The Road Warriors: Danger, Death, and the Rush of Wrestling (13 page)

The main problem with the switcheroo was that although Keirn and Lane may have had similar features, they weren’t exactly twins, and it was a stretch to assume nobody realized there was a different guy in the ring. An even bigger problem, however, especially that Christmas night, was that Hawk and I definitely weren’t interested in coming off as the most ignorant jackasses on the planet by falling for the switcheroo in front of our hometown and losing the titles. If we were going down, we’d go down swinging.

When Verne explained what he wanted for the match’s conclusion, we nodded as if everything was fine. But it wasn’t. Hawk and I were rising to prominence with the Road Warrior gimmick, and we wouldn’t let anybody undermine all of our hard work. We tried to appeal to Verne’s son, Greg Gagne, booker for the AWA, but he wouldn’t compromise. That left us to our own devices and imagination (which could be a bad thing for everybody).

While we were wondering how to handle the situation, Paul in his infinite wisdom stood and told us exactly what we could do. “Listen, boys, you’re the ones holding all the cards here. You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to. If you don’t want to go down tonight, change the finish when you’re out there. Slam those guys right through the mat.”

Hawk and I had never thought of doing anything like that before. To be honest, it was probably one of the most rebellious acts a wrestler could commit. But at that time and place, it sure sounded like a good way out to us.

We decided to incite a DQ finish involving steel chairs. Paul told us he knew Keirn very well from his days in Memphis and whenever Keirn was abused and pushed to the limits during a match, you could always count on him to go get a chair and start swinging like there was no tomorrow.

After both teams came out, the crowd was firmly in our favor. The Fabs weren’t used to being heels, but going with what the audience dictates is what ring psychology’s all about. We decided Hawk would start things off. I found it funny that Keirn himself was the one who came to the center as the bell rang.

Right before they locked up, Hawk leaned over to Keirn and said, “We’re not going for the finish tonight. Do things our way and nobody gets hurt.” And with that, Hawk started relentlessly beating Keirn all over the ring with really stiff punches and forearms.

Photo courtesy of the Laurinaitis family.

“Here’s looking at you, kid!” An Animal taking form! Fall ‘83.

Photo courtesy of the Laurinaitis family.

Hawk in an early shot just after our transformation with the haircuts and paint.

Photo courtesy of the Laurinaitis family.

Headline News! Hawk and Animal can read! Paul just looked at the pictures. 1988.

Photo courtesy of the Laurinaitis family.

Top left:
I couldn’t believe I was an NWA National Tag Team champion.
Top right:
With my good friend Nikita Koloff and our IWGP tag titles. Spring ‘87.
Bottom:
Resting before a match in Japan with “Tiger” Hatori. Spring ‘85.

Keirn’s face was beet red, and it didn’t take a genius to see how pissed and confused he was. All of a sudden, Keirn snapped and jumped out to the floor and got a chair, as Paul had predicted. He climbed back in and, while the referee called for the bell, he started wailing on Hawk with nasty shots like you wouldn’t believe.

When I came running in to help, Keirn turned his attention to me. All I remember was covering my head and turning away as quickly as possible. He was swinging as hard as he could and yelling like a man possessed. It was about as real as things ever got inside a wrestling ring.

After a few more hits each, Hawk and I powdered
¹⁴
and started making our way to the back. The match was deemed a DQ, and we kept the belts.

When we got to the locker room, though, Verne and Greg Gagne were waiting for us—and, boy, were they piping hot.

Verne tore into us with his raspy voice: “Not in fifty years has somebody changed a finish to one of my matches. I can’t believe this fucking shit. Who do you guys think you are?”

I answered, “Well, we did.”

Then Paul, Hawk, and I turned and walked away.

Was it bold? Hell, yeah, it was, but at that time we really didn’t care. We weren’t interested in lying down and looking like idiots. Paul had always made it clear that we could go wherever we wanted, especially Japan, where he said our gimmick would be huge. We even told Verne if he wanted the belts back, he could have them. And you know what? He let us keep them.

Although we’d made up his mind for him by changing the finish, deep down Verne knew it was the best decision. He needed us, and we knew it. Greg Gagne knew it, too, but he didn’t know when to stop running his mouth.

Two days later we were up at the Winnipeg Arena in Manitoba, Canada, in the TV room, where everyone was standing around waiting for interview time. Greg was holding court in front of all kinds of guys, including our old bouncing friend John Nord, Blackjack Lanza, Larry and Curt Hennig, Steve-O, and a new guy named Rick Steiner.

