Authors: Mick Foley
Cornette then proceeded to show me how it worked. “By pressing down with your two middle fingers on the nerves underneath the tongue, and by pressing up with your thumb on the nerves running under the chin, you can damn near kill the guy. You’d have a hell of a finish, and you wouldn’t have to kill yourself.” I was so excited that I ran right to the Cowboy himself, Bill Watts. I laid it out and waited for his enthusiastic response and maybe even a manly hug. I got neither. Instead, I got, “Why couldn’t I just bite your goddamn fingers off?” I tried to explain the whole nerve idea, but it was no use; Bill had spoken.
I decided to pitch my idea again to a more reasonable man, who wouldn’t talk about biting my “goddamn fingers off.” I relayed the historical significance and also tried to make him see just how visually exciting the whole thing would look. “Vince, it will be the only move in the business that will allow the camera to get close-ups of both guys at the same time. It will be great.”
Vince thought about it for quite a while before answering. “Mick,” he began (apparently someone must have alerted him about the name issue) “why wouldn’t I just bite your fingers?”
Oh no, I was sunk-or was I? I had to fire back or else the moment would be gone forever. “Because,” I began my rebuttal, “it’s a nerve hold. No one can bite when the hold is applied. We can have the announcers talk about the element of surprise, and how, once it’s on, the match is over.”
Vince took it all in and nodded. “Let me think about it” is all he said.
I also had an idea for music. I had loved a particular scene in The Silence of the Lambs that had a tremendous juxtaposition of violence and beautiful music. The scene took place in a temporary cell built in the court building of Memphis, Tennessee. As it begins, Hannibal Lecter is listening to a tape of beautiful piano music as he uses the commode. Unknown to the police officers guarding him, Lecter is in possession of a small piece of metal, which he hides between his fingers. The police officers approach the cage with his dinner saying, “Okay, you know the procedure, Doc, grab some floor.” Lecter sits with his back to the bars and allows himself to be handcuffed with his hands behind his back. Once he is incapacitated, the officers unlock the cage to lay his dinner on the table. During this food delivery, Lecter is working on the handcuffs with his small piece of metal. When the first officer comes near, Lecter springs into action, snapping one cuff on one of the officer’s wrists, rendering him immobile by snapping the other on one of the cell bars. When the second officer comes for assistance, Lecter bites off a portion of the man’s tongue and thoroughly maces his eyes. He then returns to the helpless first officer and, as dramatic music blares, methodically caves in his skull with several blows from the man’s own nightstick. The camera then surveys the bloody aftermath as the beautiful piano music gently fades back in. A blood-splattered Lecter is shown to be the picture of serenity as he gently sways to the beautiful sounds.
I explained the scene to Vince. “That’s what I want,” I told him. “I want separate entrance and exit music-no one’s ever done that before. The entrance will be scary, but the exit will be beautiful. I want to be completely at peace with myself after destroying my opponent.”
“I see,” said Vince. “Let me think about that as well.”
I then continued laying out some ideas for the character that I had gotten through reading the crime novels of Jonathan Kellerman. Kellerman was a psychologist turned author, and I was always enthralled by how the plot was usually driven by some obscure mental illness or condition. I proposed some really far-out ways to work these into story lines, none of which ever made it to fruition but probably were good for some raised eyebrows around Titan Towers.
Vince then prepared me for some big news. I could tell he was excited by what he was about to say. “Did anyone tell you your name yet?” he asked me with a smile.
“No,” I said. “What is it?”
“Well,” Vince continued in his very descriptive way. “In this business, we’ve had crushers, we’ve had bruisers, we’ve had destroyers, but we’ve never had a mutilator! And that’s what you most certainly are-a mutilator!”
Oh, God, I thought. Just when things were going so well. I could hear that dreadful name rolling slowly and painfully across Vince’s lips-MEW-TI-LAY-TOR. I wanted to go home. Or to Japan, where it was still Cock-toos-uh Jack, the King of the Death Match.
“What do you think?” Vince boomed.
I struggled for something to say and came out with the three most untruthful words I’ve ever spoken. “I like it.”
Vince wasn’t through yet, though. “We’ll need a first name, too,” he said. “I know you used to use the name Manson.”
“I did,” I replied, “but l was never really comfortable with it. I didn’t like the association with a killer.”
