This week’s edition of RTB, while an original idea, is dedicated to a very special Jericholic I know. No intro needed here; it’s a moment we all remember, and now, it’s gonna go how we all wished it had.
What if Chris Jericho’s WWF Title victory over Triple H hadn’t been reversed?
Our story begins moments after Chris Jericho has shocked Triple H, and indeed the world, by pinning him for the WWF Championship on Raw, thanks to a dubious three-count from the replacement referee, Earl Hebner. The decision doesn’t sit well with Triple H, who drags Hebner and original referee Mike Chioda to the ring to discuss it …
April 17th, 2000: Raw
Shane McMahon has Earl Hebner in a full nelson, while Triple H is in Earl’s face, barking into a mike. “Earl, you know you just screwed me; you just jobbed me out, pal, you know it. Now, this is the official, the assigned official, Mike Chioda.” Triple H looks at Chioda, who is quaking with fear. “You were the legal referee in that match, right? Not this piece of crap. I want you to look at the footage from that match, and I want you to tell me if that wasn’t a screwjob. Kevin Dunn, put that footage up.” The TitanTron fills with the images of Hebner executing the three count that ushered in Chris Jericho’s World Title reign. “Tell me that wasn’t a fast count! Tell me that wasn’t the fastest count you’ve ever seen. I was screwed! Earl Hebner jobbed me out; you saw it, the whole world saw it. Now, I want your unbiased, professional opinion of what you just saw, Chioda: did I get screwed or not?”
Chioda looks from Triple H to his colleague and back again, wiping away the sweat on his forehead. “Triple H … I mean … yeah, it was fast, but …”
Triple H’s eyes almost glow with rage. His glare, formerly locked on the pain-stricken face of Hebner, turns to Chioda; his rapid, furious breathing is audible thanks to the microphone. He doesn’t speak so much as spits the words through a clinched jaw. “But what, Chioda?”
Chioda gulps, backing up a couple steps. Triple H stalks him, an ominous, unstable predator, easily outweighing his new prey by well more then a hundred pounds. “I-I-I was knocked out, Triple H. There has to be a ref …”
“But you were the referee, Chioda! Not that fat sack of crap! You say the decision was wrong! Say it!“
Chioda shakes his head, slowly at first, then more affirmatively. He stops backing up, and actually advances a step (even if his voice does break a little). “No, Triple H. You pushed around Earl; but I’m not gonna overturn Earl’s decision.”
The rage coming from Triple H is almost palpable, like tendrils of smoke off a fire. For a what seems like an eternity, Triple H looms over Chioda like a king over a peasant, then suddenly pulls an about face, kicks Hebner in the gut, and starts to tie up his arms for a Pedigree.
Before he can pull it off, Jericho and the APA (Jericho’s hired guns during his title match) race to the ring. Triple H manages to drop Hebner and head to the outside, but Shane isn’t as quick, and is seeing stars from a Clothesline From Hell courtesy of Bradshaw. Triple H backs up the ramp, fuming as Jericho taunts him with his newly-won World Title and inviting him to come back down for more; Triple H disappears through the curtain.
But for Triple H, the night can only get worse; only minutes after his embarrassing defeat, he receives word that none other then Linda McMahon has arrived at the arena. Stephanie McMahon-Helmsley tries to get information from her, but to no avail; Linda is steadfast in keeping her purpose for being here under wraps until she can address both her daughter, Triple H, The Rock and the audience.
At the top of the second hour, Linda goes to the ring to deliver her announcement. “Good evening. I’d originally come here tonight to address what I believe is a growing problem in the World Wrestling Federation; that being how Triple H has, since WrestleMania, managed to stack the deck against the entire federation by having both my children and my husband on his side, a situation which I believe to be very unfair. Tonight’s abuse of senior referee Earl Hebner only underscores what kind of human being Triple H is, and to what levels he will sink to further his own goals. You see, with his win over Bull Buchanan and the Big Bossman last week on Raw, The Rock was scheduled to meet Triple H for the WWF Championship. But from what I can see, there are two issues with this: one, Triple H is no longer the WWF Champion. And two, with three McMahons on his side, I believe that Triple H would find a way to insinuate himself in the match and distort the outcome to what he believes would be advantageous to him. This puts both The Rock and Chris Jericho in jeopardy, and I cannot allow two of my star performers to be jeopardized by a madman like Triple H. Now, neither The Rock nor Chris Jericho has asked for my help, nor anyone else’s, but I have to tell you that after watching tonight, and after seeing what happened at WrestleMania, I have decided to put someone in his corner to even the odds a little bit.” The crowd starts to chant for Mick Foley; Linda smiles, but shakes her head. “Now, some of you are saying Mick Foley; it’s not Mick Foley. Mick was a one-time, one night only special, and he’s very happily retired at home. But there is going to be that very special individual at Backlash, and he will be acting as the special troubleshooting referee, and it’s with great pleasure tonight that I announce to you that it will be none other than Stone Cold Steve Austin!”
