There’s a certain poetry in being punched for a living. For William Reid Eadie — high school coach, amateur shot-putter, and eventual wrestling enigma — the squared circle wasn’t just a stage. It was a sanctuary, a junkyard opera where you could scream, bleed, and still come out the other side wearing a belt or a mask or both.
Born in Brownsville, Pennsylvania in 1947, Eadie looked like the kind of guy who grew up fighting over jukebox picks and scraping his knuckles on locker-room doors. A small-town athlete who could’ve settled into a quiet life as a gym teacher, he was already toeing the line between straight-laced and street tough. But fate — or maybe just a wandering Mongol named Geeto — had other ideas.
A Mask, A Name, A Goddamn Legacy
Eadie first dipped a toe into the murky waters of professional wrestling in 1972, debuting as “The Paramedic,” which sounded less like a wrestler and more like the guy picking up the pieces afterward. But by the time he became “Bolo Mongol,” the new partner of Geeto Mongol in Pittsburgh and Detroit, it was clear this man wasn’t here to stitch up wounds — he was here to cause them.
The name that stuck like blood on canvas was “The Masked Superstar.” Created in the smoky backrooms of Mid-Atlantic Championship Wrestling, it was a character wrapped in mystery, muscle, and menace. Eadie was no flippy-do, tights-wearing gymnast. He was 6’3″, 300 pounds of calculated violence — a blue-collar philosopher of pain who could sell you a cobra clutch with the same sincerity as a schoolteacher handing out detentions.
He told the world he was an Olympic champion. Promoters backed the claim. Who was gonna argue? This guy looked like he bench-pressed Buick engines for breakfast and asked for seconds.
Wrestling’s Iron Poet of Punishment
In Georgia, in Florida, in the cracked neon heart of the territories, Eadie fought everyone from Tommy Rich to Paul Orndorff, Stan Hansen to André the Giant. And yes, he body-slammed André — back when doing that meant something, before it became just another footnote in Hogan’s autobiography.
And the man didn’t just wrestle — he endured. Hour-long cage matches with Blackjack Mulligan. A series of twelveninety-minute steel cage beatings. That’s not a match — that’s a war crime stretched over multiple weekends. You could feel your soul peel off like old wallpaper just reading the match card.
But Eadie wasn’t chasing stardom. He was chasing craft. He treated wrestling like Bukowski treated the typewriter — with a cocktail of contempt, obsession, and undeniable love.
From Mask to Mayhem: Enter Demolition
By 1987, the world had changed. Vince McMahon was carving the industry into something sleeker, louder, shinier. Hulkamania was a neon-colored steroid commercial with entrance music. And Eadie, never one to play the fool, pulled the ultimate gimmick pivot: Demolition.
Gone was the mysterious Masked Superstar. In his place stood Ax — a snarling, face-painted gladiator clad in black leather and studded armor. He looked like he crawled out of a Mad Max sequel too violent to air. Teaming with Smash (Barry Darsow, after the forgettable Moondog Rex experiment), Demolition became the WWF’s version of a steel-toed boot to the face of tradition.
They weren’t graceful. They weren’t beautiful. They were violence with entrance music — brawlers with zero chill and infinite cardio. They stomped. They pounded. They howled. Kids loved ’em. Adults feared ’em. Vince cashed the checks.
Demolition held the WWF Tag Team Championship three times. That’s not just longevity — that’s dominance. They weren’t some flash-in-the-pan gimmick act. They were the goddamn concrete slab other teams had to drag through to earn respect.
Jake Bullet and the Pizza Hut Years
In 1989, Eadie had a brief flirtation with Hollywood, playing “Jake Bullet” in No Holds Barred, a film that made Over the Top look like Citizen Kane. He also starred in Pizza Hut commercials — because nothing says family dinner like two musclebound maniacs in war paint shilling for personal pan pizzas.
Behind the scenes, life wasn’t always sunshine and piledrivers. Rumors of heart issues swirled, later chalked up to a shellfish allergy in Japan. He was phased out. Crush came in. Demolition mutated from duo to trio, then disbanded like an aging rock band that played one too many county fairs.
His final WWF match came in 1990. No parade. No ceremony. Just the lights going out on one of wrestling’s most enduring chameleons.
The Indie Circuit and One Last Ride
But you can’t kill a man like Eadie with a retirement announcement. You can only delay the encore.
Through the ’90s and 2000s, he wrestled in places that smelled like stale beer and regret — the smoky bingo halls and dusty civic centers where real fans still believe, even when the house lights flicker.
He teamed with “Canadian Giant,” then with “Blast,” then reunited with Smash. They hit the indie circuit like grizzled old gunfighters, trading nostalgia for bruises. They showed up in Chikara, KSWA, Full Impact Pro — and even took on The Powers of Pain in a time warp match that made older fans tear up and younger fans Google everyone involved.
He finally hung it up in 2017 — at the age of 69 — after one last tag match in Georgia. A victory, fittingly. Because even when he lost, Eadie won.
A Skull Beneath the Mask
Outside the ring, he was a husband, a father, a goddamn decent man. His old friend André the Giant was the godfather to his daughters. He gave back to charity. He made his old gear available to fans to support a children’s hospital. He sued the WWE over traumatic brain injuries — a fight he didn’t win, but one he swung for with the same tenacity he brought to the ring.
William Eadie wasn’t just a masked man. He was the man beneath the mask. A teacher. A wrestler. A demolition expert in metaphor and mayhem.
He wore a thousand faces and left a trail of bruised chests, broken ropes, and baritone promos. The Masked Superstar. Ax. Jake Bullet. Whatever you called him, he answered the bell. Every time.
He didn’t just work the territories — he marked them. With sweat, steel, and that voice like sandpaper dragged across a coffin lid.
A working-class hero with a lunchpail full of hurt. A Bukowski poem in headgear and boots.
And dammit — he made it all look real.