Paul Heyman and the making of a wrestling god

"I NEED THAT animation," Paul Heyman growls, his head framed by a ruff of paper towels so his fresh spray tan won't smear his collar. He is backstage before a January taping of WWE's Monday night show, "Raw," directing Austin White (stage name Austin Theory), a youngish wrestler in Heyman's new stable of proteges, a wobbly faction called The Vision.

"Gimme that," Heyman says, and demonstrates, baring his teeth. "Gimme that."

I have been following Heyman around Barclays Center for a couple of hours, watching him lecture and preen and teach. A few minutes before, Heyman was nodding approvingly at Logan Paul as he ran through some basic heelwork for a promo Paul is meant to deliver later tonight; "You guys are broke in Brooklyn. It's Brokelyn. This place sucks." It is Heyman who, weeks before, told Paul to provoke the audience by visibly writing bullet points on his palm before a promo, deliberately violating the illusion of Paul's performance and calling back to a 2012 incident between Dwayne Johnson and John Cena. Paul's segment went viral.

Heyman, 60, has never been a wrestler, and though he's been a commentator, producer and writer in the past, he does not hold those titles now; instead, he is an on-screen manager and behind-the-scenes shaper of talent, wielding his decades of experience and close relationships with wrestlers to guide the entire WWE production. With the trust of Paul Levesque, WWE's chief content officer and a wrestling legend who performed as Triple H, Heyman is as influential in professional wrestling as any time since the 1990s.

Earlier in the night, Heyman had been reclining in "Gorilla Position," a direction-and-production cockpit through which wrestlers enter and exit the stage. "Call Bronson Reed," he commanded his phone. Arrayed in front of him were four packs of orange Tic Tacs, a can of Red Bull, eyedrops and a bottle of hand sanitizer. He offered me some Tic Tacs, and when I demurred, he said, "That's an offer, not a hint."

I asked him what The Vision is, what it's supposed to be doing. He launched into a monologue about the future of the wrestling business and how its current stable of main event stars needed replenishment.

The poster for the upcoming WrestleMania 42 features Joe Anoaʻi (Roman Reigns), Phil Brooks (CM Punk), Brock Lesnar and Cody Runnels (Cody Rhodes) sitting at a poker table. The first three of those four are Heyman proteges. Levesque stands at the head of the table, and hovering over his shoulder is Heyman, who, unlike everyone else in the image, is gazing not at the lens but at Levesque in fiendish satisfaction.

During Heyman's WWE Hall of Fame speech in 2024, he publicly declared his loyalty to Levesque, who returned the favor the next year when he told the audience that he had inscribed the word consigliere inside Heyman's Hall of Fame ring, moving Heyman to tears. And it is Levesque who has put Heyman in a position of critical importance to the company. For Levesque, it is a simple matter of Heyman's track record.

"He is one of the key components of putting butts in seats," Levesque says. "Over the last however many years, a lot of the top success in the company, the upper deck of that success, has rotated around Paul Heyman. So when you see those four at the table, you can see the manipulation of Paul Heyman."

And given Heyman's reputation, The Vision -- composed currently of Theory, Paul, Jermaine Haley (Bronson Reed) and Bronson Rechsteiner (Bron Breakker) -- is also a sink or swim proposition for his wrestlers; those who can't get over with Heyman standing next to them likely can't get over at all.

"There's a reason I'm the last manager standing from the '80s and the last promoter standing from the '90s. Why is that?" Heyman pauses.

Right on cue, Haley, a cannonball of a man, walks in. Heyman kicks his foot up onto the table, having worked himself into a sermon on his favorite subject, the sacred work of generating wrestling profits and his importance to it.

"I don't think short term," Heyman finishes.

Later that night, as producers try to coordinate an entrance video for The Vision, I get to see a flash of minute-to-minute improvisation that has helped Heyman earn his reputation. The shot idea is basic: The Vision and Heyman strut down a hallway looking menacing. Heyman stands listening to this, nodding his head before finally interjecting, "Are you 100% sold on this hallway?"

Theory will describe what happens next as "magical." Heyman starts walking away from the producer, the camera crew, and the wrestlers, talking over his shoulder before disappearing around a corner. We arrive in his wake and find ourselves standing in a nook. He starts giving orders.

To the camera crew: "How about you stand down there, and we'll come around this corner. Me first."