No sooner has the audience exploded at the name of the missing-in-action Rattlesnake then Triple H and Stephanie come roaring through the curtain (minus their music). Stephanie tears the microphone from Linda’s hand, her face twisted into a mask of fine outrage. “Unfair, Mom? You wanna know what’s unfair, is you hopping on a plane and thinking you can come down to this ring and start making decisions about things you know nothing about! In case you haven’t forgotten, the last time we were in the ring together, Mother, the McMahon-Helmsley regime has no problems slapping people around. And hopefully you’ve noticed that the McMahon-Helmsley regime is all about opportunity. So I’m going to give you the opportunity to change your mind. Think about it, Mother; what’s your decision?”
Linda can’t help but smile, a spiteful, almost gleeful smile. “No!” She yells.
Stephanie has to stop and consider the answer for a moment. “No. You won’t change your mind. You’re gonna have Stone Cold Steve Austin as the special guest referee. Well then, I’m not going to change my mind about what I have to do … but Mom, just remember, like you told me when I was a little girl: this is gonna hurt me a lot worse than it hurts you.” Stephanie cocks back for a wicked slap, but Linda brings up an arm to block and, fast enough to almost be invisible, slaps Stephanie right back, putting the Billion Dollar Princess on her ass. Linda recoils in shock; motherly instincts take over, and she tries to check on her daughter, who looks just as shocked. Stephanie looks to her husband and gestures to him; Triple H grabs Linda and pushes her down in position for a Pedigree … until Shane comes out of nowhere and clobbers Triple H in the head with a clothesline. Linda bails to the arena floor as Triple H goes after Shane; Stephanie gets in the middle of them, trying to keep her brother and husband from tearing each other apart. Shane mouths off an obscenity at Triple H, earning him a face-full of open hand; when Triple H taunts him, Stephanie gives him a slap too, leaving both men slack-jawed.
Before the tension escalates any further, The Rock comes out on the stage. “Now, before you two jabronis start playing Ali and Frazier, with the referee being played by that prostitute-in-training, The Rock’s got something to say. When The Rock woke up this morning, he was feeling great. The Rock was feeling great knowing at Backlash it was gonna be Triple H with Vince is his corner, facing the Great One. The Rock felt great about that, the Rock was fine about that, the Rock liked that. But things have changed; now, instead of The Rock shining up his boot and sticking it up Triple H’s candy ass so far he can’t walk straight for a week …” The crowd goes nuts for this; the cheering turns into a “Rocky” chant, which Rock soaks up until it peters out. “Now, instead of that, The Rock has to face Y2J Chris Jericho. Y2J, Y2J … what kind of stupid name is that, anyway? Sounds a little too much like K-Y Jelly to The Rock … say, that’s something you know a lot about, dontcha, Stephanie?” Stephanie, Shane and Triple H all fume and fuss, barking back at The Rock, who dismisses them with a wave. “Piss and moan all you want, honey, cause The Rock doesn’t give a monkey’s ass what you have to say. But then again, keeping anything closed, mouth or otherwise, isn’t your strong suit, is it?” More cheering and another Rocky chant. When it dies down, Rock speaks again. “The Rock is getting off track. The point is, now, The Rock will go one-on-one with Chris Jericho, but The Rock could care less if it was Chris Jericho, or Triple H, or that disgusting pervert Kevin Kelly, or … well, maybe not Kevin Kelly, but besides him, it doesn’t matter, because The Rock will do to Chris Jericho what he would’ve done to you, Triple H, and that’s beat his monkey ass all over Washington DC, up and down the Washington Monument, into the Potomac and all the way to the oral … er, Oval Office! But now, after hearing Linda McMahon’s announcement, the Rock says what was once a great situation … just got better. Because now it’s gonna be The Rock and Chris Jericho, with Austin 3:16 in the middle. Now the entire world knows of The Rock and Stone Cold’s history; they know that the Brahma Bull and the Rattlesnake haven’t always seen eye to eye. But the one thing we agree on, the one thing we’ve always agreed on is the fact that we know, Triple H, you’re the biggest asshole walking God’s green earth! It goes like this, Triple H; you’ve been spared the ultimate humiliation of The Rock whipping your candy ass at Backlash. That means in two weeks, at Backlash, you get to sit on your hands and watch like the jabroni you are, as The Rock does what The Rock does best, what only The Rock can do, and that is, quite simply put, walk into that ring, check some jabroni into a four-star suite in the Smackdown Hotel, walk out the WWF champion … and there’s nothing, and The Rock means nothing that you can do about it! If ya smell … what the Rock … is cookin’!”
