There are wrestlers you remember for their championships. Others for their promos. And some—for better or worse—you remember because they once popped a child’s balloon with a cigar on national television.
Big Bully Busick, real name Nicholas Robert Busick, was that kind of wrestler.
Part 1920s steelworker, part cartoon villain, and entirely a product of the unpredictable chaos that was early ’90s WWF, Busick’s character never headlined a WrestleMania. He never needed to. He came in like a wrecking ball of herringbone and old-school misogyny, steamrolling enhancement talent in a turtleneck and bowler hat. He didn’t just lean into the gimmick—he body-slammed it into the pavement.
And he made us remember him.
A Steelworker with a Badge and a Bench Press
Before becoming one of the World Wrestling Federation’s most absurd creations (according to WWE themselves—#17 on their infamous list), Nick Busick was the real deal: an amateur wrestler, decorated powerlifter, and police officer by the age of 19. A native of Steubenville, Ohio, raised in Weirton, West Virginia, Busick was the blue-collar embodiment of every steel town’s pride and grit.
In the 1970s, he aimed to break Jim Williams’ bench press record of 635 lbs. He failed, but the ambition said everything. Strength wasn’t a gimmick. Busick was a legitimate powerhouse, no fancy nicknames needed.
In 1977, he debuted in professional wrestling and did what most newcomers did: lose. He was a jobber in the WWWFcircuit—enhancing stars with his rugged look and real-world toughness. His formal wrestling education? Nonexistent. “I learned in the ring,” he proudly stated. In an era of boots-on-the-ground ring education, Busick wasn’t cutting promos at wrestling schools—he was learning the hard way.
The Bully Is Born
Busick moonlighted as a wrestler while still donning the badge, but it was his transfer to the Atlanta Police Department in the 1980s that kickstarted his full evolution into the “Bully.” Jerry Blackwell gave him bookings, and Joe Pedicino gave him a gimmick: a caricature of an old-school steel mill blowhard, complete with derby, cigar, bushy handlebar mustache, and more attitude than airtime.
The Big Bully Busick character wasn’t meant to be subtle. He was a walking “before” photo in a 1950s anti-bullying PSA. And that was the point.
By 1991, Busick had a national stage.
WWF in 1991: Cigar Smoke and Count-Outs
The WWF run of Big Bully Busick was brief—July to November of 1991—but it was unforgettable. Under the tutelage of manager Harvey Wippleman, Busick debuted with an immediate heel mission: harass fans, intimidate opponents, and make sure ring announcer Mike McGuirk regretted showing up for work.
He’d beat up enhancement talent like Jim Powers and Koko B. Ware, all while sneering through his giant cigar. He threatened children, mocked women, and basically personified every human resources violation imaginable.
A minor feud with The Brooklyn Brawler gave him his only real storyline, a contest to determine “the real bully of the WWF”—a feud that lasted about as long as a scratch-off ticket.
He was slated for Survivor Series 1991, teaming with Skinner, Berzerker, and Col. Mustafa, but was quietly replaced by Hercules. No explanation. No sendoff. Just gone—like a loogie under Vince McMahon’s boot.
But in those four months, Busick left a bigger impact than many mid-carders who lasted years. You didn’t forget him, even if you wanted to.
After the Bell: Bodyguards, Bars, and MMA
Busick returned to the indies after his WWF departure, eventually retiring in 1995. But as he had done his whole life, retirement didn’t mean stillness.
He ran Big Bully Nutrition, sold sports bars, worked casino security, and even promoted MMA events in Ohio. Alongside Bill Eadie (a.k.a. Ax of Demolition), he worked as a bodyguard in Atlanta, protecting high rollers and collecting stories that could likely fill a shoot interview series on their own.
He also kept up with powerlifting, competing until 2015. Even in his 60s, the man could probably bench press half the Raw roster.
The Battle Beyond the Ring
Busick’s real fight came after the cheers stopped. In 2005, he suffered cardiac arrest while working out, only surviving thanks to a nearby defibrillator. In 2015, he was diagnosed with esophageal cancer, losing nearly 80 pounds through treatment. He beat it. Then came a brain tumor in 2017.
He fought that, too.
But in May 2018, Big Bully Busick passed away at age 63 in hospice care in Weirton—the same town that had shaped his fists and fueled his persona.
He left behind a wife of 32 years, Lorie, three children, and a legacy that didn’t require championship belts to be memorable. His son Branko pursued MMA, proving the Busick bulldog spirit didn’t die with the bowler hat.
Epilogue: A Mustache, A Cigar, A Legend
In 2012, WWE ranked Busick’s mustache among the Top 10 in company history. The following year, he was included in WWE’s “25 Most Absurd Wrestlers” list—a badge of honor, really. In 2015, he was inducted into the Keystone State Wrestling Alliance Hall of Fame.
Busick knew what he was. He wasn’t chasing five-star matches. He was a character, a throwback, a man who turned a simple stereotype into a walking sideshow—and made it work.
He popped balloons, scowled at grandmas, and squashed jobbers with old-school squats and shoulder tackles. He was the kind of guy you’d imagine getting thrown out of a bar in 1922 for winning a fight with a pool cue and a Pittsburgh accent.
He wasn’t a legend. But he was Big Bully Busick.
And in wrestling, sometimes that’s more than enough.