To Haley: "Then Bronson comes around like, 'F--- you.'"

To Paul: "Then Logan, the biggest star in the world."

To Theory: "Then Austin, the newest member, like 'Look, he's with them, he's stamped.'"

He showed each in turn how to stand and walk and be.

Finally, to Rechsteiner: "Now, we part and here comes Bron walking like he's gonna kill CM Punk tonight, like I want --" He interrupts himself and starts walking again, fists balled, stalking down the hallway, glaring, talking the whole time; "I want people to see you and be scared for Punk."

He walks back to us, arms out wide. "This way, everyone tells a story," he says, and everyone nods.

He is performing his selves: "Paul Heyman," "Paul E. Dangerously," "The Wiseman," "The Advocate," "The Oracle," all his guises loud variations of the same theme -- he who knows all and has progressively less hair. Heyman -- the mentor, manager, guru, go-between. Members of WWE's creative team describe him as a "father figure" and "creative genius."

Heyman has worked in and around professional wrestling since he was 14. He has survived, with neither Vince McMahon's wealth nor the mythic physiques of his childhood heroes, by making his performance of himself a totalizing one. In wrestling terms, his kayfabe often feels impenetrable, even at times to himself.

"The Paul Heyman persona and Paul Heyman are not far separated," says Levesque.

The style Heyman helped pioneer in the 1990s at ECW -- violent, confrontational, anti-corporate -- changed the course of professional wrestling as we know it. For seven years, he was the rogue leader of a wrestling revolution that ran on his mercurial creativity and then collapsed when he could not learn to stop trying to control it. He's called ECW the Nirvana of pro wrestling. A former wrestler called it wrestling's Napster. He's well into his fifth decade doing this, and his sheer endurance has become the wild proof of his importance, though it might be proof he knows no other way to live.

The producer clears the long hallway and shoots the sequence in one take. Afterward, Heyman and the wrestlers gather around the camera and watch. "Gold," someone says. Before Heyman's burst of directorial energy, his wrestlers were going to just walk down a hallway, mean-mugging into the lens. Now they appear, one at a time, each landing a reveal that draws loud boos when the sequence plays on the jumbotron during the show.

Heyman beams. "Now we're heels," he says.

I SEE HIM next on a Monday morning in March, on a tarmac at Westchester County Airport, looking like an approximation of himself. The reef of hair that rims his head from temple to temple is grey. His chin and neck are peach-fuzzed white. A pale, bald old man, squeezing the bulk of himself now between the seats of a Cessna Citation CJ3 private jet to give me a meaty handshake. The WWE jet on which he'd normally travel is a couple of hundred yards away, ready to fly company brass up to Boston. Heyman sits, arranges himself, hands his pinstriped suit jacket to his manager, divests himself of his messenger bag, forgoes a seatbelt and takes out his phone.

He and his manager talk about some potential publicity hits, including a Fox 5 New York spot and throwing out the first pitch at Yankee Stadium. Then I notice his blue striped Yankees tie.

I point and laugh, "That'll do well tonight."

"It's the little things," he says.

Everything about him broadcasts. When we met late last year in midtown Manhattan for lunch, several people approached him for pictures. One bearded young man sidled up to Heyman on the street and asked, "Mr. Heyman, can I have a picture?"

"I don't know," Heyman said. "Can you?"

The young man takes the grammar quip in stride. "May I have a picture?"

"You may," Heyman said.

And something came over Heyman, or settled on him -- his persona. A look, stern and scornful. Narrowed eyes, mouth just about pouting. He stood straighter, tilted his chin up so his gaze slanted down. And before he looked at the camera, he spent a few seconds standing like that, looking at the fan.

Like anyone who has attained even minor iconography, that is, an image that tells people what to feel, up close, in detail, he becomes a grotesque. One is confronted first and foremost not with his face but the whole apparatus of his head. A cherub's pillowy cheeks and pinched eyes that often bulge for effect. A beluga forehead. A full, expressive mouth that seethes, clenches teeth, smiles maniacally, opens in O's of terror and awe. A comic's mouth.

And when the fan disappears, so, instantly, does "Paul Heyman." And what remains is nothing; take away his role for even a moment, and he becomes invisible. He slouches, the stride loses magnitude, turns into a somewhat labored shuffle. He looks rumpled, in a hurry, years older... until the next scene.

