Welcome back to the show. We are we're so incredibly
glad you decided to join us for today's deep
dive. Yeah. Thanks so much for being here. So
our mission today is to explore the wildly creative
and. Honestly, sometimes deeply terrifying world
of professional wrestling match types. And often
completely bizarre, too. Oh, completely bizarre.
We are pulling from a massive, comprehensive
encyclopedia of wrestling stipulations. And I
just have to tell you up front, you are in for
quite a ride today. It's definitely a subject
that defies a lot of expectations. I think for
most of you listening, the default image of professional
wrestling is... Pretty straightforward, right?
Right. Like two athletes in a standard ring.
Exactly. Maybe a referee, cheering crowds and
brightly colored ropes. But as we're going to
see today, that traditional setup is really just
the blank canvas. Yeah. Let's unpack this immediately,
because if you think it's just two people grappling
on a mat, you need to buckle up. You really do.
By the end of this deep dive, we're going to
walk you through matches involving literal flesh
-eating piranhas. Rolls taking place on moving
bullet trains traveling at 170 miles per hour.
It's insane. And weapons crafted out of fists
dipped in industrial superglue and crushed glass.
Which I know sounds like absolute unstructured
chaos. It sounds like a horror movie. It kind
of does. But what's fascinating here is that
this isn't just a random list of crazy adrenaline
-fueled suns. When you really analyze these so
-called gimmick matches, you uncover this brilliant
master class in narrative escalation. Audience
psychology, too. Yes, audience psychology and
theatrical innovation. Every bizarre environment
or ridiculous weapon you're going to hear about
today was actually born out of a very specific
storytelling need. I want to start with one of
the most classic examples of that narrative escalation,
the steel cage. Right. So in the encyclopedia,
this falls under the category of enclosure matches.
Exactly. Now, I want you to try and picture this
in your head right now. You might be visualizing
the modern gleaming steel cage you see on TV
today, but we have to go all the way back to
the earliest recorded cage match. Which was a
long time ago. 1936 to be exact, in Carothersville,
Missouri. And the material they used was not
thick steel bars. Not even close. The cage was
constructed entirely out of chicken wire. And
the historical context of that chicken wire is
actually crucial. How so? Well, the primary purpose
wasn't actually to keep the wrestlers trapped
inside. which is the dramatic hook we associate
with cage matches today. Right. Today it's all
about there's no escape. Exactly. But originally
it was primarily a physical barrier just to keep
the rowdy, highly aggressive fans out of the
ring. Wow. So it was for protection. Yeah. Back
in those days, crowds would routinely try to
interfere. They'd throw objects or even physically
attack the villain wrestlers. So the chicken
wire was literally there to protect the performers
and the integrity of the match. That paints such
a vivid picture of what those early gritty events
must have felt like for the audience. Oh, yeah.
Very intense. But of course, wrestling promoters
are storytellers at heart. They realized pretty
quickly that locking two bitter rivals inside
a chain link fence is just inherently dramatic.
for the people watching. It really is. So the
standard steel cage evolved. It became a staple
for decades. But then a problem arises. The audience
gets used to it. Exactly. So how do promoters
up the stakes when a regular cage just doesn't
thrill you anymore? Well, that brings us to 1997
and World Wrestling Entertainment or WWE. We're
talking about a massive four -sided cuboid steel
structure. It's made from this open weave mesh.
And it's so large, it actually extends beyond
the ring apron and covers the floor area around
the ring. But the most significant architectural
change here, it has a roof. Yes, the roof. And
before the match begins, the door is padlocked
from the outside with heavy chains. Why the roof
though? I mean, a cage is a cage. Not from a
psychological standpoint. That roof and that
padlock are crucial narrative tools. Because
in a standard cage match, you can escape over
the top. Right. Escaping over the top is often
a way to win. By adding a roof and visibly locking
the door, the promoters intentionally engineered
a feeling of inescapable dread. OK, let's talk
about kayfabe here for a sec. Sure. Which, for
those who might not know, is the agreed upon
fictional reality of the wrestling world. Right.
