The Ultimate Warrior had a quick push to the top of the WWF, which could make some see him as the prototype of Batista and Orton. He looked every bit as impressive, in a Reagan-era, "Just Say No" fashion, and his entrance may be the best in wrestling history, from having the most metal theme of the eighties to the fastest trip to the ring. His move-set, however, was limited to haymakers, clotheslines, and a big splash at the end. The idea of a fast-moving power wrestler may have sounded like a good idea on paper, but in practice, the Warrior lacked focus. His microphone work was equally perplexing, full of stream-of-consciousness rants about fuelling rocketships, ritual suicide by lawnmower, and sharing carbon dioxide with someone named Ho Kogan. In retrospect, the Warrior was as weird as the eighties itself. If you were there, though, you could feel it, dude. Stories about Warrior's unprofessional attitude abound: his refusal to budge on contractual demands ultimately led to his holding Vince McMahon up for more money at Summerslam 91. The most damning tale and fans will really hope it isn't true was his telling an enthusiastic fan that the a championship belt was "just more f-cking luggage." The Ultimate Warrior will enter the WWE Hall Of Fame this year, a well-deserved honour for one of the greatest stars of his era. He may not be the nicest guy in the world, but you probably wouldn't be either if a multi-billion dollar corporation's success rested on whether or not fans liked you. That, plus having space aliens in your head, would probably drive you to wear neon streamers and face-paint, too.
Check out "The Champ" by my alter ego, Greg Forrest, in Heater #12, at http://fictionmagazines.com.
I used to do a mean Glenn Danzig impression. Now I just hang around and co-host The Workprint podcast at http://southboundcinema.com/.