Seated inside, a photographer trying to get a portrait asks Heyman to put his phone, propped up against a sweating glass of water, out of view.

"No phone?" Heyman asks. "Doesn't that say something about personality?"

Without pausing, Heyman calls out as if he's his own audience: "He's always on his phone!"

He picks up the phone, making a judgment, the salmon-pink phone case is peeling.

"It looks like s--- is why," he says.

We're all looking at him, myself, his managers, the photographer, and his assistant, all nodding and making sounds of assent as he solves this set-design problem. Behind him, outside, on the electric blue Fox News digital ticker, a darkly surreal headline scrolls by: Rapper Nicki Minaj to give White House-arranged speech to the UN about Christian persecution in Nigeria ...

"OK," Heyman says. "How about..."

He mounts the phone face up on the glass. The prop is even louder and more conspicuous than before, alive with ambiguous intent.

He even orders like Paul Heyman. "Get the crispy rice sushi," he insists to the table. "Get the New York strip ... everyone gets their own pan of bread." Fries and onion rings. "Get the crab cakes," he instructs. "Medium well, no butter on the steak ... with some grilled shrimp. Thank you, sir ... Seasoned salt, please, sir." A plate of lime wedges for his iced tea. A plate of lemons, too. Four cups of unsweetened tea, into which he pours a pack of Splenda. He hates water. It's too plain, too characterless.

He does not know what to do with himself in ordinary moments. He has been fleeing from them as long as he can remember. "I don't have spectator memories," he says. "I don't wanna be a wannabe."

Heyman sees himself as the product of two charismatic doers. His mother, Sulamita, was a survivor of the Lodz ghetto and Auschwitz death camp, where her mother and younger sister were murdered, and then the Bergen-Belsen concentration camp. She lived with "perpetual trauma," Heyman says. "Everything she felt, she felt fully and wholeheartedly -- mind, body, soul, spirit. Nothing was just casual to my mother."

"Who did she want you to be?" I ask.

"The replacement for God, and nothing short of it," he says.

"Say more."

"She was dissatisfied with God's job performance."

"And how were you supposed to fix that?"

"By any means possible. By presenting the case that a better job could be done."

"I'm trying to understand you. She wanted from you ... what?"

"Change the world," he says. "I was her only child, and therefore everything I did carried with it the responsibility of not wasting my time."

He might never be able to satisfy her expectations, but he could be voracious and relentless. He could make himself untouchable.

Heyman's peers at Edgemont High in Scarsdale, New York, voted him one of the four most likely to succeed from his 1983 senior class. In his yearbook message, he wrote, "There are some who think and some who do, I hope I'll be the latter."

His father, Richard, was a successful, stylish personal injury lawyer who had made enough money to move his family from the ethnic enclaves of the Bronx to bankers' neighborhoods in Scarsdale. Richard was endearing, where Sulamita was intense, adoring, where she was demanding. "My father encouraged me to pursue anything that I was passionate about," Heyman says. "If it made me happy, it made him happy."

So Heyman ran away with the circus. He fell in love with wrestling as a 10-year-old, staying up late to watch Vince McMahon Sr.'s World Wide Wrestling Federation. He remembers watching "Superstar" Billy Graham, a brash-talking bottle blonde brass-skinned bodybuilder who presaged Hulk Hogan and many others, one night on local television and was "hooked, blown away," he says with a sigh of pleasure.

Wonderstruck by this childhood triumvirate, his mother's expectations that he not fade into the crowd, his father's charm, and the flesh-and-blood fantasy men on his screen, he began to build a life. He could not change the world, but here, on his television, was "a universe all its own" with "larger than life personalities." He lied about his age and wormed his way into the business as a photographer. He started a wrestling newsletter, telling classmates what had happened in matches and paying them cash to write roundups. "He knew what he was going to do with his life when we were in eighth grade," one childhood friend says. By the end of high school, his yearbook thank yous included his creative writing teacher and one of his earliest mentors, Ernie Roth, a turban-wearing heel manager known as The Grand Wizard of wrestling.

Sulamita Heyman didn't take wrestling or her son's devotion to it seriously and expressed her disappointment "bluntly," Heyman recalls. "Nice hobby; let me know when you want to be serious."

The more successful he became in professional wrestling, the angrier his mother became, he says. His success confirmed her opinion that he was squandering his gifts. "I don't carry a need to be on the psychiatrist's couch, going, 'I let my mother down,'" Heyman insists. She died in 2009, never having changed her mind about his vocation.