To add insult to injury, Triple H’s demand of a match pitting himself and D-X against Chris Jericho and The APA only get him more embarrassment, as Faarooq and Bradshaw are able to isolate and decimate X-Pac and Road Dogg; and Jericho, along with a little help from The Rock, give Triple H enough of a beating for him to high-tail it out of harm’s way while he has enough left in him to do so, leaving his D-X compatriots to suffer a beatdown and the loss of the match.
The final build-up to Backlash
After the massive cut that was losing the WWF Title to Chris Jericho, the final week and a half leading up to what, for Triple H, looks to be an uneventful Backlash, is the salt in the wound.
The first grain comes on the Smackdown immediately following Raw; the sounds of “My Time” open up the show, and Triple H storms down to the ring; Stephanie has to race down the ramp to catch up to him. He grabs a mike and is talking before his music turns off.
“Because of a biased referee, that little halfwit Chris Jericho has my title; the title I bled, sweat and fought for for years. MY TITLE!” Triple H pauses to brush the hair out of his face; so angry is he, his hands shake as he does so. “And because of that meddling bitch Linda McMahon, I won’t be getting my contractually guaranteed rematch at Backlash either!” Triple H looks at Stephanie, who is standing demurely in the corner, hands clutched to her bosom. “Stephanie, I love you, but I am telling you right now; if Linda shows her face around here again, I’m taking her out; I’ll put her in the hospital, and if your idiot brother tries to stop me, I’ll do the same thing to him too.” Stephanie offers no rebuttal; she just nods her head in agreement. “Because everybody knows, including Linda, that I should be facing the champion. I’m not a fluke like Chris Jericho. But who’s getting stuck, who’s getting screwed again, watching while those two idiots fight over my belt? Me, Triple H! I should be-“
The lights in the arena dim and the sounds of a heartbeat melting into a flatline fills the arena. Through a cloud of orange-tinted smoke steps Tazz, wearing the ECW World Championship, looking as intense as ever. He tosses his head towel aside and immediately begins spitting out a rebuttal. “So you think you should be facing a champion, is that right? Well, since you look like you’re in a lousy mood, I’m here to to tell you the mood is about to change! You know, ‘champ’, you been running round here like you got it all under control, but it looks to me like when you lose control of one little thing, your whole world comes crashing down! I hear you belly-aching out here like some 5-year old, saying you deserve to face the champion and you’re being screwed … well, buddy-boy, I’m right here.” Tazz unfastens the ECW Title and holds it up. “And this here, it says I’m a champion. All’s you gotta do is lace up your little booties, get in that ring, and find out why they call me the Human Wrecking Machine!”
Triple H snickers. “You want a piece of me? Tonight?” The grin melts away; Triple H’s eyes turn as cold as ice, his jaw tightens like a steel cable. “You got it. You bring that little belt you got around your waist; what does that stand for? ECW or something? Well, Jack, understand this: you step in the ring with me tonight, this is the World Wrestling Federation, and I am gonna prove to the world, I am gonna prove to you, and I am gonna prove to every one of these idiots that was just chanting those three letters that ECW sucks!”
“Well, I’ll tell you what, Big Time! Last chump thought he could get the best of The Human Wrecking Machine, I choked him out in three minutes, and I took this from him too. You like to call yourself The Game? Pal, I don’t play games; I put people in hospitals.”
But before Triple H and Tazz can tangle, Stephanie is approached by Kurt Angle for a special favor: a chance to redeem himself against Chris Jericho for losing the European Title to him at WrestleMania without being pinned. Stephanie not only agrees, but makes it a World Title match. When word of this reaches Triple H, he is infuriated; not only does this put his World Title in jeopardy of switching hands again, but to none other then the dorky Angle, a guy who he has noticed on more then one occasion flirting with his wife. Stephanie tries to smooth it over with her own logic: she has (in her mind) Kurt Angle wrapped around her finger, and he’d gladly give Triple H a gimme-match for the World Title should he beat Jericho. But Triple H sees no upside to it, and leaves for his match even more irate then before.
