Have a Nice Day!: A Tale of Blood and Sweatsocks

by Mick Foley

  I looked at the sketch and picked it up to study it more closely. The mask was actually quite a bit different from the one I would eventually wear. It definitely appeared to be made of metal, with small iron bars caressing my mouth, Hannibal Lecter-style. I could see some possibilities in the sketch, but my heart was still feeling a little low in my gut. “Vince,” I asked with confusion in my voice, “why can’t I just be Cactus Jack? “

  Vince tried to be comforting but failed miserably with his words. “Mike, you’ve got to understand that the average fan sees wrestling as a glut of performers who seem to blend together. It is hard for our licensees to get behind our products, and hard for us to push your characters if there is no distinction between the competition and us. We feel that with this unique character, we can market Mike, and make Mike a bigger star than he’s ever been.” His words made sense, and in retrospect the marketing of Mankind has been a great success, but at the time, I was thinking something altogether different. Not only did Vince not want the Cactus Jack I wanted to give him-he didn’t want him at all. Poor Mike. He wasn’t happy.

  Our meeting ended with me holding on to my sketch and trying to hold on to my lunch. I told Vince that I really liked his idea, when actually I was secretly wishing that he had come up with an amnesia angle. J. J. F’ing Dillon walked in and handed me a contract, which I took-but I was sure that I’d never sign. In addition to the lame gimmick I’d been handed, the World Wrestling Federation contract called for no guaranteed money at all-just an opportunity. The opportunity may have seemed enticing back in the days when his wrestlers were on Saturday morning cartoons, but with the knowledge that Federation “superstars” were having trouble paying for their rooms in Red Deer, Canada, I began thinking that Mr. Asano’s offer was not that bad after all.

  I arrived home and gave the bad news to Colette. Surprisingly, she liked the idea of the new character and began pointing out the possibilities. Colette has a creative mind, and as I mentioned, had been partly responsible for the Cactus Jack transformation from goof to monster back in 1990. She laid out some pretty wild images, and I began to see some possibilities. Then again, these thoughts were coming from a woman who thought Mick Foley was sexy, so how good could her opinion be? I thought about it for quite a while before calling up J. J. F’ing Dillon. I thanked J. J. for having thought of me and told him I had enjoyed my visit to Stamford, but that I didn’t think the idea would work and that I would go on living life as Cactus Jack. I’ve got to admit that part of me felt really good about me telling him that I wasn’t interested in the World Wrestling Federation.

  A few hours later I received a call from Jim Ross, who talked to me for two hours about my decision. He was honest about the plusses and minuses of the Federation and convinced me of Vince’s sincerity in pushing the new character. I told him of my semicommitment to Japan and of my desire to continue working in ECW until I actually began on television with the Federation. We worked out a deal where I would start on television after WrestleMania, and I would begin a full-time schedule in early May. In the meantime, they would start airing vignettes to introduce their audience to this new character.

  I drove to New York City a few days later to be fitted for my mask. The mask maker was a peculiar little Orthodox Jewish guy named Stanley who operated out of his fifth-floor apartment. At first, I was driving around looking for a huge neon sign saying “Masks R Us” or something similar, but I eventually made my way to his strange lair, where I was given hot herbal tea with honey before having plaster poured all over my face to make a mold for my mask. The concept for the mask had changed quite a bit in the last few days. Stanley explained that their sketch would never actually work correctly, so he had modified it with hinges around the mouth. Thankfully, the Hannibal Lecter bars were gone from the mouth, as was the whole metal concept. Instead, it was a light brown rawhide leather mask with a mouth I could actually move. The almost-black color that I now sport is a result of three years of sweating. Needless to say, wearing the mask is not the most pleasant experience in the world.

  I left Stanley’s and headed several blocks away to the seamstress’s office, where an elaborate costume had been made. Afterward, I drove to Stamford for a follow-up meeting with Vince. We talked at length about ideas for the character, and he seemed responsive to most of them. In some ways, I was actually looking forward to changing characters it would give me a chance to grow and try out some new things.

  For one thing, I felt like I needed a new finishing move. The double arm DDT was fine, but I wanted something more sinister. A long time ago, when I was flying onto the concrete and rolling guys into the ring for the pin, I approached Jim Cornette about getting a new finish. “I’m dying, Corny,” I told him. “I just can’t drop elbows every night. Can you think of something that doesn’t hurt me and doesn’t require a whole lot of strength?” One of the keys to a good finish is that you should be able to put it on anyone, anywhere, at any time. The tombstone piledriver for example, was a move that the Undertaker had not been able to use in over two years, because all his opponents were up in the 400-pound range. The Stone Cold stunner, on the other hand, can be done all day long on any day to any guy. Cornette was like a wrestling encyclopedia, and if anybody could think of a simple, effective finish, it would be him. “Cactus,” he said, smiling, “have you ever heard of the mandible claw?”

  I stood with Corny like a student looks to a teacher, as Jimmy laid out not only the biomechanics and philosophy of the hold, but the history behind it as well. “Cactus,” Corny began, “in the old Tennessee territory, there was a wrestler named Dr. Sam Shepard. He was the physician that the TV show and movie The Fugitive were based on. He was accused of killing his wife, and even though there were really weird circumstances surrounding the case, he was convicted and put in jail. Eventually, his verdict was overturned, but because of his notoriety, the poor guy couldn’t work as a physician anymore. He went to work in a small, Southern wrestling circuit, and, using his knowledge of the human anatomy, developed a finishing hold called the mandible claw.”

  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 mo
ved out in Georgia, so I packed up our belongings and headed south as a proud member of the World Wrestling Federation.

  Chapter 32

  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.