Though the desires of others are his whole business, he claims to have little access to his own, insisting that his ambition does not belong to Sulamita but instead to how he's "wired." As if our wiring merely awakens in us from a void, untouched by human hands. "That's what I want for me, selfishly in my life," Heyman says. "The pride, and the understanding that I can do something better than anyone else on the face of this planet."

As he relives his memories, he wields his steak knife like a wand, drawing invisible spirals and figure eights in the air. He speaks in stories, falls into compulsive impersonations of the people he's describing. His voice, opinions, gestures, appetite -- all loud, always broadcasting. "How do they sing in opera?" he asks. "They reach up to the nosebleeds." And when we're finished, as if clearing his instrument, he sticks a finger in his mouth and scrapes his upper teeth in one smooth, unconscious motion.

WE LAND JUST north of Boston, hustle into a black SUV, and Heyman immediately starts working, which mostly involves using his phone like a walkie-talkie.

"On the way to the arena dot dot dot," he says, dictating a text.

When Heyman first appeared in the late '80s as an onscreen character, the "psycho yuppie" Paul E. Dangerously, a bread-loaf-sized mobile phone was his signature prop. It marked him as a connector/mover-shaker/go-getter. Richer than you, busier and more important, and a little evil. He'd scream into the phone at no one, smack it off people's heads in a brawl.

On the plane, we talked briefly about an interview he gave The New York Times in the early '90s, where he claimed he had to leave his high school English class to take a work call on his phone. Heyman graduated in 1983, when the only mobile phone on the market was the Motorola DynaTAC 8000X, which would have cost more than $12,000 in today's dollars.

He made that story up, he told me, irritated at what he thought was the interviewer's condescension. Asked directly in the interview whether matches were fixed, Heyman prevaricated, saying he had "never been told firsthand."

Heyman makes a call to someone on the WWE catering staff on behalf of Reigns: "The tribal chief is landing at 1. He's looking for a specific meal: six eggs scrambled, two whole eggs, four egg whites."

"You still handle things like that?" I ask in surprise.

"For several people," he says. "Can't replace a wise man."

This is one of the ways he has inspired loyalty throughout his career. No task is so small he'd delegate, no hour of night too late for him to pick up his phone. "He's so overly personable, especially when you're in the circle of trust, that you have to question it because the charisma can almost come off performative," Reigns says.

Heyman thinks of himself as a salesman who is always asking, "What am I here to sell?" The salesman, looking for an angle, looking for a way to keep mattering, is as bound up in his relationships as the man who says friendship is a sacred word for him. With Heyman, business is personal, and performance is survival. His greatest triumph depended precisely on that tangle of performance and sincerity, on being "Paul Heyman" until it hurt.

For seven riotous years, Heyman ran a whole company this way, the industry-changing wrestling promotion ECW. Fired from WCW after a stint as a commentator and on-screen manager (Heyman sued, alleging he'd been subjected to antisemitic remarks by WCW executive vice president Bill Watts. The case was settled out of court.), Heyman determined he was going to work for himself. He ended up in Eastern Championship Wrestling, assuming creative control in the fall of 1993 and in less than a year orchestrating ECW's separation from the National Wrestling Alliance. Extreme Championship Wrestling was born, operating out of a sweaty warehouse arena in southeast Philadelphia.

Heyman had at last what he wanted, a platform to upstage the kind of large corporate promotion that had cut him loose and prove his own specialness. He innovated rapidly and recklessly; in the process, he changed the face of professional wrestling. He ditched pricey production he couldn't afford and gave his audience the kind of provocation and hyperviolence that larger, more corporate promotions couldn't match.

His ideas ran rampant, and he encouraged his wrestlers, who were either too green for other promotions or too ugly or too old, to do almost anything. Wrestlers pounded beers ringside, caned each other with kendo sticks, slammed each other through tables, drew blood, and more blood. Fans lent their own weapons to the show: rowing oars, frying pans, kitchen sinks, a blueberry pie. The storylines went haywire: one wrestler got another wrestler's girlfriend pregnant; one wrestler indoctrinated another's child into a cult; there was a crucifixion (deemed so offensive it warranted a live apology later that same night).