The internal logic of the show. Yeah. So. In
Kayfabe, Hell in a Cell is billed as a demonic
structure. It's designed to settle the most bitter,
violent blood feuds where simply pinning an opponent
just isn't enough closure. The story dictates
that these two characters must be locked in a
box until they absolutely destroy one another.
But see, even a locked roof over a ring eventually
loses its shock value after a decade or so. Audiences
are just notoriously hard to keep satisfied.
They really are. The solution promoters came
up with next just borders on architectural madness.
I want you to imagine the Punjabi prison match.
This one is wild. They replaced the steel entirely
Instead, they lower down not one, but two concentric
cages made out of thick, steel -reinforced bamboo.
Just massive structures. The inner cage is 16
feet high. The outer cage is an enormous 20 feet
high. And both structures are topped with jagged,
outward -facing wooden spikes. Yes. And there
are these tiny little doors at the bottom. The
referee will only open them for exactly 60 seconds
before padlocking them forever. It is an utterly
absurd, towering visual. It is. And if bamboo
isn't enough for you, other promotions have resorted
to the electrified cage match, where the fence
is literally wired to explode or spark in intervals.
Which, if we connect this back to the bigger
picture, explains a fundamental rule of media
consumption. It's really a perfect microcosm
for the entertainment industry as a whole. How
do you? Well, the dopamine hit of a standard
cage wears off right. So promoters have to hack
the audience's brain by adding a roof. Right.
When the roof gets boring, you add bamboo and
spikes. It's the exact same reason action movie
franchises start off with car chases and eventually
have to go to outer space to save the multiverse.
Oh, that is such a great point. It's an arms
race against the audience's own shifting baseline
for excitement. They have to constantly maintain
the illusion of ultimate danger. An arms race
against the audience? I love that framing. And
you know, sometimes the smartest way to win that
arms race isn't to build a bigger, spikier cage.
No, sometimes you have to leave the building.
Exactly. It's to abandon the arena entirely.
That brings us to our next category in the sources.
Taking the fight to the streets and location
-based brawls. These are fascinating. If you've
ever felt claustrophobic on your morning commute,
consider this. In 2023, the Japanese promotion
DDT Pro Wrestling held a train match. Yes. They
had two wrestlers fighting inside an actual moving
Shinkansen bullet train traveling at 170 miles
per hour. Which represents a total departure
from the boundaries of a traditional sport. Right.
In that scenario, the environment itself becomes
the primary obstacle. Right. You have athletes
trying to execute complex grappling maneuvers
in a narrow train aisle while the world is literally
blurring past the windows. And wrestling has
a surprisingly rich history of utilizing these
utilitarian spaces. Like the boil room brawl.
Exactly. That was a signature match for the Mankind
character in the late 90s, fought in the bowels
of the arena, among concrete floors, large bolts,
steam -exposed metal piping. And parking lot
brawls, too. where wrestlers fight inside a tightly
parked circle of cars using the vehicles themselves
as weapons and the headlights for illumination.
It completely changes the vibe from an athletic
contest to a gritty street fight. It totally
does. But reading through these sources, what
I found truly amazing is that this idea of fighting
in bizarre locations birthed what we now recognize
as the cinematic match. Right. Taking it out
of the live event space entirely. Yeah, and the
early prototype for this actually happened way
back in 1987. The Antonio Inoki match. Yes. The
legendary Japanese wrestler Antonio Inoki fought
Masa Saito in a two -hour death match on Gonryujima,
which is a literal uninhabited island. No referee.
No referee, no live crowd. They filmed it with
a multi -camera setup on the ground, and they
even had a helicopter filming from above. Which
was so ahead of its time. And as the match dragged
on for hours, the sun went down. They had to
light bombs. It wasn't a live sporting event.
