The thing about being dead is that I have no idea what it’s like.

I got a haircut and took some time off and people started to talk because they either think that life is as fake as wrestling or vice versa.

But remember that guy in the promotion who was pretending to be me? Suicide. When they finally hired the real me, he had a pity spot on the roster as my stunt double and then he got fired and then he shot himself.

A million dollars up-front got me in the building. Bumps are a different story.

Think about that. A million dollars. That’s not an arbitrary number that expresses an undefined large sum. It’s an exact price.

I got that for walking to the ring and talking celestial nonsense for ten minutes. Watch the tape. August 17, 1998. I’m wearing blue jeans. Didn’t even put on tights.

I did have to put the make-up on, of course—that part’s included—and I remember it being easier to put on back then, or at least it didn’t take me fifteen minutes just to open the fucking container.

Hulk Hogan wrestled for about thirty years and has only a bit more money to show for it than I do. Thousands of matches in his whole career and only about a dozen people beat him cleanly. I was one of them.

It was middle of the ring at WrestleMania VI. I was standing next to Jacques Rougeau backstage while Robert Goulet sang “O Canada” before the show. Goulet was singing in that big wavering baritone and Jacques ]was sitting there, literally weeping because he wasn’t on the card. I ignored him and jerked the tassels on my arms.

I have a destiny, and this is it.