Macho Man Knew Chris Benoit was a Piece of Shit in 2000

During a 2000 WCW match between Macho Man Randy Savage and Chris Benoit, something was uncovered.

Something dark inside Chris Benoit only Randy saw.

After tossing Benoit over the top rope he slid under the bottom rope and stood over his opponent.

“Get up, you COWARD!” Macho Man bellowed, veins bulging, eyes swirling. “Get up and fight me like a MAN!”

As Benoit staggered to his feet, dazed and confused, Macho Man froze.

“Wait a minute…” he muttered.

He stared.

He leaned in.

He sniffed.

And then, with the piety a man about to deliver a baptism, he spat in his palm and gently, almost lovingly, ran his hand across Benoit’s scalp.

The crowd hushed. The announcers stopped speaking.

With each slicked back motion, strands of Benoit’s hair separated. Slowly revealing… a pristine, glistening forehead.

“OH YEEEEAAAAAAHHH,” Macho Man growled, voice trembling. “You’ve had the slickable hair this whole TIME, brother. But you NEVER slicked it back.”

Benoit began to weep.

Macho Man turned to the crowd, furious.

“Do you hear that?! That’s the sound of a PIECE OF SHIT with naturally slickable hair who CHOSE… to keep it floofy.” Macho Man turned back towards Benoit.

“He watched me oil mine every night before a match. We trained together. We sweated together.”

Benoit dropped to his knees.

“I didn’t want to be that guy…” he sobbed.

“YOU ARE THAT GUY!” Macho Man roared, pulling a travel-sized tin of pomade from his trunks. “Look at me. LOOK AT ME! You coulda slicked back. You coulda had the SHINE, brother. But instead you HID it.”

He opened the pomade tin dramatically and dipped his finger in. “Come here. Let me show you who you are!”

Benoit slapped it out of his hand. The crowd gasped. Someone in the third row fainted. A nearby baby started crying.

Macho Man didn’t flinch.

“I SEE YOU NOW, CHRIS,” he whispered. “You’re not just a coward. You’re a closeted slick-back. The worst kind there is. You wake up every day with those genetics. And you WASTE it.”

“I CAN CHANGE!” Benoit screamed. “I CAN SLICK! I WANT TO SLICK!”

“IT’S TOO LATE!” Macho Man bellowed. “We coulda had nights, brother. Dangerous ones. We could’ve been out on the town, white shirts open, eating steaks so greasy and wet they SLID OFF THE PLATE.”

He turned away, devastated.

“We could’ve been gods,” he whispered.

Benoit reached up toward his own head. A single hesitant stroke.

SLAP. Macho Man knocked the hand away.

His face softened.

“…It’s too late for that.”