The crowd is afire for the once-in-a-lifetime moment of seeing another federation’s champion (even if he is a WWF wrestler) stepping foot in enemy territory and throwing down the gauntlet. When Tazz’s music hits, the crowd blows up, but the all-business Human Wrecking Machine pays no mind; his eyes remain fixed on his target in the ring, Triple H. Triple H waits, gnashing his hands, giving Tazz the space to finish his pre-match schtick before rushing him; H tries a clothesline, but Tazz ducks and hits a stiff right punch, putting Triple H on his ass. Triple H backs off and stands back up, studying his opponent with caution. They tie up in the ring; Triple H hits a knee in Tazz’s gut, and follows it up with a volley of rights. A whip into the ropes is reversed, leading to a lariat by Tazz. Triple H is up right away, but gets put down with another clothesline, and then a third. Triple H backs into the corner, but Tazz chases him down and peppers him with body shots and tow kicks. Tazz backs away and lets Triple H walk into a overhead Tazzplex, sending Triple H halfway across the ring. Triple H manages to get to his feet long enough for Tazz to lock on the head-and-arm Tazzplex, putting Triple H back down on the mat. But an attempt at a German Tazzplex is countered with elbows to the head; Triple H follows it up with a clothesline to take Tazz down. Tazz gets back up and gets a couple punches in before slinging Triple H into the ropes; but Triple H sees Tazz bent down and kicks him. Triple H goes for a clothesline, but Tazz ducks and hits one of his own, sending Triple H outside. Tazz plays to the crowd a moment, then heads out, right into a waiting Triple H, who clobbers Tazz with punches, and whips him into the steel steps. Triple H rolls in to break the count and comes back out. Triple H drops Tazz throat-first on the barricade, and follows it up with punches to the head and thrusts to the throat. After another whip into the steps, Triple H rolls him back in the ring, hitting a vertical suplex that leads to the first pinfall attempt, which only gets two. A belly-to-back suplex and a running kneedrop leads to another cover and a count of two. Triple H whips Tazz into the turnbuckle with authority; the impact sends Tazz crashing down face first. Triple H hits the whip again, this time following behind to hit a clothesline, but Tazz makes Triple H eat boot. The impact sends Triple H spinning, and Tazz throws on the Tazzmission; Triple H tries to keep Tazz from locking it in completely, but Tazz refuses to let the chance slip away and cinches it in. But before Tazz can wrap his legs around and drag Triple H down to the mat, Triple H pushes backwards, squishing Tazz in between him and the turnbuckle. Another crushing, and Tazz lets go, but both men are down. The ref utilizes his 10-count; Triple H is up first and goes for a punch, but Tazz counters and hits one of his own. After three, Triple H goes for a wild punch, but Tazz ducks; Triple H spins around, and Tazz picks him up and drives him down with a vicious backdrop suplex. Tazz whips but it’s reversed; Triple H put his head down, only for Tazz to hit a Northern Lights Tazzplex for a two-count. Another whip sends Tazz into the ropes, and he eats a facebuster, but ducks yet another clothesline and counters with the Tazzmission. Stephanie jumps up on the apron; Mike Chioda goes over to keep her out of the ring, but a guy in black workout pants and a black ECW t-shirt suddenly pulls down Stephanie and starts to argue with her. Tazz sees the incursion of the man, no stranger to him, out of the corner of his eye: it is ECW stalwart hero Tommy Dreamer. Tazz lets go of Triple H to check out the ruckus, but Shane arrives on the scene, and the two of them brawl into the crowd. With the invaders gone, Chioda’s attention turns back to the ring, where Tazz still has Triple H in the Tazzmission. Chioda checks on his arm once, twice, three times. On the third time, it falls, and Chioda calls for the bell.
The only upshot of the night-the entire week, really-for Triple H is the chance to spoil the main event, being Kurt Angle’s (undeserved, in his opinion) World Title shot against Jericho. With a well-placed chair shot right between Jericho’s eyes, Triple H gets Angle disqualified (and gets the bonus of scrambling what little brains Jericho has). Angle is infuriated, naturally, at being cost not only the shot but even the luxury of a DQ victory. The timely arrival of Rock and Tazz prevent Triple H from getting any more licks in on Jericho, and serve to only frustrate him more; his stranglehold on the WWF is crumbling in his very hands, and with every passing day, he makes a new enemy he can’t scare or beat into submission.
