he used to have with the other kids at summer camp), went to see Rush in concert, and then to Ozzfest the next day (I lost my car keys in a field packed with twenty thousand people and two hours later saw a guy holding them up and asking if they belonged to anybody, a half a mile from where I originally dropped them), and ate at The Breakfast Place on Hollywood Boulevard, where we sat next to a Rambo impersonator complaining to a Marilyn Monroe impersonator that the Elvis impersonator down the street was a “fucking diva asshole.”

  Looking for the ghost of Montgomery Clift, who supposedly haunts room 928 of the Roosevelt Hotel in Hollywood. The GG3 haunted the hallways for the rest of the night.

  We were having a total blast, so it was a drag when I had to leave for a Japanese tour the day after SummerSlam. Speewee and Riot didn’t miss a beat and were planning on staying in L.A. for a few more days to continue their adventures as the GG2. I knew they’d have a good time without me, but I didn’t expect the text I got from Speewee when I arrived in Japan.

  “Met George Clooney and Brad Pitt at the Skybar in Hollywood last night and they loved me!”

  I was surprised that he’d met them, but wasn’t surprised that they liked him since he’s charismatic, outrageously funny, and doesn’t get starstruck. He could give two shits if somebody was famous and treated everyone the same, which I’m sure was quite refreshing for A-listers like Brad and George. I texted him back and asked what happened.

  “I bought them a drink and they thought it was funny, so their bodyguards let me stay. I gave them my best material and had them laughing their asses off. Brad liked my crazy eyes!”

  Speewee always bragged about his “crazy eyes” . . . a wild look he achieved by bulging out his eyeballs, making him look like a cross between Simon LeBon and Canadian serial killer Paul Bernardo. I was blown away by his story and, quite honestly, a little jealous that I’d missed out on such a classic night.

  “He gave me his agent’s card and told me to e-mail her. Wants to put me in a movie.”

  Wow. That one really annoyed me. I’d been trying to break into Hollywood for years, and while I’d made some headway, I’d never come close to being in a movie with Brad Pitt. But Speewee goes out for one night and gets a part?

  A few minutes later I got a text from Riot telling me about their night and how fun it was.

  “Pitt loved Speewee! He had him laughing all night. Wants to put him in a movie.”

  So Speewee wasn’t exaggerating? I turned a darker shade of envy even though I was happy for him. Plus, if he booked the part, maybe he would pay for the drinks once in a while.

  I texted him congrats and didn’t think any more about it until a week later when I got another message from him.

  “Just got a call from Pitt’s manager, Cynthia! They want to cast me in Brad’s next movie. I can’t believe it!”

  OK, this was getting ridiculous. I’d spent enough time in Hollywood to know things didn’t work this way. I don’t care how much they were impressed by his Crazy Eyes or how many boner contests Speewee told them about, unknown actors just didn’t get cast that quickly. Not to mention, Speewee WASN’T a professional actor! I mean, if there was ever a human being on this planet who should’ve been on a reality show, it was him. But an actor? He’d done a local car dealership commercial years earlier and was about as good as Wayne Gretzky on Saturday Night Live, so I wasn’t buying it.

  But he was playing it so smoothly. Not overselling it and not texting me back as quickly as he usually did. Most of the time if he was trying to wind me up, he’d bombard me with the same lame joke over and over again until I fired back. Plus, in the back of my mind I kept thinking about Ashton Kutcher, who’d landed That ’70s Show after his first-ever audition. Was Speewee, with his white teeth and perfect hair, going to be THE new teen heartthrob?

  Then there was Riot. He wasn’t saying anything and he normally kept a secret about as well as Julian Assange. But he hadn’t so much as hinted that Speewee’s claim wasn’t legit.

  I decided to take matters into my own hands and do some research. So Speewee claimed Brad’s manager was named Cynthia, huh? OK, smart guy, let’s see whatcha got.

  I Googled “Brad Pitt’s Manager” and to my surprise, her name really WAS Cynthia . . . Cynthia Pett-Dante. But that didn’t prove anything; he could’ve Googled her name the same way I did. I still wasn’t buying it, but if my mind was a courtroom, there was a mental hung jury going on in there like a John Grisham novel. Eleven members of this mental tribunal were convinced Speewee was guilty of lying, but the lone Fonz-like member was insisting that Speewee COULD be telling the truth. I still had a sliver of doubt deep inside.

  I reached out to Riot and demanded he come clean. This had been going on for a few weeks and if it was indeed a rib, enough was enough.

  Once again, John insisted that they had really met the two stars in L.A., and Speewee had made a great impression. I filled him in that Spee was talking to Pitt’s manager, and Riot said, “The crazy bastard is pulling it off!”