It was basically an action movie. It was absolutely
a pioneer of the format. Yeah. But that cinematic
approach lay mostly dormant for decades. It was
really just used as an occasional novelty. Until
a massive global event forced the entire entertainment
industry to adapt. Right, the 2020 COVID -19
pandemic. I remember that era so clearly. Sports
completely shut down. And when they finally tried
to come back in empty arenas, the silence was
just deafening. Exactly. With no live audiences
allowed, the traditional electric energy of a
wrestling show simply vanished. A performer throwing
a punch in a silent cavernous arena just looks
awkward. It's just quiet slapping sounds. Yeah.
So how do you adapt? Yeah. Promotions leaned
into that 1987 Antonio Inoki Island concept.
They started producing heavily edited, movie
-like fights shot on location over several hours.
Complete with multiple takes, dramatic lighting,
and actual musical scores playing underneath
the action. They leaned in so hard and it genuinely
saved the product for a lot of viewers at home.
Like, WWE producing the Boneyard match, that
was essentially a heavily choreographed fight
filmed in a custom -built foggy cemetery. Starring
The Undertaker. Right, it felt way more like
a gritty horror movie than a wrestling match.
Meanwhile, All Elite Wrestling, or AEW, went
a totally different route with the stadium stampede.
Oh, the stadium stampede was wild. Because they
couldn't have fans. They utilized an entirely
empty NFL stadium for a chaotic five -on -five
brawl. These guys were fighting in the concourses,
brawling through the executive offices, sliding
down the stadium bars and battling in the cargo
loading areas. It perfectly reflects wrestling's
incredible, almost unique adaptability as an
art form. It really does. When traditional live
sports shut down because they rely strictly on
the rules of the game. Wrestling survived because
it leaned fully into its theatrical roots. If
they couldn't rely on the roar of the crowd,
they just substituted it with cinematic editing,
sweeping camera angles, and elaborate sets. It
proves that professional wrestling is just as
much a television production as it is an athletic
contest. Okay, I need to issue a quick, very
genuine content warning for you right now because
things are about to get graphic. Yeah, this next
part is. Pretty intense. We're transitioning
away from the theatrical and the cinematic and
diving into the deeply unapologetically visceral.
We need to talk about the deathmatch subculture.
This is where we examine the pursuit of pure,
unadulterated shock. To really understand this,
we have to look at the 1990s. Setting the scene.
In Japan, you had promotions like FMW and Big
Japan Pro Wrestling pushing the envelope. And
in the United States, you had Extreme Championship
Wrestling, or ECW. Right. And ECW wasn't a massive
corporate production with millions of dollars
in backing. Not at all. They were operating out
of a gritty, dingy, low ceiling bingo hall in
Philadelphia. So to stand out against the billionaire
backed companies on national television, they
had to offer a counterculture alternative. Exactly.
The death match removes almost all traditional
rules. It introduces elements specifically designed
to draw blood and push the human body to its
absolute breaking point. I am honestly still
wincing just from reading the descriptions in
the Sork material. It's hard to read. Can you
explain the mechanics of the Taipei death match?
Because it sounds like something out of a medieval
torture chamber. It is arguably one of the most
harrowing concepts on paper. In a Taipei death
match, the wrestlers have their fists heavily
taped up. Oh. Then before the match begins, those
taped fists are submerged into a bucket of industrial
superglue. Which is bad enough. Finally, they
are rolled in a tray filled with crushed glass.
Okay, stop. You're saying they are essentially
turning their own hands into maces made of broken
glass. Precisely. And then punching each other
in the face with them. Yes. The visual of the
glass catching the arena lights is horrifying.
And if that sounds extreme, consider the light
tube deathmatch. Oh man, the light tubes! In
this variation, the promoters attach hundreds,
sometimes up to 200 fluorescent light bulbs,
to the ring ropes. So when the wrestlers are
thrown into the ropes, the tubes shatter. Right.
