Before he was the villain with the “Oriental Tool” (a name that should have come with a disclaimer and a stiff drink), Brian Adias was just Brian Gower—the all-American kid with a shot put in one hand and a degree from the University of Texas at Arlington in the other. Ranked fifth nationally in high school in 1978 and a four-time Southland Conference champion, Gower wasn’t born in a carnival trailer or raised on carny brawls. He wasn’t chasing a dream in spandex so much as pivoting from a respectable athletic pedigree into the wild, greasy glory of Texas professional wrestling.
And why? Because of the Von Erichs. Because of that mystic pull of the squared circle in Dallas. Because Texas in the early ’80s was a land where men in fringe boots could make teenagers scream louder than rockstars and baptize themselves weekly in the blood of their brothers.
The Friend Who Lived Long Enough to Become the Enemy
Gower was a high school classmate of Kerry Von Erich. Imagine that for a second. You’re tossing shot puts while Kerry’s busy bench-pressing the weight of future tragedy. You get invited to family BBQs, watch David and Kevin suplex each other into folding chairs, and slowly drink the Von Erich Kool-Aid—until you’re not just sipping, you’re swimming in it.
Trained by Fritz himself, Brian was practically adopted into the clan—sort of like a loyal family retriever with feathered hair. And he played the part for years. Tag matches with Kerry. Running interference. Babyface smiles so bright they could blind the Sportatorium crowd.
But loyalty in wrestling is like suntan lotion in a thunderstorm—it only lasts so long.
The Heel Turn That Ripped Texas in Half
In 1986, something inside Adias snapped—or maybe he just got tired of playing third fiddle in a band where every instrument was named Von Erich. During Mike Von Erich’s emotional return from a near-fatal case of Toxic Shock Syndrome, Adias saw his opportunity: beat a brother when he’s down, and you get a spotlight that no clean win could ever shine.
He didn’t just turn heel. He turned with venom. Declaring he was done living in the Von Erich shadow, he aligned with Al Madril—creating a team so smarmy and self-righteous they made televangelists look humble. The “Duo of Doom,” they called themselves. And with that name came the long knives.
The infamous angle: Kerry, still hobbling on crutches from his 1986 motorcycle accident, tried to talk some sense into his old buddy. Adias let Madril cave in Kerry’s ribs with those crutches like he was pounding a tent stake into the cold Texas dirt. And Brian just watched. Cool. Calm. Stone-faced. The friendship? The family loyalty? All tossed aside like a used ring robe.
The Oriental Tool and Other Sins
With a heel turn comes reinvention, and Adias did it the only way a white guy in 1987 could—by stealing a move and giving it a vaguely racist name. His finishing move, “The Oriental Tool,” was a take on Terry Gordy’s Oriental Spike. But instead of the viciousness of Gordy, Adias delivered it with the methodical confidence of a man who’d studied anatomy in kinesiology class.
He wasn’t a blood-and-guts brawler. He didn’t need chains or fluorescent lightbulbs. He was the villain who still had a clean part in his hair and could do calculus in the locker room. He was a heel by choice, not chaos. That’s what made it sting more. He was the kind of bad guy who’d break your leg and send flowers the next day with a note: “Should’ve stayed out of the ring, champ.”
From Glory to Wild West to Real Estate
Adias rode that heel turn all the way through the summer of 1987, collecting gold and bad karma like he was starting a cursed trophy case. Alongside Madril, he picked up the World Class Tag Team Championships and rode the feud with the Von Erichs into the molten core of Texas wrestling mythology.
But like most who played heel in a territory built on heroic tragedy, time ran out. The angle cooled. The fans moved on. World Class faded into history. Adias became a babyface again in the upstart Global Wrestling Federation in 1991, trying to rinse the heel stink off like a televangelist confessing on cable. But it never quite hit the same. You can bleach the trunks, but the crowd remembers the crutch shots.
Eventually, Adias faded from the ring—wrestling sporadically before hanging up the boots entirely in 2000. These days he sells real estate with a partner named Chad in a business called NTXHOMEZONE, because of course he does. What else do you do after a decade of feuds, blood, betrayals, and gimmicks named after spike injuries?
Legacy: The Forgotten Heel of a Golden Era
In the Bible of World Class Championship Wrestling, Brian Adias is a footnote written in heel ink. He never had the tragic ending of the Von Erichs, nor the over-the-top charisma of Freebirds or the mystique of a Bruiser Brody. He was a role player, a technician, the Judas who kissed Kerry on the cheek before letting Madril break him in two.
But his story matters. Because Adias represented what made the territory system tick: men chasing glory, breaking alliances, and rewriting their characters in real time, for real stakes. He was proof that even a friend of the Von Erichs—schooled by Fritz, loyal to the bone—could sell his soul for a little spotlight and a tag belt.
And for a brief, glorious stretch, he made it work. The crowd booed. The faces bled. The Oriental Tool struck again.
Then the lights went out, the fans went home, and the heel turned homeowner.
Brian Adias: not the best, not the worst—but in the twisted morality play of ’80s Texas wrestling, he was the friend who dared to betray the golden family. And for that, he carved out his own little bloody corner in history.