Deadliest Warrior, Season Two: The Deadlierest

There’s no denying the fact that most shows on Spike TV are absolutely terrible. I mean, there’s a reason why 90% of their programming consists of UFC fights and CSI reruns — even the bigwigs at Spike realize that their original shows are downright atrocious and wish to limit their visibility as much possible.

Which makes it incredibly shocking that, despite their track record, they somehow went out and produced one hell of a television gem: Deadliest Warrior.

The best new show in a long time.

The best new show in a long time.

Daring to answer mankind’s most pressing questions (or at least the types of questions posed by history buffs and anthropology nerds), the crack team of experts on Deadliest Warrior picked apart the strengths and weaknesses of history’s greatest warriors to declare, once and for all, what would happen if a Viking faced off with a Samurai, or if a Shaolin Monk went mano-a-mano with a Maori Warrior.

Needless to say, the show was twelve kinds of awesome. Unfortunately … the season is over. All of the battles have been played out and all of the warriors have been sent back to their respective eras. The elephant in the room, of course, is the question on so many minds: Will it return for a second season? And if so, what new warriors will enter the fray?

Luckily for you, dear reader, I have the inside scoop. Yes, Deadliest Warrior will return for a second season, and from what I’ve heard, the battles will be even more insane than ever before! If you thought the Taliban versus the IRA was ridiculous, wait ’til you see what Spike has in store for next season!

Indeed, prepare to be shocked as we discover, once and for, who … is … deadliest!


William Wallace against Shaka Zulu was just the beginning — now it’s time to pit two of history’s most evil bastards against each other to find out who … is … deadliest! For this fight, we’re not talking about Nazis versus Soviets. We’re not talking about massive battles with armies and commanders and generals. No, we’re talking about one-on-one, man-to-man combat between two of history’s most ruthless and despised leaders!

Unfortunately for him, Hitler's arm-mounted miniguns are more fiction that fact.

Sadly, Hitler's arm-mounted miniguns are more fiction that fact.

There will be no weapons … just fists, feet, and cunning intellect. Will Hitler’s gastro-intestinal problems and Parkinson’s Disease be able to triumph over Stalin’s short stature and crippled left arm? And what impact will Stalin’s larger moustache have during the battle? Watch as the Deadliest Warrior team systematically tests each leader’s military uniform to determine which one could withstand more weak, pathetic blows!

Remember, one death is a tragedy, but a million deaths is a statistic. Find out which evil monster comes to a “tragic” end in an episode that you’ll definitely not want to miss!


The RCMP Musical Ride — well-trained police officers who spend their time learning how to make horses prance around in formation in order to impress children and tourists. The Buckingham Palace Guard — well-trained military soldiers who spend their time perfecting the art of standing completely still for hours at a time. Both sides wear funny red uniforms and ridiculous hats. But which of these national icons/stereotypes … is … deadliest?

Watch out! They've got long wooden poles!

Watch out! They've got long wooden poles!

Will the outstanding discipline of the Buckingham Palace Guard be enough to triumph in battle? Or will the animal husbandry of the Mounties give them the edge? In terms of weaponry, the Queen’s Guard carries an impressive looking rifle that, while unloaded and present only for ceremonial purposes, can still be used as a dangerous blunt weapon. But will they get to use it, seeing as how the Musical Ride just might have a distinct reach advantage with their non-threatening pennons and flags?

Hang on to your Stetsons and Bearskins — this one will be epic!


It’s time to settle the age-old debate — are football players really just a bunch of pussies that should be playing rugby instead? In this squad-based match-up, the Deadliest Warrior team will put each team through its paces to determine, once and for all, who … is … deadliest!

A deadly projectile?

A deadly projectile?

Football players are known for their size and strength — can they use their bulk to their advantage? Rugby players like to make jokes about all of the padding worn by the football players — but when push comes to shove, will they be able to find a way to break through that imposing defence? Will the versatility and endurance of the rugby players carry them past the football players, who are known as dedicated specialists that can only play for a few seconds at a time? Plus, what kind of damage can a rugby ball and a football do to a ballistics gel torso?