Vince smiled. “I was hoping you’d feel that way, because we’d like to call you Mason: Mason the Mutilator.” I again pledged my undying support for the name, but inside my head, I was searching desperately for a way out. I had always felt that it was not good enough to shoot something down-it was best to have a solution. I nodded and smiled blankly while mentally trying to dig my career out of the huge hole that Vince had just thrown it in. Suddenly, a light flashed in my head. “Vince, I just had an idea. As much as I like Mason,” I lied-hoping that my nose wouldn’t start growing right in front of Vince-“I think I have an even better idea.”
“Really,” Vince said with sincerity, “I’d like to hear it.”
“Well,” I asked, “what if you were to call me Mankind the Mutilator?” Vince seemed puzzled. “I’m not sure I understand,” is all he said. I had his interest, but it was important to try to nail it now. If I couldn’t sell him on Mankind now, I knew I never would. “You see, Vince, the name would have a double meaning. I could talk about ‘the future of mankind’ or ‘the destruction of mankind’ and it would carry two different meanings. I could also blame mankind as a people for creating Mankind as a person. Then, when I talk about Mankind the Mutilator, I could either be talking about myself or be making an indictment of the whole human race.”
Vince seemed genuinely impressed. “I like that.” He nodded. “Let’s go with it.”
I don’t think you can overestimate the importance of your name in pro wrestling. A good name won’t make you, but a bad name sure as hell can break you. When Steve Austin joined the World Wrestling Federation, he was named the Ringmaster, a gimmick that was mediocre at best. Looking for a change in character, Austin suggested a personality that was somewhat cold-blooded. The creative people got a little carried away with the cold temperature as opposed to the cold attitude and sent him three pages of names that included Ace Dagger and Chilly McFreeze. Looking back, even if every other thing in Steve’s career had been the same, the names would have killed him deader than poor Kelsey’s nuts. Same glass breaking, same music, same stunner, same beer, same middle fingers-it wouldn’t have mattered. As soon as he walked down that aisle announced as Baron von Ruthless, you have could stuck a fork in him-he’d have been done.
“There’s one more thing we need to know,” Vince declared. “I need to know that you’re completely comfortable with your gimmick [costume]. You’re going to be wearing it for a long time, and I need to know that you’re completely happy with it.”
I thought about it. I knew I had suggested and asked for a lot of things, and Vince had listened and been more than fair about all of them. I thought maybe I should just stay put with the costume card I had been dealt. Then I thought about my future and how silly I could look in this sort of fake chain metal fabric that made me look like an extra in a Knights of the Round Table film. It was do-or-die time. “Yeah, Vince, I did have one small concern,” I managed to squeak out. Vince seemed genuinely amused by my opinions. Most people met with Vince and didn’t speak a word against any idea the World Wrestling Federation had because they were just so happy to be there. Surely P. J. Walker knew that his Aldo Montoya gimmick was doomed as soon as he saw the yellow jock strap they wanted him to wear on his head, but he never spoke a word. Surely a veteran like Ron Simmons had second thoughts when Vince showed him the blue helmet that he was supposed to wear, but he walked out of that office looking like a black Spartacus anyway. I was determined not to make the mistake.
“Yeah, Vince, about the gimmick,” I continued.
“Yes Mick, what is it?” “Well … ” I tried to think how I could delicately phrase this. “I hate it, Vince, I really hate it.”
Vince couldn’t help but laugh at my exuberance. “Tell me what you hate about it, and we’ll try to come up with something else.”
I took the gimmick out of the bag and pleaded my case further. “Vince, it’s just that I feel like I’m playing dress-up in a movie.”
Vince looked and immediately agreed. “This is not what we want,” he said and summoned one of the people from Creative Services. “Mick needs a new outfit-he needs something that looks like he made it in his basement-can we work on that?”
Debbie Bonanzio was the woman from Creative Services who immediately began modifying the look until it was simply a ragged brown shirt. It certainly looked like it came from my basement, but now I was dressed in brown from head to toe and was afraid that I would look like a giant turd. I asked about breaking up the monotony of the giant turd by putting a large symbol on the back, and when pressed further, suggested a homemade peace sign. That idea was shot down, but Debbie was told to research it, and a week later a sketch of Mankind’s new symbol, an amalgamation of a life sign and a Celtic cross, was approved.