And it's not just the shark glass that's the
issue. Shattering those tubes literally fills
the air inside the arena with toxic carcinogenic
dust. That is awful. The referees often have
to wear masks, and attendants literally rush
in with brooms to sweep the shattered glass off
the mob so the performers don't get fully impaled
when they fall. That is deeply unsettling. But
if we're talking about unsettling, there is one
match in the encyclopedia that genuinely made
my jaw drop. I think I know which one you're
going to say. I want you to picture the scene.
It's September 1996 in Japan. Can you walk us
through the Piranha Deathmatch? Yeah. So in the
center of the wrestling ring, the promoters placed
a large glass fish tank. Okay. And inside that
tank were dozens of flesh -eating Amazon River
piranhas. Oh, my God. The stipulation was brutal
and simple. The first wrestler to be fully submerged
into the tank for 10 consecutive seconds loses
the match. Wait, hold on. You mean literal live
piranhas? Live piranhas. Not rubber props, not
a magic trick. No completely real live piranhas.
And yes, a wrestler was eventually dunked inside
that tank to end the match. That is just beyond
belief. But, you know, it challenges our fundamental
assumptions about the entire industry. It raises
an important question. Why go to these extremes?
Right. Why subject yourself to that? Well, the
most common refrain from critics throughout history
is wrestling is fake. Sure. You hear that all
the time. The death match is the subculture's
violent, visceral response to that accusation.
It provides an unforgettable spectacle that deliberately
destroys the line between scripted entertainment
and genuine terrifying pain. Because you cannot
fake a laceration from a fluorescent light tube.
Exactly. You cannot fake the panic of being shoved
into a tank of piranhas. It's a grim exploration
of how far human beings will go to prove their
authenticity. when traditional holds no longer
captivate a specific bloodthirsty demographic.
Man, so what does this all mean when we flip
the coin? Because professional wrestling isn't
purely about danger and pain. No, definitely
not. A huge chunk of it is also incredibly goofy
and surreal. Let's shift gears to the lighter,
completely absurd side of wrestling logic. The
comedy matches. I want to talk about the object
on a pole match. The premise here is simple.
You put an item on a pole in the corner of the
room, and the first wrestler to climb up and
retrieve it can use it as a weapon. A pretty
standard setup. Right. But World Championship
Wrestling, or WCW, took this to insane extremes
in the late 90s. Wait, we need to pause there
for a second. As a storytelling device, how does
replacing a traditional weapon like a steel chair
with completely random objects actually serve
the plot? It doesn't. It sounds completely counterproductive
to taking the athletes seriously. It totally
was counterproductive. But you have to understand
the context of the Monday Night Wars. Right,
the ratings battle. WCW was in a desperate weekly
television ratings battle against WWE. They were
throwing absolutely everything at the wall to
see what would keep viewers from changing the
channel. So they moved away from weapons. And
started putting absurd storyline payoffs on the
poll instead. We are talking about the infamous
Viagra on a pole match. Wow. Or the absolutely
legendary Judy Bagwell on a forklift match. A
forklift? Yes. A wrestler's actual mother, Judy
Bagwell, was strapped to a chair and suspended
high above the ring on a piece of heavy construction
equipment. That is unbelievable. And the winner
got to rescue her. The desperation for ratings
didn't stop there either. We have matches based
around weird substances and pure humiliation.
Right, the substance matches. held a mimosa mayhem
match where the only way to win was to physically
dunk your opponent into a giant custom -built
vat of champagne and orange juice. And WWE had
the hog pen match. Yeah. Which was fought on
a farm set in an actual pen filled with deep
mud and real pig excrement. Disgusting. But these
matches tap into a very different kind of audience
desire. Schadenfreude. The joy of seeing someone
arrogant get publicly humiliated. Exactly. In
American wrestling, this almost always takes
a comedic, gross -out form. It's the slapstick
comedy of the sport. You have the loser wears
a chicken soup match or the kiss my foot match.