Yes, in a match-up this heated, we might need overtime to declare a champion!


He claims to the be the “ultimate” warrior. But is … he … deadliest? In this episode, our team of experts will find out what happens when you take two so-called fighters and set them on a no-holds-barred collision course with destiny.



In one corner, you have one of the WWF’s greatest showmen of all-time — a roided-up meathead with a severely limited knowledge of grappling and even more limited grasp on reality. In the other corner, you have one of the NHL’s greatest showmen of all-time — a small dude with an oddly-proportioned head and a severely limited knowledge of basic hockey skills. Both are fighters in only the loosest sense of the word, engaging in scripted bouts of pugilism for the sole purpose of getting the fans riled up and out of their seats. The question is, who will be victorious when everything’s on the line and the punches are real? Which sports hero will flinch first?

No count-outs. No disqualifications. Two men enter, but only one man will survive!

Wow. A bunch of classic battles, to be sure. And that’s just a taste of what’s coming up in season two of Deadliest Warrior. Man, I can’t wait!

Before They Were Superstars: Big Bossman

Not everybody is born to be a pro wrestler. For every Hulk Hogan and Ric Flair, there are countless others wannabes that have to work their way up from the very bottom, often working other jobs on the side just to make ends meet as they pursue their dreams of turnbuckled glory. But these people are the true legends of wrestling, for they display unparalleled dedication, hard work, and a pure will to succeed.

The Big Bossman is one of these people. And this is his story.

Big Bossman: Wrestling Legend.

Big Bossman: Wrestling Legend.

The following scene takes place in Cobb County, Georgia circa 1987:

The sweltering summer heat pounded down on the meticulously coiffed Vince McMahon Jr., the top wrestling promoter in the United States, as he walked the streets of Marietta, Georgia.

A pretty nice place as far as the south goes, he thought. But it sure as hell ain’t no Stamford.

Granted, it had been a while since he had been to Georgia. After all, this was NWA territory, and the idiots down here appreciated a much different style of wrestling compared to the more sophisticated tastes of the New York audiences. But things were changing. Hulk Hogan had just pinned Andre the Giant in front of 93,000 screaming fans in the Silverdome. It was time to break out of the regional territories and truly take the WWF national.

And if that meant pissing on the shoes of Jim Crockett and the NWA by holding a show in Atlanta — their own backyard — so be it.

Make no mistake, last night was huge. The Omni was sold out, packed to the rafters with 16,000 paying customers. Hogan and Kamala performed to the best of their abilities in the main event, a shitload of T-shirts were sold, and a lot of kids went home happy. Yes, last night will go a long way to solidifying the WWF’s presence in the southern market.

But what took place after the show was over — the very reason why Vince McMahon Jr., the top wrestling promoter in the United States, was sweating buckets under the Georgia sun as he walked the streets of Marietta — well, this was gonna be a PR nightmare.

Brutus “The Barber” Beefcake’s world was pitch black. His hands were bound, and he was pretty sure he was wearing some sort of hood or blindfold — but he doubted that the swelling of his eyes would allow him to see much of anything, anyway. His head was pounding. The taste of blood was still fresh on his lips.

He shook his head, trying desperately to clear the cobwebs. What the hell happened last night?

He remembers going out with Hogan and the boys after the show … but after that … nothing. A total blank.

The sound of echoing footsteps blasted through Beefcake’s cranium, each step penetrating his brain like a hot knife. Large, heavy footsteps. Probably the same monster that beat him senseless the night before. And the footsteps kept getting louder, closer …


The top wrestling promoter in the United States.

Vince McMahon: The top wrestling promoter in the United States.

For a moment, he had actually considered letting Brutus Beefcake rot in Cobb County, Georgia. After all, he’s damn near useless as a performer, and it was getting harder and harder to find somebody who was not only willing to lose to the bum, but to also get their hair chopped off in the middle of the ring. But it’s never that easy. Beefcake is Hogan’s best buddy, and if there’s one thing he’s learned, it’s that you gotta keep Hulk Hogan happy — no matter what the cost.