I was happy with the promise of the character and was enthusiastic about making it work. Even the contract, which guaranteed nothing but an opportunity, seemed agreeable that day. I had requested several small changes to the contract, which the company had obliged, and I was sure that the money would take care of itself. Our lease was up in West Babylon, and our renters had moved out in Georgia, so I packed up our belongings and headed south as a proud member of the World Wrestling Federation.
We arrived back in Atlanta, glad to be home and excited about the holidays. Colette was glad to be home, despite the realization that it signaled the end of her modeling career. Working for Wilhelmina had been exciting, but a real big job hadn’t come along yet, and Colette felt that maybe, at age thirty-four, the big jobs were over. To this day, she still does some work, but it’s mostly for fun.
I have always loved the Christmas season. I know most people do, but I look forward to it all year long. In addition to my year-round Christmas music selection, I also keep a Christmas Village up in a place of prominence all year long, and some painted ceramic Santas as well. My favorite place in the world as a kid was Santa’s Village in New Hampshire, where in the summer of 1996, I made my triumphant return after an absence of twenty-seven years. Now it’s my kids’ favorite place in the world. “Guess where we’re going,” I asked my daughter about three months before the trip. “Santa Wiwwage” would come her tiny little two-year-old reply.
It was in the Christmas spirit and in front of the Christmas tree that I cut one of my all-time favorite promos for ECW. My anti-ECW campaign had been a big hit, but I wasn’t satisfied-I needed more. I decided that in order for the fans to truly hate me, I had to lose everything about me that they’d ever liked. The look was the first to go. I slicked back my hair real tight into a short, conservative look. Then I shaved my beard and mustache for the first time in years. I put on a sports jacket that I bought especially for the occasion, and threw on a shirt and tie. I’d always hated people who wore loafers with no socks, so I went with those as well.
I also decided to modify my speaking style. Gone was the intensity, the shrieking and the defiance. In came the nerdy phrases, fake laugh, and utter ass kissing. I realized that this was something ECW fans would hate more than anything. I decided I would put over the fans, the product, and the whole ECW mentality, but do it in a way that was incredibly wimpy. In contrast to my earlier promos, which were hardcore anti-hardcore messages, these would be namby-pamby prohardcore interviews.
I set the whole interview against the story line of Todd Gordon voting for the most hardcore wrestler of 1995. By brown-nosing both Gordon and the fans, while at the same time adding ridiculous imagery to the hardcore mentality and losing my look and voice, I was sure it would gain me the disdain of the fans. It was also the most fun I ever had in front of a camera. My wife filmed it, and, if I may say so, did a pretty damn good job.
December 1995-ECW TV Show-A Hardcore Christmas Scene-The Foley house. As Burl Ives’s “Holly Jolly Christmas” plays in the background, the camera fades in. A sockless loafer is bouncing to the tune of the music as the camera slowly pans out. We see a clean-shaven Cactus Jack sitting in front of a Christmas tree with his two-year-old daughter, Noelle, on his lap. The clean-cut Cactus speaks:
“Ho, ho, ho-Happy Hardcore Holidays, everybody. This is Cactus Jack, along with the rest of the Foleys here to wish you and your family a Happy Holiday Hardcore season. [Noelle laughs.] I took this time out today to try to explain what Christmas means to me, and, by golly, I found out that Christmas can mean a lot of different things. First off, I found out that Christmas can be [yelling] FUN! Ha ha [Noelle laughs]. Why, just the other day there were some Christmas carolers, and I snuck up on their little group and, as the door opened and they began to sing, I started chanting ‘ECW, ECW, ECW,’ ha ha, and I’ll tell you what … I would have gotten away with it too, but all the neighbors heard me yelling ‘BANG BANG’ [Noelle laughs] as I made my way through the neighborhood. But you know, they didn’t care. They just thought, ‘There goes that nutty Cactus Jack’ -but you know what, they realized that it doesn’t hurt to have a hardcore person in the neighborhood. Second of all [getting serious], Christmas is for family. Why just the other day, I was taking gingerbread men out of the oven [getting happier], and I’ll tell you what, I took one look at that cookie sheet and I was wishing that I could POWEE! Ha ha … hit someone over the head with it-right in the kisser. Ha ha, I bet you could get some juice out of that one! BANG BANG!