While Greg was busy flapping his yap about what had happened in St. Paul, I came walking in and looked at Greg. Normally, I got along great with Greg, but he was harping on the wrong subject. “Hey, if you’ve got something to say, tell me to my face or I’ll knock you out in front of everybody.” It was time for him to let it go, so I motivated him. That was the end of it.

Something else that happened around the same time we began feuding with the Fabulous Ones involved my old friend Scott Simpson from my Golden Valley Lutheran football days. I got a phone call from Jim Crockett, who was looking for some hot new talent for Mid-Atlantic Championship Wrestling.

MCW was now in the prime-time slot of 6:05 p.m. on TBS with
World Championship Wrestling
. Crockett, now at the helm, wanted to push harder than ever to make it the next big national wrestling show alongside the WWF. I told Crockett I’d see what I could do and get back to him.

I remembered Scott’s impressive build and athletic talent. He was the first and only call I made. Scott, much like me, was never able to break through in football the way he’d wanted. Plagued by injuries since college, Scott had bailed out of the sports scene and was exploring career options. When I called and told him about Crockett’s inquiry, he jumped at the chance and wanted to know when and where he’d begin.

After Crockett saw pictures of Scott, who was now 285 pounds, he was convinced. He told him to shave his head and report to Atlanta immediately. From there, Scott was given the Russian gimmick and name Nikita Koloff, the young nephew of Ivan Koloff. Scott took the role so seriously that not only did he legally change his name to Nikita Koloff, but he also learned the Russian language. Nikita never broke kayfabe in public and had everyone convinced of his Communist heritage.

Playing off of the Cold War sentiments, Nikita quickly gained prominence in the Crockett organization. His intimidating look, power, and delivery in the ring also brought Nikita another nickname, the Russian Road Warrior. Soon enough he’d become one of our great adversaries.

As 1985 rolled in, Hawk and I were in a rhythm we didn’t even know was possible in the professional wrestling business. Wherever we went, we got huge reactions. We were having the time of our lives being the Road Warriors. We loved trying to create true mayhem in our matches, which wasn’t hard to do in those days. In fact, inciting a total riot was easy if you played the audience right.

Take the people in Hammond, Indiana, for example. It was February and we were ready for a showdown with Baron von Raschke and Curt Hennig in Hammond. We always had great heat with Midwestern towns. They were blue collar and rowdy and, more importantly, believed every minute of the action. Baron and Curt valiantly tried to fend off our power, but we wore them down with a savage and unrelenting attack.

During the close of the match, we split Curt open and hung him by his neck from the top and second ropes while they were twisted over one another. As Curt’s legs were dangling and he was struggling to free himself, Larry Hennig got involved and tried to help. We clubbed him off the side of the ring and kept punching Curt’s bloody head. Finally, Baron and the refs ran us off to get to Curt.

As Hawk and I started to make our way to the dressing room, all hell broke loose around us. People were throwing garbage and drinks at us while we walked past. We didn’t take it too seriously until someone got really carried away and threw a full-sized wooden folding chair and hit Hawk right on the head. That was it. We started throwing wild punches and shoving people as hard as we could before the police could help clear the way. For a few seconds, everything was legitimately out of control.

After we’d reached the back and caught our breath, we couldn’t believe what had happened. It was one of the most amazing things we’d ever been involved in.

On the creative side of things in the AWA, when we weren’t fighting off an entire arena of angry fans, Hawk and I also started perfecting our trademark Road Warriors interview style. For the first time, we found ourselves in a situation where we had to give interviews all the time—and now we were expected to actually speak. In Georgia, Ole had asked Paul to do all the talking and let us say only a word or two, literally, before cutting away. Now, we were given real mic time and wanted to deliver the goods.

We always had a basic structure to our promos. I would come in first and discuss our opponents; next, Hawk would come in and say something off the wall while flexing his dog collar off his neck with a shrug; then Paul would wrap it all up. While Paul summarized, Hawk and I usually walked off set, as if we were disgusted with everything around us.

Hawk always provided amazing comic relief when it was his turn. For example, I might start off an interview yelling about how the Fabulous Freebirds (Michael Hayes, Terry Gordy, and Buddy Roberts) tried to cheat us out of a win, and then I’d turn it over to Hawk. Then he’d go nuts. “Freebirds! You know what you are? You’re a bunch of rats. And you know what that makes us?
D-CON
! Tell them, Paul.” It was hilarious.