Heyman was at the center of it all. The company had no writers or creative team or much of a business structure; it had Heyman and his flamboyant, compulsive displays of virtuosity. He'd arrive in the locker room before a show and book it there on the spot, writing the matches on a sandwich napkin. Exhausted, he'd doze off in the middle of editing a show and, half-asleep, notice a stumble and ask for it to be cut, before nodding off again. He controlled everything, working from a desk in the middle of the locker room where he'd gather the wrestlers around before show tapings and give rousing speeches they came to call the State of the Union.

"Paul is God," the fans chanted when he held forth in the ring.

A jealous god, he was holding on too tight. His need to feel indispensable, to be indispensable, started to cripple ECW. There was never enough money. "Paul was, from moment one, dealing with smoke and mirrors," Levesque says. Even as Heyman scrambled to land a TV deal and pay-per-view, he relied on his wrestlers, whose near fanatical loyalty he'd secured, to handle parts of the business. Wrestlers and their girlfriends handled merch, product design, ran a fan hotline, collected the concessions take. Wrestlers' checks started to bounce. While other wrestlers, because of their relationship to Heyman, were paid even when they were out with an injury.

"Paul E was never a businessman," said Devon Hughes (D-Von Dudley), one half of the famed tag team the Dudley Boyz, who were born in ECW before moving on to WWE, as many top talents eventually did. "Paul E was a wrestling genius. Paul E could come up with a storyline just like that in the blink of an eye, but when it came down to business, Paul E was horrible."

Heyman lied to people, cut promos on them essentially, persuaded, cajoled, used their loyalty against them, mixed truth (he believed in them and in his company) with fiction (the money would appear tomorrow; he had a plan), and kept the operation going one more day for years. His performance was a matter of survival.

"Everyone that was there will tell you that ECW resembled, in many different ways, a cult," Heyman admits now. "And I can't dispute that because I probably bought into the cult atmosphere of our vision, of our goals, of our destiny more than anybody else did. Just because I was the leader, doesn't mean I didn't drink my own Kool-Aid."

By the end, Heyman had run himself into the ground, too exhausted to even show up to ECW's final events. And by then, WWE and McMahon, who had quietly helped ECW stay afloat both with cash and with cross promotion, had subsumed ECW's lurid style and lifted many of ECW's stars, giving rise to a commercial and creative peak, the famed Attitude Era of the late 1990s.

It was a shock and betrayal to many when Heyman appeared in WWE in March 2001, less than two months after ECW's final show. I don't imagine Sulamita would have been surprised. When Heyman was a boy, and his parents would go out on the weekend, his mother would sit him down and tell him that if the worst should happen and they did not return, it was his duty to move on. She had been visited by calamity and did not doubt its more banal forms could find her again. And when explaining his actions in those pivotal months of his life, it is her language he frequently reaches for: "Accept reality, and move on."

That ethos is as responsible for his professional survival as the porous lines between his selves. He changed the business through ECW, surrendered and then played his part in WWE's Invasion story arc, a dramatization of McMahon's final victory over WCW and Heyman's ECW, over the entirety of professional wrestling as it existed in the 20th century. Heyman had seen it all. Paul -- the underage photographer, the eager kid -- quietly inching his way forward in Dusty Rhodes's creative meetings. Paul E., brick phone and bad suits, the "psycho yuppie." Paul the revolutionary. Now, Paul the employee.

IN THE BOWELS of Boston's TD Garden, we make our way past the empty dressing rooms of Reigns, Lesnar and Paul, all next door to each other, to the dining area where breakfast food is being replaced by lunch. Most of the production team has been here for hours already. Heyman sits down for lunch, joined soon after by Michael Hayes, a long-tenured and highly respected VP on the creative team, dressed in a blue paisley print suit and blue fedora. Hayes' old bleached blond hair is now cotton white, though he still dyes his beard brown in a style he has sported since the '80s when he was a member of the Fabulous Freebirds. He has been in the business even longer than Heyman.

Heyman and Hayes talk under their breath about the finish to tonight's coming confrontation between upstart destroyer Isaac Odugbesan (Oba Femi) and the man who has occupied that role on and off for some 20 years, Lesnar. It was while working with Lesnar that Heyman earned one of his monikers, "The Advocate," and he remains Lesnar's in-ring mouthpiece till today.

The two men somehow get on the subject of cocaine, which Hayes says was relatively rare in the business in the '70s. Yes, Heyman agrees, it didn't explode until the '80s. We are more than seven hours away from the start of the show.

