I remember everything -- I remember every little move as though it happened on Pay-Per-View. I was barely on the preliminary card and I once pinned a guy with a powerbomb. I don't remember if it was a Razor's Edge or a Pearl River Plunge, but I do remember that it got me the win and it was the first of my career.

I don't remember if it was a Razor's Edge or a Pearl River Plunge, but I do remember that it wasn't at all easy. It required the perfect combination of the right power moves and the precise opportunity at which to strike.

I wasn't booked for about a week afterward but my adrenaline rushed, fast and deep, like a river. The adrenaline rush was like the Mississippi river.

I wasn't booked for about a week afterward, but it worked out beautifully and I was given opponents that I had never considered working with before.

So, I took my opponent, and I powerbombed him through a table. I powerbombed him on the concrete floor. I powerbombed him on the body of the prone referee; Powerbombed him over the top rope; Powerbombed him onto the ring announcer Lillian Garcia. Lillian howled in pain -- I howled like a jackass.

So I ran to the back into the Helmsleys' locker room. Stephanie and Helmsley were watching on the monitor. Slowly I opened the door, creeping in the shadows right up to the edge of their couch. I raised Triple H high above my head. And just as I was going to throw Triple H crashing down through a nearby table, Stephanie spoke up, screaming, "Stop! Wait a minute! Stop it, Rob. What do you think you're doing? That's no way to treat the son-in-law of the owner!"

And I said, "Goddamnit Stephie-Bear! You know I love you. But you've got a helluva lot to learn about the Wildride Robert Roy!"

I remember everything -- I remember every little thing as though it happened only yesterday. I was barely seventeen and I once killed a boy with a Fender guitar. I don't remember if it was a telecaster or a stratocaster, but I do remember that it had a heart of chrome and a voice like a horny angel.

I don't remember if it was a telecaster or a stratocaster, but I do remember that it wasn't at all easy. It required the perfect combination of the right power chords and the precise angle from which to strike.

The guitar bled for about a week afterward and the blood oozed, dark and rich, like wild berries. The blood of the guitar was Chuck Barry red.

The guitar bled for about a week afterward, but it rung out beautifully and I was able to play notes that I had never even heard before.

So, I took my guitar, and I smashed it against the wall. I smashed it against the floor. I smashed it against the body of a varsity cheerleader; Smashed it against the hood of a car; Smashed it against a 1981 Harley-Davidson. The Harley howled in pain -- The guitar howled in heat.

And I ran up the stairs to my parents' bedroom. Mommy and Daddy were sleeping in the moonlight. Slowly I opened the door, creeping in the shadows right up to the foot of their bed. I raised the guitar high above my head. And just as I was going to bring the guitar crashing down upon the center of the bed, my father woke up, screaming, "Stop! Wait a minute! Stop it boy! What do you think you're doing? That's no way to treat an expensive musical instrument!"

And I said, "Goddamnit Daddy! You know I love you. But you've got a helluva lot to learn about Rock and Roll!"