McMahon shook his head in disbelief. According to Howard Finkel, Beefcake pumped himself full of drugs at some cheap dive bar, went a little bit crazy, and started running naked through the streets of Atlanta screaming about demons and demi-gods. And then he vanished into the night.

It was until this morning when Gorilla Monsoon got a phone call from the Cobb County Sheriff’s Office that the company finally learned of Beefcake’s whereabouts. In his drug-fuelled insanity, he had somehow ended up in Marietta. And now here was Vince McMahon Jr., the top wrestling promoter in the United States, walking the sun-soaked streets about to post bail for one his drug-addled employees.

The jail cell door creaked open and the heavy footsteps got closer. Beefcake could feel the presence of the massive behemoth looming over him. He didn’t move. He was too terrified.

Crunch. Out of nowhere, a field of stars illuminated the darkness as he felt one his ribs explode. With the the blindfold on, there was no way he could see the kick coming.

The booming voice of his assailant echoed throughout the cell. “Git to yer feet, boy!”

Beefcake coughed and sputtered. More blood. Fresh blood.

“I said, git to yer feet!”

Crunch. Another kick. Beefcake groaned. “Stop … please … why …”

Big Bossman: Wrestling Legend.

Big Bossman: Wrestling Legend.

In one quick motion, the man removed Beefcake’s blindfold, and through the narrow slits he now called eyes, he could see the true form of his attacker. Not a demon like he had believed the night before. No, it was a large man, well over 300 pounds, wearing a cop’s uniform.

Crouching down, the cop violently grabbed Beefcake’s face. Although he was wearing sunglasses, Beefcake knew he was staring a hole through him.

“Why? Why? Because when you take a trip down to Cobb County, Georgia, you better read the signs and respect the law and order,” the cop barked. “Or else you’ll be servin’ hard time, boy.”

With that, he spat in Beefcake’s face, laughed, and rose to his feet. The cop then reached toward his belt, where he unsheathed a nightstick. It was caked in blood. He tapped the nightstick in the palm of his hand a few times before rattling it across the bars of the cell.


“Somebody’s here to take you home, boy,” the cop snarled.


“But I ain’t done with you yet.”


“You done disgraced my city, punk. The city where my momma’s lived her entire life! You think she wants to live in a place where junkies like you run the streets?”

The rage in the cop’s voice was reaching a crescendo, when suddenly … silence. Beefcake braced for the worst.

The cop was now calm, collected. “And for that, I’m gonna make you walk the line.”

In a flash, Beefcake could see the red-stained nightstick hurtling toward him. And then his world went black once more.

Vince McMahon Jr. was tired of waiting. He was told Beefcake would be out in a minute. It had been fifteen. Dammit, he was the top wrestling promoter in the United States! He had a company to run! He didn’t have time for the dog-and-pony show of some hillbilly redneck police department!

That’s when Beefcake emerged from the back room of the police station. But he wasn’t doing so on his volition — he was knocked unconscious, being carried like a sack of potatoes on the enormous shoulders of a massive cop.

The cop stopped in front of McMahon. “Is this yours?”

McMahon looked at the cop incredulously. “Excuse me?”

“I said, is this sack of crap yours?”

McMahon couldn’t believe his eyes. Yeah, it was Beefcake, no doubt about that. At least, it used to be.

“Jesus Christ,” uttered McMahon. “What the hell happened to him?”

The cop unceremoniously tossed Beefcake to the floor.

“The Big Bossman happened to him,” the cop replied. “Now pick up your trash and get out of my county, boy.”

The cop turned to leave when McMahon grabbed him by the shoulder.

“Now hold on just a damn second,” McMahon growled. “Who did this to him?”

The cop tore off his sunglasses. There was a crazed glint in his eyes.

“What are you, boy? Deaf? Dumb?” The cop pointed to his shirt, the name Big Bossman stitched above his breast pocket. “You break the law in Cobb County, you gotta answer to me — the Big Bossman.”

McMahon’s eyes lit up, a sly grin creeping across his face. “How much do you make here in Cobb County, Bossman?”

“Enough to help my momma get by,” he answered.

McMahon nodded, then circled around the Bossman, sizing him up. “You’re a big fella. You get into lots of scraps here in your line of work?”

