At Bismarck State in 1998, Lesnar won the national junior college title. A year later, and an astounding 50 pounds heavier, he transferred to the University of Minnesota. In his two years there, Lesnar would go 50-2, capture two Big Ten titles, and, as a senior in 2000, win an NCAA heavyweight championship.

He could have pursued Team USA in Sydney that year but didn’t. “After I won the national title, I was pretty exhausted,” Lesnar says, not very convincingly. He also could have tried out for the NFL; the Redskins and Bucs both made offers, even though he hadn’t played football since high school. In all, three avenues opened to him, but only one had Vince Mc­Mahon standing at the end of it holding a check for a quarter of a million dollars. In the spring Lesnar announced his decision to switch from real sports to fake, and the WWE dispatched him to Ohio Valley Wrestling in Louisville, Kentucky—the minor leagues. He says the 15 months he spent there were like something out of The Wrestler: “I was setting the ring up and tearing the ring down. I was wrestling in bars and bingo halls and Catholic churches.”

Realizing that it was about to lose the Rock, its biggest star, to Hollywood, the WWE latched on to Lesnar, and just five months after his TV debut made him, at 25, its youngest champ ever. He signed a seven-year contract reportedly worth $45 million.

“When you get money and you’ve never had it before, maybe you want to show it off,” Lesnar acknowledges. “I acted foolishly.” He owned four homes, a private plane, two Hummers, a Mercedes. “Did you put any money away? Could you retire today if you wanted to?” I ask. “That’s private,” he says curtly. “But if Obama keeps spending our money like this, I’ll have to fight till I’m 50.”

The kind of rampant drug and alcohol abuse depicted in The Wrestler—to say nothing of the physical abuse—took its toll. In the Survivor Series in November 2002, Lesnar performed his signature finishing move, the F-5, on the Big Show, a wrestler who stands seven feet tall and weighs 485 pounds. Draping his opponent over his shoulders, Lesnar wobbled a moment, then flung Big Show to the canvas. “I had three broken ribs and a bad knee,” Lesnar recalls. “During that period I would take a couple Vicodin and wash ’em down with a few slugs of vodka. That’s what got me through. The ribs didn’t heal for another eight months, because there’s no off-season in pro wrestling. We were in New Jersey, I believe.” He thinks for a moment. “I can’t even remember where I was, hardly.”

Lesnar knows he owes his fame to his WWE career, but he seems to view the company as insidious, controlling, a kind of cult: “You get so brainwashed. You’re on the road 300 days a year, and that’s why guys get so messed up. This life becomes a part of them. It’s not real, but some guys who are still in the business think it is. You look at Mickey Rourke in The Wrestler—he just couldn’t let it go. You live a double life. I was tired of trying to be who I was in the ring and then coming home for two days to be normal. They didn’t allow you to be. The guys who get out are the smart ones, really and truly.”

After a four-night tour of South Africa in early 2003, Lesnar bailed on his contract, and announced he would next try out for the NFL. “He’s a project with a capital P,” said one scout, though nobody could gainsay the outrageous power and speed of the wannabe D-lineman who could bench 475 pounds, squat 700, and run the 40 in 4.65 seconds. The Vikings signed him, but from day one of training camp it was clear that the dude was raw; out of frustration he provoked a couple of fights in exhibition games. “If I can’t outplay you in football, I’m gonna fight ya,” he says fiercely. He was cut at the end of camp. Two months later he announced he was reinventing himself yet again, as a mixed martial artist. He won his first fight, for the Japanese league K-1 Hero, in 69 seconds.

* * * *

Lesnar's been notoriously touchy when reporters ask him about steroids. Last August he sat down with an ESPN camera crew. “My interview was over,” he says. “And then all of a sudden, ‘Oh, wait, we’ve got a few more questions.’” He shakes his head. “Then they ask me about steroids.” He’s indignant on this most delicate of subjects. “I’ve never in my life tested positive for steroids. What do you want me to say?” He got up, thanked the crew for their time, and walked out.

“Doing that raised more questions than it answered,” I note.

He talks quickly and emphatically. “I bet you I’ve taken over 60 steroid tests. In college I had 15 random drug tests in two years. I’ve taken drug tests for the NFL, the WWE, the UFC. I must be pretty good at masking steroids. God gave me this body: Are you jealous of it or what? Give me a break. I got the genetics of—not to get into racism or anything—but I’m built like a black man. Would you say so?”

“There’s a difference between saying, ‘I’ve never tested positive,’ and saying, ‘I’ve never taken steroids,’” I point out.

“How isn’t it the same thing?” he says. “It’s all genetics. I wouldn’t say we’re all created equal. That’s just to make the other guys feel good who don’t have what you’ve got.”

* * * *

In 2007 Lesnar showed up at a UFC event and buttonholed White, the UFC president. “He said, ‘I want to fight in the UFC,’” White recalls. “I said, ‘We’d love to have you here someday.’ ‘Nah, nah, I want to fight in the UFC now.’”

Lesnar’s sales pitch was compelling. “There’s not another fighter in the UFC that looks like me,” he declares, recounting his conversation with White, “that has the star power that I’ve got. I’m known all over the world because I was a pro wrestler. I’ve been to 30 different countries that know my name. I put asses in the seats, and I sell pay-per-views.”

In his much-hyped debut at UFC 81 in February of 2008, Lesnar met Frank Mir, then 28. The fight was an instant classic. At the opening bell Lesnar rushed at Mir, whom he outweighs by 15 pounds, taking him to the canvas like a Doberman bowling over a terrier. He was mashing Mir’s face into gazpacho, seemingly just seconds away from scoring a TKO, when the referee controversially assessed him a penalty. A time-out was called. Moments later Lesnar brought down Mir a second time. The beating went on and on, but the ref still didn’t stop the fight. Finally a bloodied Mir wriggled free, caught Lesnar in a knee-bar, and forced him to tap out. Total time of match: one minute, 30 seconds. Afterward Mir, the victor, looked like he’d been hit with a baseball bat. Lesnar’s face was completely unmarked, unless a dark shadow of rage counts.

On July 11, in his first title defense, Lesnar will meet Mir again in UFC 100, expected to be the biggest, most lucrative fight in the history of the sport. But he’s still fuming about their last match. “Frank knows deep down that he lost that fight,” Lesnar growls. “He got a Christmas present.” White himself, who claims he never criticizes UFC refs, concurs: “That referee has no business being in this business.”

Mir, a former strip-club bouncer, doesn’t hide his contempt for the show biz guy who made his fortune fighting pretend fights. “Through the grapevine we found out that Brock hired lawyers to look over the officiating rules, but they couldn’t find nothing wrong with any of it. I look at it as a great victory. He couldn’t put me away with his power. Brock was trying to win the fight real quickly by landing a couple shots and not doing damage. That’s not really an honorable way to try to win.”