Heyman's phone rings. He takes it, as always, on speaker. It's Paul. Heyman stands up and steps away. When he gets back, I find out Paul is worried he might have tweaked his knee in the Fanatics Flag Football game, which featured Tom Brady, the day before. Paul's potential injury throws his match tonight into doubt. Heyman sits, and then, in a short thought, stands again. "Time to go put out a fire," he says.

He spends the next few hours largely out of sight, moving between the empty dressing rooms of Reigns (door closed) or Lesnar (door open), huddling with producers and writers and wrestlers looking for a word. Mostly, Heyman is on his phone, making and taking calls, dictating text messages. I'm asked to step outside frequently, walking back in to catch the end of a phone call between Heyman and Rechsteiner, who is out injured.

"I'm gonna show everyone," Rechsteiner says.

"This is great news," Heyman replies, welcoming me with his eyes.

"I know you're busy," Rechsteiner says. "Miss you, love you."

Their relationship is still new, and you can hear the ways Heyman is working on him. Rechsteiner says they've spoken well into the early mornings and that Heyman is eager to unpack Rechsteiner's relationship with his father and uncle, famous wrestlers in their own right.

Heyman's most successful collaborators are those who reveal their personal lives to him. "We allowed Paul access to our psyche," says Reigns. "We allowed him in our brains, in our souls." Little by little, he gains their trust, advances their interests, does tasks big and small, acts as a messenger, shields them, stays available to them 24/7, becomes indispensable.

"It's never a quick thing. It's little nuggets of trust that are bestowed upon you," Heyman says of his process. "And then through one's demonstration of responsibility with that nugget of trust. And after a while, one will build up enough credibility that the person who needs to trust you inherently understands that even the smallest bit of trust they have given you will be taken to the grave with you."

He's taken people into his confidence over and over. It has ensured his survival in the business and left people feeling worked over. He often uses what his confidants tell him to elicit emotions from them before their performances.

"People think Paul's this incredible idea guy," Levesque tells me. "I'm not saying he isn't that, but it's more than that. It's his ability to find things in people that they didn't know were there ... It's like going to a shrink, and at the end of the day, you were helped, but you're not really sure what he did because he just really made you open up."

It is this closeness, with Reigns, for example, that allowed the two of them, along with other members of the creative team, to build a five-year arc, the Bloodline saga, around one character's insecurity and need for validation from his family. It is one of the great storytelling triumphs in wrestling history, and it would not have been possible if Reigns couldn't pick up his phone at any hour of the night and ask Heyman about things as serious as parenting or contract negotiations and as casual as a South Beach hotel reservation and entry into a late-night spot.

It's hard to place what intimate parts Heyman gives in return. His intimacies are mediated by work. His assistant, he says, is much more than an assistant. Mitchell Stuart, the co-founder of Heyman's marketing agency, is one of Heyman's closest friends. Stuart says he and Heyman have never spoken about why Heyman left WWE in 2006 and started working with him. (Heyman split after a creative dispute with McMahon over a botched revival of the ECW brand.) Heyman's son, Jacob, works with Heyman at his agency, and often sounds like he's in "Paul Heyman" finishing school, mimicking his father's cadence, his inflated rhetoric. "He can't wait to wake up and start working, because it's a passion, it's not a job," Jacob says. "And I experience this right now. I wake up, and I have a fire in my stomach."

Those close to him are at pains to depict him in ordinary time. They default to fatherhood. It's tidy and sweet. His children, Azalea and Jacob, both in their early 20s, anxiously attest to this. They tell me about their father in transit, taking red-eyes from work to make sure they knew they were his priority.. Heyman, the dad who cooks and watches movies.

The best Reigns can come up with when asked what Heyman is like away from work is: "He'd be out on Miami Beach with the door wide open. I'm sure he would love to have a lovely counterpart assisting him ... He enjoys our business, the art form of it, the traveling."

"Ultimately, yes, it's business," Heyman says. "But I do understand how deeply personal that is to me." His wrestlers get better, richer. And those who cannot absorb that Heyman loves the work and loves through the work, who cannot wait patiently as Heyman pontificates and teaches, who don't know why he'll talk to them on the phone until 4 a.m., why he wants to know their secrets, cannot work with him.

"There are certain people that don't -- and I don't mean this to sound negative about Paul -- that don't trust Paul," Levesque says.