  That’s what I was suspicious of.

  I got the next text a few days later and that’s when I was convinced Spiv was ribbing me.

  “Dude! Cynthia just made me an offer for the movie!! They’re filming it in L.A. and I’ve been offered fifty thousand dollars and first-class round-trip travel for two weeks of shooting. I leave next week.”

  There was no way that could be true. Cynthia was Pitt’s manager, not the producer of the movie, so she would have nothing to do with making the actual offer.

  “And she signed me to her management company!”

  This was getting ridiculous. Now he’d been signed by one of the most powerful people in Hollywood? I asked him which company and after he said Management 360, a quick Google search found that that was indeed Cynthia Pett-Dante’s company. But it still didn’t prove anything, as once again he could’ve Googled it the same way I did. He could
’ve pulled these figures from another contract. He could’ve . . . STOP!!

  Whether he was ribbing me or not, he was ribbing me! I was so worked up over the whole stupid story that I was obsessing about it every waking moment. I couldn’t stop trying to rationalize what was happening. So I told him he was full of shit and he replied he was over my negativity and wasn’t going to bother responding to me anymore. Besides, he was leaving for L.A. in a few days to get to know his fellow cast members before filming, and he needed to focus.

  “I need to devote my energy into learning my lines for Boots.”

  Boots? That’s what he came up with for a title? Fuckin’ BOOTS?!

  That was a brutal name for a movie. But was it so brutal that it could be true? I mean it was a better title than Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants. But as far as Speewee going to the set a few days early to “get to know” his fellow cast members, I’d filmed enough movies to know it didn’t work that way. You met everybody on the first day of shooting.

  But what if Brad worked differently? What if he liked to have coffee and donuts with the people he was working with for the next six weeks? It could be possible. I mean what the fuck did I know about filming a movie with Brad Pitt, right?

  My paranoia about Boots was out of control, but I couldn’t let it go. I had to get to the bottom of this, so I called my agent, Barry Bloom, and asked him if any of this sounded remotely possible. After hearing all of the “evidence,” he agreed with me that it was probably bullshit. But just to make sure, he was going to call the management company and see if there was a David Spivak on their client list.

  The next day he called me back and told me that Management 360 in California had never heard of a Dave Spivak. I had caught the lying bastard! But Barry was also told that all new clients were registered through the company’s New York branch, so he could be in the system there.

  I told Speewee that I was onto him and to admit that he was making the whole thing up. Then he sent me his contract.

  I read through the first couple of pages and couldn’t believe what I was seeing. I’d signed dozens of contracts in my time and it sure looked legit to me. All of the sections and subsections were in the right places, the compensation wording was perfect, and the facts and figures matched up with what Speewee had told me.

  This was war. I needed closure that this stupid Boots wasn’t real, so I sent the contract over to Barry, who was now as entrenched in the saga as much I was. He came back a few minutes later and said the contract was very amateur . . . not at the level of what you’d expect from a major production such as Boots. I called Speewee and demanded to know the truth (or should I should say, begged to know the truth) because at this point I was acting crazier than Howard Hughes shitting in a jar by the nightstand.

  “There is NO way this is true! I want the director’s number! I want Cynthia’s number! I want Angelina Jolie’s number!” (Who doesn’t?)

  In the midst of my rant I got another text: “I’m in a production meeting for Boots and can’t talk. But read the contract. Section C explains it all.”

  So he was in a production meeting, huh? He’d gone from Crazy Eyes to decision maker for a blockbuster motion picture? I was over it. None of this shit was true and I was so frickin’ annoyed that he would even try to keep selling me this bullshit story.

  I went to Section C to find out what other stupid crap he’d come up with and read:

  (c) Promotion—In all promotional appearances, your client will be required to relay the story of how absolutely everyone including, but not limited to, Rosie the Dog, was in on the joke to “get” Chris Jericho aka Chris Irvine. In addition, your client will fabricate and embellish the story to have Chris Jericho appear to be beside himself with jealousy at how easy your client made it appear to “break in” to the entertainment industry.

  Those SONS OF BITCHES.

  It was the greatest rib ever pulled on me, orchestrated by Speewee and Riot during a quiet evening in Los Angeles the night I left. They swore to each other to never tell me the truth under any circumstances and couldn’t believe I’d fallen for it this long. They’d Googled Pitt’s people’s info the same way I had, gotten their idiot savant friend Laun “The Great Panini” Wilby to find a contract online and replace it with Speewee’s name. (BOOTS was the only title Panini could think of for the film . . . idiot savant indeed.) They came up with a salary they felt was reasonable and then sat back to watch as my own jealousy and paranoia took it the rest of the way. It turns out that Speewee was a damn good actor after all. I mean, he had outacted the guy who had outacted Mickey Rourke, right? Excellent job . . . you bastard.

