This was originally posted as my final column on 411Mania, during the week of the big split. When Widro gave me the ok to come aboard Pulse, I had precious little time (three days) to construct a full-scale final chapter to my Fingerpoke Of Doom story arc. And, as a bonus, without a chapter to post, I had no way of letting the fanbase know I was jumping ship. So my buddy Kurtis suggested I craft a “fake” ending that would serve as a goodbye and a re-direct to the new site (his original intentions were also as a middle finger to 411, but I didn’t feel pissing on 411 on my way out the door was very classy). I’ve gone to the liberty of editing out the stuff dealing with the 411 exodus, reasons for why I jumped and all that, as that’s a subject that’s long dead and buried. If you have questions on it, ask me in email or post a comment. And if you don’t get the Trish Stratus joke at the end, it’s a Hyatte thing. Seek out his archives, and there might be an explanation … you never learn anything if don’t do the work yourself, no? Anyway, I present to you the slightly infamous, mostly reviled “fake” ending of the Fingerpoke Of Doom saga.
Part 1 and Part 2 are must-reads if you didn’t already. …
What if “The Fingerpoke Of Doom” title change never happened?
Our story resumes as Scott Steiner, DDP and Sting come back to the locker room following their confusing attacks on Eric Bischoff and Ric Flair in the Presidency-deciding main event of Uncensored. But rather than a celebratory mood for the fantastic event they’ve just put on, the locker room is in turmoil …
The unmistakable voice of Hollywood Hogan comes bellowing down the hall like a siren call for the approaching Scott Steiner, DDP and Sting. When they get to the locker room, three men-Hollywood Hogan, Kevin Nash and Goldberg-all are in each other’s faces, yelling back and forth.
“Why the f*ck should I be jobbing to you again?” screams Hogan to Nash. “Where’s my return job from Nitro?”
“Piss off, old man,” says Goldberg. “I still haven’t gotten my return job either.”
“Yeah, but you’re not jobbing to him at Spring Stampede, rookie-I am.” Hogan looks at Nash dead in the eyes. “If we’d just gone and done the title change back in January when I asked you to, we wouldn’t be in this mess, Nash!”
Goldberg’s delivery is chilling, his eyes like chips of ice. “You better tell leather-face here to shut his f*cking mouth, Nash, before he’s talking with a mouthful of loose teeth.”
“Wait a minute, wait a minute,” says Nash, stepping in between both men, arms held out like a concert security guard. He looks at Goldberg and says; “I’ll deal with you in a minute.” He then looks at Hogan and says; “As for you, you greedy, self-serving prick … I gave you your return job, you senile old f*ck. Three hours ago ring a bell?”
“That was unsanctioned. The fans won’t buy that. I want a rematch for the belt, I want to pin you clean, like you pinned me. Fair’s fair, Kevin.”
Nash’s eyes go wider than 80’s-style satellite dishes. “What the f*ck did I just do out there with you? You pinned me clean!” Nash pauses, then adds; “And who gives a flying f*ck if the stips were unsanctioned? It’s a bullshit stip! It’s for the marks, not for real! Jesus-H-Christ, can you ever dial out of character?”
Hogan levels a finger in Nash’s face, his eyes as dark as lumps of charcoal. “Listen, brother. If I don’t see my name on the card for a title match tomorrow, you can kiss my ass goodbye.” Hogan turns and leaves, leaving Goldberg to deal with.
“As for you-“
“Yeah, what about me? You’ve made me look like a chump for months, Nash.” Goldberg steps up, their noses (were they the same height) nearly touching. “Do you know who I am?”
Nash lets the glare linger for a moment, then grins a toothy, twisted smile that chills the blood of everyone in the room … except, naturally, Goldberg. “Oh, I know who you are: some big, dumb Steve Austin wannabe with a monster push he doesn’t deserve who got here because he sucked at football and was buddies with someone on staff.”
That friend in question takes a step towards Nash, who points at him without moving his head. “Take another step, Page, and I’ll make sure Kimberly finds out about the ring rats you’ve been giving a taste of ‘the bang’ to.”
DDP backs off.
“Now, as I was saying-“
“You ain’t saying jack shit, loudmouth,” growls Goldberg. “You’re-“
“You’re gonna shut the f*ck up if you ever hope to see this belt again, ya bald bitch. I know who you are; you’re another source of income for this company. And you’ll get your shot … have a little faith that I know how to book long-term, alright? And if you can’t wait to Starrcade … well … you can follow the other bald bitch who just ran outta here a minute ago.” Goldberg backs up about a foot, and Nash gives him the stinkeye the entire time. “If you’ve got even a quarter of the brains of a normal person, you’d wipe the thought of spearing me right outta your head. Unless you want to go wanna test your luck up north.”
Goldberg glares at Nash a moment longer, then leaves; Nash tracks him until he leaves. Once gone, Nash sits down in front of his locker, running his fingers through his hair. Steiner comes up behind him, his voice low and surprisingly comforting. “Ya know, Nash, I don’t-“
Nash spins in his seat, his eyes as red as his tights. “Now you gotta start something, juice-head? Why don’t you shut the f*ck up and go attack some other innocent civilian?”
Before anyone in the locker room can even gasp in response, Steiner clocks Nash in the back. Nash goes down, and Steiner is on top of him and pounding for several seconds before anyone moves to pull him off. Nash is up and swinging at Steiner, but several other people in the room hold him back; Nash vows to have Steiner fired by night’s end.