Heyman has not always handled the personal lives of his collaborators with care. In ECW, he infamously used wrestling personality Tammy Sytch's real-life drug addiction in her storyline, prodding her onscreen as she detailed her experience of drug abuse, including the death of a friend and fellow wrestler, Louis Mucciolo (Louie Spicolli), from an overdose. The video cuts, interrupted by footage of a bikini-clad Sytch on the beach, lying on her side in the surf. We hear Heyman's leering voice-over, "How's this for a thrill?" On the other side of that intermission, Sytch, weeping, talks about the death of her teenage niece, about wanting to be dead herself. We hear Heyman offscreen, "Tell me about that, describe that feeling."

When we later speak about the segment, he tells me he doesn't "spend any time reflecting on moments from 27 years ago."

"It was industry standard," Heyman says, bringing up a notorious WWE "Raw" segment from 1997, a year before Sytch's "Expose," when McMahon interviewed the grieving widow of wrestler Brian Pillman a day after he was found dead.

"It's hard to watch, Paul," I say, calling his attention back to his own work.

"It's meant to be hard to watch. This is scripted television," he says of the segment with Sytch. He points to comparisons: Charlie Sheen, Geraldo Rivera's interview of Charles Manson in prison, even Frost-Nixon.

"Was that exploitative?" he asks, before answering himself. "It was content. We live in a content society. This was content."

FOUR HOURS OR so before a show, all the wrestlers and writers and producers gather inside and around the ring to rehearse the night's show. They walk through big spots, workshop finishes, and promos, microphones and cameras are tested. Heyman is everywhere in this theater troupe with muscles. One moment flanked by Oba Femi and Lesnar, then sitting on the ring apron surrounded by Reigns, CM Punk, Levesque, and a clutch of writers and producers. Heyman huddles in a corner with Paul and Theory, who have a tag team match, then quickly with Rebecca Quin (Becky Lynch), who has a WrestleMania idea she wants to run past him, then with Lynch's husband, Colby Lopez (Seth Rollins).

Back in Reigns' locker room, Heyman receives his face. A haircut where his scalp gets scraped, his peach fuzz disappears, and his hair is lined so that, in profile, it is shaped like a cresting wave. When the barber gets to his neck and chin, Heyman closes his eyes; otherwise, he's on his phone uninterrupted.

Then, the makeup artist starts, obliging him to put the phone away. First, Lumify drops to make his often red eyes white. First tone of foundation. Heyman mouths words silently.

"What are you saying, Paul?" I ask.

"Writing this promo," he says.

Second tone of foundation. Heyman starts to mumble parts of the promo to himself.

"Beaten, broken, brutalized, and conquered by the beast incarnate," he says. "Victimized, conquered, F-fived..."

His skin now has the perfect consistency of a beige mannequin. She spray-tans him while he winces in disgust, and she fans him with her hand.

"He hates this part," the makeup artist says.

"What can I say?" Heyman starts as he's being fanned. "That will make them want Oba Femi so bad they start thinking, 'They'll never give him to us,' and then of course we give him to them. That's the psychology of the whole thing."

When wrestlers come to Heyman carrying scripts, he's famous for tossing the paper aside and saying, "So tell me what your promo's about."

And when they recite, or flail, that's when Heyman's work begins. Levesque says he has watched this process take weeks, even with wrestlers Heyman isn't billed with.

"If you're walking out to the ring and the lighting grid falls on your head, and you're concussed, and you absolutely draw a blank, what does your character by muscle memory alone know?" Heyman asks wrestlers. "What's in the heart and the soul of the persona whose skin you're walking out to the ring in?"

A WWE writer wanders in briefly, and on his way out, he says to me, "Enjoy yourself -- Paul's all over the show tonight."

The barber unclasps the protective gown, the makeup artist stows her instruments away, and Heyman stands up ... and nothing is different. The skin he walks out in is his own.

To study him is to learn to stop confusing yourself about when he is working, which is performing, which is working you, which is always; and when he's not, which, as his manager said to me, is only when Heyman is asleep. I lurk near "Gorilla" trying to spot him in between segments, settling finally in front of a TV in the nearly deserted catering room, where I could see him best.

His fingerprints are everywhere. He opens the show with Lesnar and Oba Femi. Paul and Theory's tag match is against the Usos, who are also Heyman's disciples. Two more proteges, Reigns and CM Punk, are the main event.

