I made a split decision not to “sell it” in any way. I sat facing forward like nothing had happened.

McMahon was so happy with himself. “You know how I get the longevity and smell, Jim? Protein. I eat nothing but fucking protein, pal.”

“Yeah it wasn’t that impressive,” I said.

Vince’s head swiveled in my direction like I’d just insulted his wife or something. “What?” he asked with menace. He was serious. Offended, even.

I couldn’t back down now. It was a test. I was sure it was. “Well, I’ve been around the business for over twenty years now, Vince. Robert Gibson…”

Vince locked the windows and let another one go. Twice the volume. Twice the smell. He watched my reaction intently as we continued to tear along the highway at speed. His “creation” was putrid, but I knew if I told him that he’d just keep doing it. So I sat still and waited for the smell to stop burning my lungs.

“How about that one?” Vince asked. He hated to be beaten at anything, even farting competitions.

He studied my reaction until the blue lights in his rear view mirror caught his attention. “Ah, shit,” he said as he pulled over. “Was I speeding, Jim?”

“Just a tad.”

“Why didn’t you say something, goddammit, pal?”

The Ohio State Trooper approached and McMahon rolled down his window. I took a covert, life-saving breath of fresh air as the trooper asked for the license and registration.

“We just finished producing our national TV broadcast, Monday Night Raw,” Vince said as the trooper looked over his license. “I’m Vince McMahon,” he said before pausing for effect. “And this here is Good Ol’ JR beside me.”

Good Ol’ JR? I thought. Have I not got a real name?

“So, you’re Vince McMahon?” the trooper asked as he leaned in the window a little.

“I am,” the chairman said, proudly. “Vincent Kennedy McMahon.”

“Well, I guess that makes me the Big Bossman then,” the trooper said as he handed McMahon a speeding ticket. “Have a good night.”