Naturally, the incident makes its way to the ‘net in no time at all, putting a black cloud over what had been not only a fantastic pay-per-view, but an event viewed as the beginning of a turning point for WCW’s fortunes.
March 15th, 1999: Monday Nitro
Booking has to be completely reorganized before the show can even get under way, thanks to the last minute confirmation: Goldberg has demanded his release from WCW. Out goes the proposed Goldberg/Nash co-main event (which would’ve ended in a schmozz anyway, so no loss). Out, as well, goes the rematch at Spring Stampede (which would have ended in a draw).
Also, Nash makes good on his promise, and Scott Steiner is fired when he reports to Nitro. When he leaves, he takes his brother and future Sting/DDP/Steiner teammate Buff Bagwell with him, thus canceling the other half of the main event: Steiner vs. Flair vs. Bischoff for the Presidency.
Instead, Nash rearranges and comes up with some promising matches that will maintain his storylines: Nash books himself over Hogan by pinfall (a tainted pinfall, sure, but it’s for the future Nash is thinking about), while Benoit will successfully defend against Luger (clean submission loss), DDP will lose to Malenko (tainted), and Sting will face Flair and Bischoff after Sting’s explanatory comments on his tweener turn.
But life in WCW always means unhappiness, and people have to bitch: first up is Luger, who refuses to put over Benoit clean, let alone to a submission. Nash gives Luger the directions on where and how to stick his complaints, and Luger responds with a middle finger and his departure from the arena.
DDP, as well, feels negatively about his losing to “that midget with the bad haircut” Dean Malenko. When Nash tries to point out how it’ll be tainted for a rematch at the Stampede, DDP balks and hits the road as well.
And Bam Bam Bigelow (who has been unwelcome by almost everyone in WCW since his sudden arrival and push to the moon) has a gripe about how he’s been used: where’s his World Title shot? Why has he been booked like a chump when he’s a former World-f*cking-Champion? Another temper tantrum, another standoff by Nash, and in the end, another walk-out, quite possibly the most disastrous night in the history of WCW.
Strangely enough, the only person not to bitch is Hogan, who simply nods when he sees the rundown, and disappears until showtime. Hogan/Nash is to be the leadoff match, so as to build to a repeat confrontation later on in the show, and when Nash is announced first (while Tony Schiavone, Larry Zbyszko and Mike Tenay pretend the white elephant that is been the collapsing roster that is all over the ‘net isn’t happening-instead, they do the usual “erase from history and memory” attitude), the crowd jumps to their feet. But the boos for Hogan melt into confusion when he comes to the ring dressed in street clothes. Hogan slides in the ring, waits for the bell to ring and then drops to his back, arms at his sides like a corpse in the morgue. Nash approaches apprehensively, nudging Hogan with the tip of his boot. Hogan looks up at mouths four words: f*cking pin me already. Nash puts a boot on Hogan and the referee goes down to make the count: one, two, three. The referee-as confused as anyone-signals for the bell to be rung, while Hogan gets up and leaves, never once looking back. Nash signals for a microphone, which he is quickly supplied with.
“That’s right, baldy, get out!” he barks. “See that, folks? I try and bring a little entertainment into your lives, and what do I have to deal with? Whiny, prima donna bitches like Hollywood Hulk Hogan. Yeah, keep walking, ya arthritic old prick! See if Vince’ll waste ten mil a year watching you play air guitar and act like a 15-year old! We don’t want you here!” Nash looks into the camera, that Nash grin as big as life and as cold as the grave. “That goes for all of you narcissistic, selfish little bastards in the back. You think you can stand up to the champ? I’m the puppet master around here-I pull the strings, and I make you dance to whatever tunes I feel like striking up! That’s why you won’t be seeing that roid-raging twit Steiner here anymore … or his buddy Buffy The Gerbil Stuffer.” The crowd starts to chant “Goldberg”, one guy with a “Who’s Next?” sign in the front row doing so quite vehemently. “Yeah, keep chanting, buddy. Hold up your sign. Did you know gold and lead are only a particle or two away on the atomic charts? You know what that means, pal? The most valuable substance on Earth is thisclose to being the most worthless. So guess what that means for old, bald Billy boy? Leadberg! You won’t be seeing ol’ Leadberg round here anymore neither! Change the channel if you don’t like it, folks, but lemme tell ya-you’ll miss us if we disappear overnight … and if nothing else, you know I’m right on that one!”
Nash watches the rest of the show from the back in a private room, revising his long-term plan. He draws a line through all the quitters’ names, taking great pride in Hogan and Goldberg. Spring Stampede will need to be reshuffled, but he has ideas on that … Nash vs. Flair, Title vs. Presidency (once he puts the President title on Flair). After that … well, the Great American Bash is still safe, where he will become a dual champion after crushing Benoit for the US Title. And if he needs more old timers to harass, Bret is still here … f*cking with him would be apropos (and HBK would get a vicarious kick out of it). And there’s been word Savage is ready to come back.
Nash surveys his plan again … he knows what the wrestling world needs: long-term planning. Long-term champions. He knows he can deliver that kind of programming again, even if he has to do it single-handedly.
Bet you didn’t see that end coming, did ya?
And if you believe it’s real, I have the real Trish Stratus sex tape for sale.
Smell ya later.
(Don’t forget to check out my blog here on Inside Pulse. Go here for continual updates on columns, thoughts, etc. You never know what could show up there…)