In between, Heyman delivers the promo of the night in his segment with Seth Rollins, wherein Heyman fantasizes, as Rollins is escorted out by police, about Rollins rotting in prison and then Quin marrying "half the locker room," and then child protective services being called for their real-life daughter, who is then adopted by Heyman as an act of mercy. Rollins hits his mark and escapes the cops right as Heyman arrives at his demented crescendo. He sprints back to the ring and wallops Heyman, only to be cuffed and led away. Heyman is left alone in a corner of the ring wearing a face of such gleeful rotten malice that he looks like the devil baby in "The Passion of the Christ."

It was a good time, and in its now barely provocative mix of indecency, fantasy and real life, a small snapshot of Heyman's talent and legacy, the kind of wrestling moment he helped give birth to, a universe all his own.

"IN THE CAR dot dot dot."

Heyman looks totally spent as we drive away from the arena in the black SUV we arrived in. He stares down at his phone, his head illuminated by screen light, ignoring fans as they shout at him from out in the cold.

"How do you feel after a night like this?" I ask.

He's not too tired for a last quip. "With my hands," he says and shimmies his fingers.

"But really," I say.

In the afterglow, he feels expansive; he is a part of all he has met. "It's a collaboration of a lot of very passionate, experienced, knowledgeable people," he says. Whether you're "a planner or a performer, to a writer, a director, a producer, a choreographer, a cameraman, a participant in the story."

He has been all of them. And tonight, this multibillion-dollar global traveling circus seems touched everywhere by the energies of his talent and experience, his hijinks and big mouth, his endless river of sincerity on which float massive amounts of bulls---, his ego and his need and yes, his generosity.

"Just calling to see how you're doing dot dot dot."

Soon, he's absorbed in texts with his assistant as they coordinate clips for social media. Then he'll try to catch up on some work for his marketing agency. After we land at the airport, he heads back to Scarsdale, opens his laptop and works until about 5 a.m. and then rises at 8:45 a.m. for WWE's long-term creative meeting. In his few hours of sleep, he dreams of more work, scripts he wants to write and direct, shows he wants to produce, even shepherding a musical act to a number one album.

"I don't know that Paul knows there's an off button," Levesque says. "I've heard him talking to his kids, and you know, it's very similar to how he talks to talent."

When I ask Jacob and Azalea whether they spent the holidays with their father this past December, they say they don't remember.

"Do you ever want to retire?" I ask him.

"Oh, f--- no. Why?" he says. "I'm enjoying this way too much. And 'retire,' I mean, like, just stop working completely?"

"Let me ask that to you differently, perhaps. Do you want to die doing this?"

He goes quiet for a while and then laughs and goes quiet again.

"Do you know the story of Shmuli Zimmerman?" he asks finally.

"No."

And Heyman starts doing this thing with his voice where he sounds further away. He starts talking about his father, who would have turned 100 this year, and the Bronx courthouse where he worked.

"The blessing in the Bronx courthouse was always, 'May you live your life and death like Shmuli Zimmerman,'" Heyman starts.

And Heyman accentuates the Bronx Yiddish accent in his voice. The "ers" melt to "ahs."

"Shmuli Zimmerman was a 90-something-year-old attorney in the Bronx. And he was a f---ing' killer, man. He was a killer. He was the best at his game. And in one case, he presented the case to the jury, his summation to the jury. And he looks, and he sits down in his chair."

And the final words of Heyman's sentences start to land like gavels.

"And he says, 'And so, ladies and gentlemen, Your Honor, fellow denizens of the Bronx, of the jury, we hereby rest our case.' And he put his head down, and he died. Boom. Gone. Put his head down and was dead."

And I realize he's cutting me one last promo. Because he has to, because he's his parents' son, because he's the wise man, because charismatic leaders speak in parables, because he's honestly telling me about himself the only way he knows how, because masks are confessions too.

"And, you know, they're pushing him on the back, going, 'Shmuli, Shmuli, Mr. Zimmerman.' And he's dead. That was it. Presented the case and went to the afterlife. And he won the case, by the way."

Of course he did, Paul.

"Do I want to die in the middle of the ring during a promo? No. But having done my greatest promo ever, and coming to the back, and being left alone for a minute, and putting my head down? OK. That's not a bad way to go," he says.

"But let me finish the job first."