The only matter of vindication Triple H can get is, courtesy of his brother-in-law, a rematch against Tazz at Backlash, with Shane even volunteering to be the special referee. But the idea of revenge is secondary to bigger issue, the one he is left looking at from the outside in: the WWF World Title. For all of The Rock’s harsh words (nothing new, since he has harsh words for everyone), when he and Jericho are paired off together with Tazz against Triple H, Angle and Intercontinental Champion Chris Benoit on the last Monday Night Raw before Backlash, their teamwork is that of long-time partners, not recent adversaries. Only the diversionary tactics of Stephanie, some interference from DX and a sledgehammer keep Triple H and his team from suffering another humiliation on the road to Backlash.
Backlash: 4.30.00
As a consolation prize for his World Title loss, Stephanie (over Triple H’s vehement protests) gives Angle a shot at Chris Benoit’s Intercontinental Title, which pleases Angle to no end; in his mind, it still is his title, and the opportunity is the first step in reclaiming his “Euro-Continental” championships. The match is an instant classic, the least anyone would expect from two masters of technical wizards as Angle and Benoit. But Benoit is not the only opponent Angle has to deal with: X-Pac and Road Dogg insinuate themselves in the match. Benoit shows his distaste for the unnecessary, and unwanted, help by attacking his would-be assistants alongside Angle, and the match is thrown out. The brawl carries the four competitors into the back, where it takes security and numerous officials to pry them apart, and keep them away from one another for the duration of the evening.
The moment news of the brawl, started by Triple H’s DX goons, gets to Stephanie, she busts into his dressing room. “What the hell was that?” she demands. “Why did security just have to pry your buddies off Kurt Angle and Chris Benoit?”
Triple H saunters up to Stephanie, putting a hand on her arm and kissing her cheek. “Baby, it’s not your concern,” he says with more then a smidge of condescension.
Stephanie shrugs off the arm and steps back. “Not my concern? It was my decision to give Kurt Angle that shot at Chris Benoit, and for some reason, you just had to stick your nose in it!”
“Stephanie,” he says, now strictly on the defensive, “I don’t like the guy. The way he looks at you, the way he talks to you, the way he’s always kissing your ass … you don’t see it, but he’s got you buffaloed. He asks you for something, maybe tosses in a compliment or something, and he gets what he wants!”
Stephanie stands with her arms on her hips; on her face is “the look”. Triple H cringes the moment he recognizes it and knows he is no longer treading on thin ice: he is now treading in very cold water. “Kurt Angle and I are just friends. I don’t know how many times I have to tell you that. But for some reason, you just can’t see that. You’re too possessive, too … wrapped up in your problems to pay attention to the people around you!”
“Well, maybe if I knew you were definitely in corner, helping me achieve my goals and solve my problems, I wouldn’t be so worried about you and that dork!”
Stephanie’s face flashes bright red. “You should be worried about your problems, honey, cause every time you open your mouth, you just make another one!” Stephanie spins around and bolts for the door, slamming it on the way out; Triple H’s calls to come back are drowned out by the crashing door. He collapses onto a bench, letting his head loll back into the locker door. When Road Dogg and X-Pac come in, he pays them no mind, until Road Dogg says; “Hey, what’s wrong? Trouble in paradise?” The glare of rage is enough to send DX scattering to the winds, and before leaving for his match, he throws a bench across the room and lets loose with a primal, guttural yell.
Right from the beginning, it is obvious plainly obvious that Tazz has an uphill mountain to climb. The reigning ECW Champion (scheduled to defend it the following week) frequently finds himself the victim of senseless 5-counts, counted by Shane as though he were trying to count to 100 in less than 10 seconds. And, conversely, Triple H’s lack of adherence to the rules is ignored almost entirely: after the two brawl (Triple H with closes fists), Tazz manages to duck a punch and lock his arms around Triple H for a German suplex, only for Triple H to fell Tazz with a back kick to the balls. Shane offers no penalty, or even a reaction, and thus sets the pattern for the rest of the match.
Triple H keeps the pace slow and grounded after the illegal crotch kick, going to work on Tazz’s legs. Kicks to the hamstring and thrusts to the thigh and knee area take their toll on the small but fierce ECW Champ. When Triple H backs off Tazz for a moment, it is merely to let him stand so Triple H can chop block him back down to the mat. Triple H slides out and drapes Tazz’s leg over the apron and drops several elbows on it, further knotting up the muscle. When Tazz tries to pull himself away and to the safety of the inside of the ring (as safe as it can be with Shane as referee, and Triple H in close pursuit), Triple H grabs Tazz by the leg and hauls him out; he turns Tazz on his stomach and drives his knee into the mat over and over. Triple H throws Tazz back into the ring and goes for a pin he knows will only get two, and even with Shane’s fast count, it indeed only gets two. Triple H picks up Tazz, now immobilized and without a solid base to use his suplexes, starts to work on beating the man senseless; first, an overhead suplex, delayed for maximum effect. Triple H tries throwing Tazz into the turnbuckle, but his legs give out, and Tazz crumbles on the mat. So, instead, Triple H goes back to the impact game; a DDT drives Tazz into the mat like a railroad spike, but only gets two on the count. A spinebuster gets another two count, and Triple H pounds on the mat in frustration, arguing with Shane over the count. Shane assures Triple H the count was as speedy as he can make it and actually raise his arm. Triple H stands up, bringing Tazz with him, but gets doubled over from a punch to the gut. Another couple punches push get Tazz some space, but Triple H comes back with a kneelift, only for Tazz to catch the leg and turn it into a dragon whip.