Classic playground humiliation. Our personal
favorite for pure unadulterated absurdity, the
crybaby match. Oh no. The loser of this match
was forced to literally wear a giant adult diaper.
have baby powder applied to them, and drink milk
from a baby bottle in the middle of the ring
while the crowd laughed. You know, this raises
an absolutely fascinating point about cultural
context. How so? While American wrestling uses
these goofy humiliation tactics for a quick laugh,
if we travel to Mexico and look at Lucha Libre,
we see something entirely different. Okay, let's
talk about Mexico. In Lucha Libre, they have
a match type called luchas de apuestas, which
translates to gambling fights. This is where
masked wrestlers wager their masks against one
another. Right. The classic mask versus mask
match. I feel like we see masks in American wrestling
as just cool merchandising tools. And in American
wrestling, yes, it is basically just merchandise.
But you have to understand that in Mexico, a
luchador's mask is practically a religious artifact.
It's that serious. It is sacred heritage. Losing
a mask is not a comedy routine involving a diaper.
It is the highest. possible stakes a performer
can face wow it is a profound cultural and professional
disgrace when a mexican wrestler loses a mask
match they must unmask in the center of the ring
right there in front of everyone often their
real name their hometown and their personal information
is published in the newspapers for the very first
time They can never, ever wrestle under that
mask persona again. That is heavy. It really
shows you how the concept of losing face varies
wildly depending on the culture you're standing
in. Definitely. In one context, humiliation is
wearing a chicken suit for laughs. In another,
it is the solemn, heartbreaking loss of a secret
identity you have fiercely protected for your
entire career. That contrast is so stark and
it really elevates the whole art form when you
view it through that cultural lens. It really
does. So as we wrap up this deep dive, I want
to pull all these wild threads together for you.
We have traveled from 1930s chicken wire to bamboo
cages. From grappling on moving bullet trains
to dodging flesh -eating piranhas. And we've
seen everything from baby diapers to sacred career
-ending masks. The big picture here, the real
takeaway from this encyclopedia of stipulations,
is that professional wrestling match types are
essentially a funhouse mirror of human psychology.
A funhouse mirror. I like that. Whether it's
the profound cultural weight of a mask versus
mask wager in Mexico, the breathtaking athletic
stunt work required in a ladder match, or the
sheer chaotic lunacy of fighting in a boiler
room with exposed steam pipes. They all share
a common thread. Yes, they all rely on our fundamental
human desires. They tap into our need for grand
spectacle, our craving for clear narrative closure
to complex conflicts, and as we discussed with
the steel cages, our relentless demand for constant
sensory escalation. I really want you to think
about that the next time you sit down to watch
any piece of media. Whether you're watching a
massive Hollywood blockbuster action movie, a
tense prestige drama, or even a trashy reality
TV show, pay close attention to the environment.
Look at how the space is used. Exactly. Ask yourself
how the environment is dictating the story. Is
the setting designed to make the characters feel
claustrophobic like a locked cage? Or is the
location designed to escalate their conflict
like a gritty boiler room? Because the techniques
wrestling uses to manipulate our emotions through
these bizarre gimmick matches are the exact same
tools used by every director and storyteller
on screen. It's entirely about matching the physical
space to the emotional stakes of the narrative.
When the hatred between two characters reaches
a boiling point, a standard 20 by 20 ring is
simply no longer big enough to contain it. Beautifully
said. And that leaves us with one final lingering
question for you to ponder as you go about your
day. Let's hear it. If professional wrestling
has spent the last century constantly inventing
new, wilder ways to simulate human conflict,
evolving from basic mats to bamboo cages to speeding
trains to literal vats of piranhas, What does
that say about us? That is the real question.
What does that say about our insatiable appetite
as consumers for increasingly extreme, novel,
or dangerous forms of entertainment? Where exactly
is the line between compelling storytelling and
pure sensory overload? And as an audience, will
we ever actually cross it? Something to mull
over. Thank you so much for taking this deep
dive with us and we'll catch you next time.