WWF Beatdown Beat

By Mean Gene Okerlund
March 11, 1990

The fans were raging Sunday night when the Brooklyn Brawler faced off against the Ultimate Warrior at the Hoboken Arena, and let me tell you folks, it was a sight.

The Warrior was there to defend the Intercontinental Championship Belt that he’d snipped from the greasy clutches of Brutus “The Barber” Beefcake just last week, but the attendees weren’t so sure he’d be up to the challenge.

“Sure, Brutus hit Randy Savage with a chair while he was being distracted by Shawn Michaels, but he held that title for a record three weeks and defended it with honor,” said Sally McMasters, 12, of Scranton, Pennsylvania. “Losing it to the Ultimate Warrior was almost a right of passage. Maybe not a step in the right direction, but the Brooklyn Brawler? That scumbag? It can’t happen.”

“I’m not sure what will happen,” said Frank Henderson, 47, of Flint, Michigan. “That Brawler, he’s always dirty. He hangs out in trashcans. I saw him grab a cat and fling it out of the ring and, while I’m sure there was a guy on a mattress under there to catch it, I mean, come on, I’m an adult here. Whoa, whoa wait, don’t get me wrong. I’ve loved some wrestling since small times but there’s showmanship involved and-”

The Warrior had just come off a 37 bout undefeated streak and he was looking mean and ready to roll. Here’s what he had to say about it:

“FRIENDS. WARRIORS. KNOW THIS: MY POWERS ARE OVERWHELMING TO YOU, EVEN NOW, THROUGH YOUR TELEVISION SETS. YOU CAN FEEL THE HEAT. SUMMER SLAM APPROACHES, AS DOES THE HOT SUN OF MY PROWESS. THE BROOKLYN BRAWLER IS A TINY ASTEROID IN THE SOLAR SYSTEM OF MY MIGHT. WATCH HIM BURNNNNNNNNNN.”

Meanwhile, the Brooklyn Brawler had prepared by smoking cigars, drinking copious amounts of root beer and rolling around in garbage while wearing torn New York Yankees garb. He had this to say:

“Yeah *burp* I’m ready to give Warrior the ol’ Brooklyn beatdown. I got this bat here, and a spare cigar in case he breaks this one. It’s going to be great. Just great. I’m gonna be huge, America. You just wait. Move over, Hulk Hogan. There’s a new hero in town. I can wave that flag just as well as you can, only *burp*┬ádirtier.”

Fans all over America were split on who would take the title. A recent poll in WWF Magazine clocked the opinion at 45% Brooklyn Brawler, 50% Ultimate Warrior, and 5% “A large previously unknown Western mortician-wrestler interrupts the match to make his debut.”

Commentator Jerry “The King” Lawler had this to say:

“Hey man, don’t count me out of this thing yet, heh heh, but my money is on the Brawler. He represents real American values. Fighting, dirt, rats, you know, the things that made this country great. Oh, and baseball, I think his outfit has something to do with that. The American pastime, you know, behind wrasslin’.”

Then, it was fight night. The Brooklyn Brawler won the coin toss and opted to start out in the ring, leisurely taunting the audience and chewing on an old cigar stub. He’d decided to forgo the baseball garb and donned a mashed porkpie hat, jeans, and an oily, torn “Brooklyn, NY” t-shirt.

The Ultimate Warrior’s music began and he sprinted down the aisle at full tilt like a charging gorilla. He jumped into the ring and slid under the bottom rope in a blur, a rippling meat torpedo. The Warrior sprang into the arena air and it was almost as if time slowed down, his painted visage reflected against the camera flashes from the darkened rows of screaming fans. One massive beefy arm collided with the Brooklyn Brawlers unshaven maw and popped his cigar out into the stands like a Patriot missile. He was down! Both of them, down, and the Warrior on top. The referee slid over with all the grace his lumpy physique could afford and the count began! One! Two! THREE!

It was over, folks. The Ultimate Warrior had defended his title against the Brooklyn Brawler, defeating him in a WWF record seven seconds. What a show! What a sport!

Tune in next week, folks, when Warrior defends his title against the Red Rooster in Dyersburg, Tennessee. We’ll be on the edge of our seats. There’s no telling what will happen in this zany, no-holds barred world. There’s just no telling!