Shane’s eyes go wide with panic as Tazz starts to turn the tide; with Triple H down, Tazz drops a couple elbows. When Triple H starts to roll away, Tazz drops another elbow across the small of the back, and before Triple H can escape, Tazz straddles Triple H’s back and grabs a handful of hair. Shane tries to interject, but Tazz looks at him and uses his free hand to give Shane a one-fingered salute (and a very audible “f*ck off, mama’s boy!”), then pulls Triple H’s head back and lights into some forearm shots from behind. Shane finally steps in and orders Tazz off Triple H; he gets to his feet, but only long enough for Tazz to sneak up from behind and hit a wickedly stiff German suplex on Triple H, but the weakened leg stops him from maintaining the bridge. Triple H manages to roll out of the ring and, thanks to Shane admonishing Tazz for no particular reason other then to delay him, gets a measure of rest. But Tazz only tolerates it for so long, and hobbles out, where Triple H intercepts him and they start to brawl again. This time, when Tazz ducks a wild punch, instead of going for another suplex, he clobbers Triple H in the small of the back, dropping him to his knees. Tazz makes a slashing gesture across his throat and stands above Triple H, ignoring the ten-count, and locks in the Tazzmission. But instead of dropping to the ground and choking the life out of Triple H, he hauls him up to a standing position; the crowd goes nuts, knowing what Tazz is trying to do: the Tazzmission-plex, a nuclear bomb in the The Human Wrecking Machine’s arsenal. But Tazz’s leg buckles under the strain, and he can’t pull off the move. Triple H turns around and kicks Tazz in the gut, then hauls him in for the Pedigree.
In front of him, the crowd parts, and once again, Tommy Dreamer has invaded the WWF, brandishing a Singapore cane. Dreamer swings, but Triple H ducks, and Dreamer’s shot, and Dreamer himself, go sailing past their intended target. Triple H turns to follow Dreamer, tracking him like a hunting dog, and puts a boot in Dreamer’s midsection. But before he can lace up the arms, Tazz wraps his arms around Triple H again for another Tazzmission; Dreamer picks up the cane again and swings. But the Tazzmission isn’t fully cinched in, and that allows Triple H to duck; the cane cracks Tazz in the side of the head, sending him crashing to the floor like a felled tree. Triple H kicks Dreamer again and throws him head first into the steel steps, then tosses Tazz in the ring. Although it’s academic, he puts the exclamation point on it with a Pedigree and gets a (still fast) three count, then leaves with Shane before either man can come to enough to seek retribution.
The finale of the evening sends the crowd into overdrive, with three of the company’s most favorite wrestlers in the same ring. The ovation for the crowd-pleasing Rock is tremendous, as is the once-thought-unlikely World Champion Chris Jericho … but the reaction for Stone Cold Steve Austin, who hadn’t set foot in a wrestling ring since November, is absolutely unfathomable. Austin takes time to check both fighters before starting the match. The tension between him and The Rock as he checks out Rocky is palpable; the People’s Eyebrow flies at full mast as Austin makes a brusque check of Rocky’s boots and tights. There is a long, lingering moment when Austin starts to turn away and The Rock grabs Austin by the arm and hauls him back; Austin looks down at Rock’s hand, then into Rock’s eyes, which are as hard and determined as they have ever been. The history of tension and rivalry between the two is contained in that hostile stare-down, and Rocky mutters a word of warning (“You better call it straight, you son of a bitch.”) before finally letting Austin check Jericho. But for the two being strangers, there is no less tension, mostly because Jericho has something Austin lives for and covets, something that drives his very existence and his current recuperation: the WWF Title. For another long, tense moment, when Jericho forfeits the title over to Austin-for what Jericho knows could be the last time-there is a moment of hesitation, with Jericho’s hand on one side of the belt and Austin’s on the other. The two lock gazes over the richest prize in the business, one a champion in not-so-distant days past but quite possibly never will be again, and the other the current champion and hot new property. Jericho finally relinquishes the belt and, for a moment, Austin continues to glare at Jericho. The crowd is on the edge of their seat, waiting for a knock-down, drag-out barroom brawl to bust out and destroy the meeting of these two popular wrestlers. But Austin finally breaks away, pausing only for a second, to look down at the trophy in his hands, the centerpiece of the federation, and the goal of every man in the locker room … a trophy that was once his. And now, he is stuck deciding a match between two other guys for the very same trophy. Jericho is starting to move towards Austin to urge him into moving, when Austin does it on his own and forfeits the title to the timekeeper and orders the match to begin.