“Ain’t a man alive that can beat me, boy,” boasted the Bossman. “I’m the biggest, meanest, nastiest cop in all of Georgia, and that’s the truth!”

McMahon nodded again. “I see. Tell you what, Bossman. How’d you like to be a professional wrestler with the WWF?”

The Bossman didn’t answer.

“Just imagine. Money … fame … and you get to beat up punks like this for a living,” McMahon said, gesturing toward the motionless body of Brutus Beefcake. “And best of all, it’s completely legal, which means no Internal Affairs checking into reports of inmates with fractured skulls, that sort of thing.”

The Big Bossman paused momentarily before raising an eyebrow and leaning closer to McMahon. “Just how much money are we talking about here?”

On that day, the Big Bossman became a professional wrestler, and he received all that Vince McMahon promised him — and more. Although he never really won any championships of note, his career will be celebrated for generations to come due to his ferocity, tenacity, and a really awesome theme song.

He continued to work part-time for the Cobb County Department of Corrections until Internal Affairs stripped him of his badge in 1993. His dedication to law enforcement never wavered, however, as he juggled his impressive new career in the squared circle with dabblings in vigilantism and private security.

The Big Bossman is a shining example of how blue collar fatsos can make a decent living in the world of professional wrestling with very little actual training. Indeed, his is a true inspirational story. And for that, we salute him.

Big Bossman: Wrestling Legend.

Big Bossman: Wrestling Legend.

Before They Were Superstars: Duke “The Dumpster” Droese

Not everybody is born to be a pro wrestler. For every Hulk Hogan and Ric Flair, there are countless others wannabes that have to work their way up from the very bottom, often working other jobs on the side just to make ends meet as they pursue their dreams of turnbuckled glory. But these people are the true legends of wrestling, for they display unparalleled dedication, hard work, and a pure will to succeed.

Duke “The Dumpster” Droese is one of these people. And this is his story.

Duke Droese: Wrestling Legend

Duke Droese: Wrestling Legend

The following scene takes place in Mount Trashmore, Florida, circa 1993:


It’s mid-morning, not a cloud in the sky. A garbage truck, with two GARBAGEMEN hanging from the back, slowly rumbles down a very ordinary suburban street.

One of the garbagemen is DUKE DROESE. Dressed in plain blue coveralls and wearing a backwards baseball cap over his flowing mullet, Duke is in his mid-20s and built like a former college football player — a large frame (but not exactly chiselled from granite), standing about 6’6′” and tipping the scales close to 300 lbs. As the truck comes to a stop, Duke SIGHS and wipes his brow with his sleeve.

Duke half-heartedly hops off of the truck and walks towards the curb. His partner, BARRY, is already walking back to the truck, effortlessly carrying a garbage bag in each hand. Barry is older the Duke — lines of experience are etched into his tanned and leathery face.

Barry tosses a look of disappointment Duke’s way as he tosses the garbage into the back of the truck.

Come on, Duke. Move it.

Duke picks up an aluminum trash can from the curb and walks back to the truck.

How long has it been?

Has what been?

Duke starts emptying the contents of the trash can into the back of the truck.

Since you started working this shit job?

Barry shrugs.

Goin’ on eighteen years now, I reckon.

That’s a fuck of a long time, Barry.

Duke tosses the empty can towards the curb and steps onto his perch on the back of the garbage truck.

DUKE (cont’d)
A fuck of a long time.

Barry looks at Duke, hesitates, but says nothing. He steps onto his perch and bangs his fist on the side of the truck.

The truck lurches into motion and moves towards the next house. Mere seconds later, the truck stops again, and Duke and Barry hop off. Dozens of trash cans and garbage bags litter the sidewalk, while a pair of old tattered couches sit on the front lawn.

Huh. Looks like the Thompsons finally moved out.
Been talkin’ about it for some time, you know.

Duke and Barry both pick up a pair of trash cans and head back to the truck.

Yeah, I’ve been thinking about moving, too.
Gonna go up north. Connecticut, probably.

Barry empties his trash cans into the truck.

That so?