  Oh, and just to clarify, Rosie the Dog is Speewee’s.

  Buying mix with the GG3 on the Sunset Strip in 2009. Speewee holds the bag of water as Riot and I embrace lovingly. We asked a random stranger to take this pic and I’m glad he didn’t run away with my phone.

  Giant Heat

  As my feud with Mysterio was winding down, I started thinking about what I was going to do at WrestleMania. It was June, which was prime idea time for Mania as the main matches were decided months in advance. After tossing around a few ideas with Brian Gewirtz, it was obvious that the best angle for me had been a long time coming: working with Edge.

  Edge and I had flirted with doing a long-term story line a few times in the past, but for various reasons, it never came to fruition. There was an idea for SummerSlam 2002 to have Edge with the Osbournes (Who the fuck are you, man?) in his corner vs. Jericho with Fozzy in my corner, which got derailed when Edge suffered a shoulder injury. Then the original plan for WrestleMania 19 was for me to wrestle Edge, but that got called off after I got involved with HBK and we went on to have our show-stealing classic. But now that Edge and I finally had our chance, we were determined to get it right this time.

  Edge, Michael Hayes, Gewirtz, Vince, and I sat down together after a SmackDown taping in Bakersfield and mapped out our whole angle. Edge (Adam) and I would win the Unified tag-team titles in a three-way dance with Carlito and Primo and Ted DiBiase and Cody Rhodes. We would hold the titles as heels, wreak havoc on everybody for the next few months, and then start an angle with DX. Then I would turn on Edge, leading to our showdown at Mania with him as the good guy. Vince wanted to build Edge up as a babyface and make him the face of SmackDown, and this was the perfect way to start.

  The first step of the plan came together like George Peppard when Adam speared Carlito and we won the tag-team titles. The ironic thing was the match took place right after I lost the IC title to Mysterio. So just like when I lost the unsanctioned match to HBK and won the world title minutes later, winning the tag titles this way put us on the fan’s shit list right off the bat.

  We had good chemistry since Edge had the same natural ability to piss people off as I did. He also had a tremendous mind for the business and had orchestrated a classic feud with The Undertaker on SmackDown at the same time Shawn and I were having ours on Raw. Edge and Jericho as a team was a match made in Heel Hell and I knew we’d have great chemistry as opponents as well because we’d worked together countless times before. Therefore, wrestling each other at WrestleMania after a strong nine-month buildup was a surefire recipe for Show-Stealing Soufflé.

  But the soufflé was about to fall . . . fast. (Brutal analogy, I know, but it’s my book, junior.)

  A week later I was putting my boots on at a live event in San Diego, when somebody ran into the dressing room yelling that Edge was hurt. During his match with Jeff Hardy, he’d ducked under an up-and-over and heard a pop in his ankle. He couldn’t stand up, so they called off the match and stretchered him to the back.

  When I saw him in the training room squirming with pain, it was obvious he’d suffered a serious injury. Doc Amann was certain Edge had torn his Achilles tendon and was going to be out six to eight months.

  That was bad. Real bad. Don’t get me wrong. I felt
terrible for my fallen partner, but I selfishly felt just as bad for myself. In six months it was going to be December and eight months was February, so there was still a slight chance he could make it back in time for Mania. But for now, our carefully laid plans of mice and Edge were out the window.

  Adam had indeed torn his Achilles and flew home to get surgery the next day, which left me without a partner or an angle. The good news was we’d already won the tag titles, so it wasn’t like Vince could just sweep our burgeoning story under the carpet. As a matter of fact, he decided not to strip the tag titles from us and wanted to get someone to take Edge’s place. Then I would berate Edge for the next six to eight months for being injury-prone to build sympathy and get people primed to see him shut me up. Now only one question remained: Who would be my partner?

  There were a few newer guys’ names bandied about off the bat, but I nixed them pretty quickly. If I was going to end up in a feud with DX for the titles, I needed a lover who wouldn’t blow my cover, and a partner who could stand up to them verbally, physically, and historically. DX was very popular and didn’t care what they said about their opponents and would eat them alive if given the chance. I couldn’t have a rookie by my side, for that reason. The job opening for Jericho’s new partner could only be filled by a select few, and much like Vince’s WrestleMania 25 selection process, I had my own criteria that had to be met.

  The guy had to be an ex–World Champion, be physically imposing, and have the ability to verbally joust with those two. The first guy I thought of that fit those qualifications was Kane. He was massive, so I could hide behind him when things weren’t going my way, something I hadn’t been able to do since I was with Lance Cade.