Jericho and Rock circle one another, sizing each other up before locking up in a collar-and-elbow tie-up, which Rock wins and works the arm. Jericho reverses and slips behind Rock with a hammerlock, which he releases with a shove. Rock turns around and glares at him. Jericho invites him to bring it, and Rock charges, leading to a series of armdrags before Rock backs into the corner; he exchanges words with Austin about getting involved, but Austin’s response is to back off and wave both men on to continue. Another tie-up in the middle of the ring is won by Jericho kneeing Rock in the stomach; Jericho slugs Rock down to the mat and goes for the Walls Of Jericho, but Rock fights it by kicking Jericho away; Jericho rebounds off the ropes and into the waiting arms of Rock and a Rock Bottom, but Jericho elbows out of it and scoops Rock’s legs out from underneath him for another Walls attempt. Again, Rock counters and bails to the apron, but Jericho moves quick and hits a springboard dropkick, sending Rocky to the floor. Austin immediately steps in, not issuing the ten-count, but checking on Rock; Rocky barks back at him (“You’re god-damn right I’m continuing!”), and Jericho gives him the space to re-enter in the ring. Back in, Rock wins a punch-fest and slings Jericho into the ropes, but Jericho hits a flying back-elbow and makes a quick cover, but barely gets two (more on the part of Austin’s deliberate, almost slow-motion count). No sooner is Rock on his feet then he gets a spinning heel kick, but again, Jericho can only get two. A backbreaker is followed up with Jericho’s trademark double-underhook backbreaker, but another two-count is all Jericho can get. Jericho picks Rock back up, hits him with a couple stiff chops, then sends him into the ropes, but Jericho nearly gets his head torn off with a Rock clothesline. A whip leads to a spinebuster, but by the time Rock has torn off the elbow pad and thrown it to the audience, Jericho has bailed to the safety of the arena floor. Like Jericho did for him, Rock lets him have his space (along with Austin insisting he keep a few steps back). When Jericho comes back, the two begin to brawl again, Rock with punches and Jericho with chops. Rocky overwhelms Jericho with punches, putting him on the mat with his familiar spit-punch. Jericho is no sooner on his feet then Rocky whips him and drapes him across the ropes with a stun-gun, but Rock’s cover only gets two. Rocky unloads with an overhead suplex and a Russian legsweep, but another two count is the best he can do. Rock picks up Jericho and sits him on the turnbuckle, but Jericho blocks the superplex and hits some punches in the gut. Jericho tries to dump Rock with a front suplex, but the release is without much force, and Rock lands on his feet, sprints back up and hits a surprise superplex, but again only draws two. A sling into the ropes leads to a double-clothesline, and Austin utilizes his (very slow) 10-count. Both men are up at 8, and Rock gets the upper hand in their fisticuffs, turning it into a samoan samoan drop for two. Rocky kips up and crouches down, the hunter waiting for the prey; when Jericho gets up, Rock explodes like a track runner off the blocks, blasting Jericho with a lariat. Rock whips Jericho and launches him over the top rope, following him out to lay the smack down outside by dropping him on the crowd barricade (which draws a smattering of boos). Rock rolls in and out to break Austin’s 10-count (which hadn’t gotten past 3 anyway) and leads Jericho over to the announce tables. But Jericho elbows him in the stomach once, twice, and a third time sends Rock staggering back on his heels. From out of nowhere, Jericho hits a dropkick, which sends Rock stumbling backwards into the ring post, and Jericho takes the opportunity to roll into the ring. When Rock tries to come in, Jericho hits a baseball slide, then tosses Rocky back in. A slugfest is won by Jericho, setting up a hurricanrana and a neckbreaker, but they only get two. Jericho steps back and crouches, springing into a Rock Bottom set-up when Rock gets up; but Rock elbows out and tries his own. Jericho elbows out as well, sweeps out the legs again, and kicks Rock in the abdomen. With Rock holding his gut, Jericho bounces off the ropes and hits the Lionsault, but only gets two. A bulldog plants Rocky in the middle of the ring, and Jericho steps to the head of his downed opponent; he mimics the arm movements and starts to bounce off the ropes, but Rock jumps up in time and hits the spinebuster, which transitions into a Sharpshooter. Jericho tries to counter, but Rock overpowers