I’m not like you, Barry. I got bigger things
planned for my life, you know?

Barry steps aside as Duke empties his trash cans.

DUKE (cont’d)
I took Frankie to that WWF show at the
Coliseum a couple weeks back. You know,
Hulk Hogan and all that shit? Well, it really got
me thinking, seeing all those big old bastards up there
doing their thing. I said to myself, holy shit, I could do that.
I could be a fucking  pro wrestler, no sweat.

Duke and Barry walk back to the curb, tossing the empty trash cans onto the lawn.

Lorenzo thinks you’re a real natural, you know.
He don’t say that ’bout too many garbagemen.

I know, I know. This ain’t easy. (beat)
It’s just that Frankie deserves better than
growing up in Mount Trashmore.

Duke sits down on the arm of one the old couches. He wipes the sweat from his brow.

Barry grabs another trash can and takes it back to the truck.

Hogan’s a real big fella, Duke.

Yeah, so?

Barry unloads the trash can.

I saw him doing autographs down at the mall.
Hands the size of hams, Duke. He could kill ya.

Barry nonchalantly tosses the empty can onto the lawn. He then takes a seat on the other arm of the couch and turns to face Duke.

BARRY (cont’d)
Please, think of Frankie. Think of Janine.
I’m sure Lorenzo will give ya a raise, if you ask.

You don’t believe me, do you?

Barry stands up. Turning his back to Duke, he reaches for another trash can.

Come on Duke. Move it.

Duke stands up.

No! Anything he can do, I can do better!

Duke bends at the knees, wraps his arms around the end of the couch, and with considerable effort, hoists it up to waist level. His legs tremble and shake.

Duke GRUNTS, his face turning red.

With considerable effort, Duke GROANS and lifts the entire couch up over his head for a brief second before slamming it to the ground.

(out of breath)
Yeah! You see that? Bodyslam, motherfucker!

Duke GRUNTS as he dives elbow first onto the broken couch. As he gets back to his feet, he kicks over one of the nearby trashcans, spilling its contents all over the sidewalk.

You see that, Hogan? I’m coming for you!
I’m gonna destroy you!

Duke picks up a garbage bag. Holding it at chest height, he SNARLS as he tears the bag open like Hulk Hogan tearing a T-shirt, his arms fully extended as he stretches the flimsy plastic.

Duke seems oblivious as old pizza crusts and dirty diapers land on his feet.

Duke drops the shredded remains of the garbage bag as he lets loose A PRIMAL, GUTTERAL SCREAM. He then crouches, arms resting on his knees, panting and out of breath.

Barry puts his hand on Duke’s shoulder.

Come on, Duke. Time to go.

Yeah. Time to go.

Duke slowly rises to his feet and follows Barry to the garbage truck. Barry climbs onto the back of the truck, but Duke stands his ground.

Go on without me, Barry. I’m done.

But what will you do?

I’m gonna get on the next bus to Connecticut,
march into Vince McMahon’s office,
and demand that he gives me a job!

BARRY pauses for a moment, then smiles.

If you say so, Duke. If you say so.

Barry pounds on the side of the garbage truck. It slowly drives away from Duke.

BARRY (cont’d)
What do you reckon I should tell Lorenzo?

Tell him that from this moment on, I am
a garbageman no longer! And when he sees me
next, it’ll be as WWF Heavyweight Champion
of the entire goddamn world!

A man of his word, Duke Droese made the trek to Titan Towers, and somehow, actually convinced Vince McMahon to give him a job as a professional wrestler. However, by that time, Hulk Hogan had already left the company, and Duke was saddled with the unfortunate moniker of “The Dumpster” due to his previous occupation and hilariously alliterative name. To make matters worse, McMahon really low-balled him on his contract, and to make ends meet Duke had to moonlight part-time as a garbageman in Stamford, Connecticut. He truly could not escape his destiny.

Duke “The Dumpster” Droese would go on to have a remarkable unnoteworthy career in the WWF, but dammit, he followed his dreams, and for that, he is a true legend of wrestling. And we salute him.

Duke Droese: Wrestling Legend

Duke Droese: Wrestling Legend