In a side-street business park in Butler, a new It girl steps into a wrestling ring.
“Let me introduce to you, she is the diamond standard, please welcome Asia Luxe,” an announcer bellows to a cheering crowd in a dimly lit room.
Shay Spears, who uses the wrestling gimmick ‘Asia Luxe’, describes her character as “conceited, spoiled, and always gets what she wants.” She’s a part of House of Headlocks’ show ‘DISSENSION,’ featuring multiple wrestling matches featuring personas — or gimmicks — including a professor fighting a sentient social media default avatar, a six-man scramble including a two-man fire department, and a Lake Michigan pirate facing off against a Canadian trainer who doubles as a wrestling commentator — all ready to hash out differences through piledrives and double-leg takedowns.
Founded in 2021, House of Headlocks is a wrestling school aimed at training new wrestlers to safely perform moves, build their characters and storylines, and teach the business side of wrestling. They also put on events for spectators to hoot and holler as budding wrestlers develop their craft.
Spears is one of over a dozen wrestlers in the program, coming to House of Headlocks about a year ago. She says she didn’t always feel welcome at other schools, but so far she’s felt at home at house of Headlocks.
“There’s no separate groups or cliques, no one is in a corner left out,” Spears says. “No one feels like they can’t do it because everyone’s pushing each other.”
For Eddie Brown, the founder and owner of House of Headlocks, this is a glowing review that represents decades of dreams in the making.
“Me training these kids, them doing their own thing and coming back to me for [feedback], I love that,” Brown says. “I love all of it.”
Why House of Headlocks was founded
When he was not watching wrestling as a child, Brown was trying out moves or betting quarters on wrestling matches with his friends. Decades later, he still remembers his reaction when it looked like neither Bret Hart or Shawn Michaels would win their classic 1996 ‘Iron Man’ match.
“Even right now the memories make me so happy, I just remember being entangled in all that emotion,” Brown says.
As he grew into adulthood, Brown felt wrestling wasn’t realistic to pursue and “retired” in college. After a buddy brought him to an event, he took up the gimmick Xavier “the baddest man alive” Mustafa. He’d wrestle under that gimmick for a couple decades until his body pushed him to coaching.
“I can’t do this for another 20-30 years, my body physically is not going to allow me to do so,” Brown says. “But I want to help train the next generation, I want to leave my legacy here when I’m gone.”
While there are a few choices of wrestling schools in Wisconsin, Brown noticed that while new wrestlers were often getting pushed out of opportunities. There were many people like Brown who grew up watching wrestling and wanted to chase a dream, so opportunities were competitive and gigs often went to more experienced wrestlers.
“We remember when we started out, there were not a lot of places for us to wrestle because the wrestling business was not too welcoming to new people. Everyone was fighting for their spot and didn’t really want new guys around,” Brown says.
Partly because he would focus on new wrestlers training from scratch, Brown needed House of Headlocks to be a welcoming place. Today, he says he’s proud of the supportive culture where anyone who loves wrestling can fit in.
“We have a very diverse roster [...] we have a lot of people of color,” Brown says. “Anybody that comes here gets an opportunity, nobody feels out of place or disrespected. It’s a family.”
But to build this atmosphere, Brown needed help. So he reached out to wrestling friends, like Rahkey KOE, to help train new recruits.
'I was a person now'
Rahkey KOE is a living example of how wrestling can build an accepting atmosphere in Milwaukee. Shortly after meeting Brown in the mid-2000s, Rahkey took on the persona - or ‘gimmick’ - Rahkey Kisses.
“The gimmick was he’s gay, but not flamboyant,” Rahkey says. “People tried to coach me to lift my foot up and cock my wrist, but I’m like no - my character is very gay and if you question him about it he’ll punch you in the mouth and then he’ll maybe skip off.”
Rahkey said his gimmick was a hit in the LGBTQ+ community in the mid-2000s, which he says was because it confronted stereotypes with authenticity. Soon Rahkey Kisses was carrying banners at the Brady Street Festival and performing at PrideFest.
“I’m not saying I was the face of the LGBTQ community, but I was accepted not knowing what my actual sexual preference was [...] because I wasn’t just someone that loses to everything and gets beat up,” Rahkey says. “I never set out to do that, I wasn’t trying to represent anyone other than me as a wrestler.”
But Rahkey soon noticed the line of where the gimmick ends and the person begins was questioned by some of Rahkey’s friends and family.
“One of my family members was like ‘are you coming out?’” Rahkey says. “They had all these questions but I had to tell them ‘this is my persona.’ Yes I have a girlfriend and yes I have a daughter, but please respect the gimmick.”
This ambiguity between real person and gimmick is where the magic happens for wrestlers like Rahkey. It’s the opportunity to play with identity, to be accepted as yourself or inhabit someone else entirely. While the gimmick may be made for the ring, it can have real power outside of it.
That magic is why Rahkey came out of retirement to be a trainer at House of Headlocks.
“If you don’t live some part of this character you portray, if you don’t let yourself become it, no one cares,” Rahkey says. “When people were relating, it didn’t matter if I won or lost, I was a person now.”