him and gets the hold, but Jericho struggles and makes the ropes. Jericho bails to the floor, but Rock follows and tears apart the Spanish announcing table, then leads Jericho over to it. But before he can put Jericho on it, Triple H comes from the sea of humanity of the crowd, clobbering Rocky in the head with a sledgehammer. Jericho gets one in the gut and is thrown into the steel steps. Triple H puts the bloodied Rocky on the table and hits the Pedigree, then swipes the WWF Title from the timekeeper and shoves it in Rocky’s face, screaming about how he will die before he lets Rocky get his hands on the belt. Triple H turns slowly, the most evil of intentions for Chris Jericho written all over his face, when he is greeted by his own sledgehammer in the stomach, swung by Stone Cold. Austin tosses him in the ring and lets him get to his feet, crouched (much like Rocky) in waiting until Triple H gets to his feet, staggering about like a drunk. He has just enough time to realize who is waving two middle fingers in his face before he gets a kick in the gut and a Stunner to put his lights out. Paramedics are sent out to attend to the champion and his challenger as Austin’s theme song blares throughout the arena, but a myriad of unanswered questions remain, and answers won’t be had at least until Monday Night Raw.
To be continued …
If it’s too short for some of your tastes, apologies. I have a design for this storyline in terms of format, and I’m sticking with it. You all understand, correct? Meantime, console yourself with the fact that this is the story that’ll probably take us through the remainder of the year … it’s a trilogy, no doubts, and that means the depths of December. And I’m not launching anything big over the holidays … I’m not taking it off per se, but no epics. The epic comes after X-mas.
Pimps to Kurtis and Bonto for, as usual their input. And a what-up to Gohan, who I haven’t talked to in a while. Sorry, man … been a whirlwind lately. Too many irons in the fire. And no, no news on “the project” yet … I’m sure you know what I mean.
Eric is has Tuesdays and Wednesdays covered.
Goforth called me “prestigious” in our highly-exclusive staff forum. Or my column. Or both. Hey, I’ll take the compliments where I get ’em. I got an ego, and it needs to be fed! And, for the record, he runs a tidy ship too … hence pimping.
And Gordi is no slouch either.
Rob Blatt is investigating why we’re fans of this form of entertainment so many of us have soured on in recent years, and he included a short contribution from me, concerning my introduction to the action from inside the squared circle. It’s a bold undertaking he’s doing, trying reconnect with our inner fan, especially amongst the jaded members of the IWC…but I respect the effort big-big, and you should too.
To quote one of the greatest shows in the history of television: “WE GOT MOVIE TIME!!!” And J. Kern has quite the unique gimmick for reviewing movies. Welcome aboard, Kern.
I’m loving Laflin’s stuff about being a maturing gamer, and the challenges of fitting it within the “responsible adult” life.
Sometime in December, I’m gonna be taking on the NYSlayer himself, David Goldberg in a sports debate. I have no idea how it’s gonna turn out, aside from being sure I’m gonna look like an ass. But it should be fun.
Hey, look: I’m in the Rocktable!
And, finally, don’t forget about voting on the InVasion story by posting comments on my blog. Voting is still up for another two weeks … it’s a tight race, and any one of the three can bust out for the win with just two weeks to go. If you got a favorite of the three (all ideas are posted on the blog entry itself, along with strict rules) and wanna see it done, don’t wait: post that vote! And that goes for my fellow writers, too … this is open to all, but only until 11.59pm November 30th. At the stroke of midnight, I’m closing up shop, tabulating the votes, and will post said results in the blog. Can you feel the tension? Can you feel the excitement?
Yeah, I know. I’m lame. Eat me.
So … we may have one part done, but there’s still miles to go with this one … Jericho has yet to defend his belt to a pinfall/submission conclusion: is he just a fluke? Can Triple H regain his dominance in the WWF, or is the McMahon-Helmsley Regime finally coming undone? And what of The Rock, and the inconclusive end to his quest to regain the WWF Title? And lest we forget, there is Tazz, Kurt Angle and Chris Benoit to consider … will any of these men play a factor? If so, how? Fear not, friends, for possible answers, and part two of this saga, is but a fortnight away.
