In the pantheon of pro wrestling’s stubborn survivors, Kaori Yoneyama isn’t just the woman who refused to die—she’s the woman who faked her funeral, crashed her own wake, and demanded another match.
Born in 1981, debuted in 1999, retired in 2011, unretired in 2011—Kaori Yoneyama is a contradiction wrapped in high-speed offense and a never-ending costume party. At 5’1”, she’s not the biggest woman in the ring, but she might be the slipperiest. The kind of wrestler who’d hit you with a moonsault and then laugh like a drunk clown falling off a bicycle. Part martial artist, part carnival barker, and all chaos, Yoneyama didn’t just walk away from the rules of wrestling—she pantsed them, pie-faced them with confetti, and called it art.
Act I: Pain, Gold, and Bloodied Eyeballs
Yoneyama’s debut was not so much a beginning as a baptism in blood. Her first match against Kayoko Haruyama in 1999 ended with a busted eye and a long pause. Most rookies take their lumps. Kaori took hers straight to the optic nerve. When she came back, she didn’t ease in. She came back like she had a grudge against the canvas itself. Over the next few years, Yoneyama became a title-collecting gremlin, hoarding hardware like it was Halloween candy.
JWP Junior Champion? Check. BJW Women’s Champion? Of course. AJW Champion and Tag Champ? Hell yes. She didn’t discriminate—if it had gold and a few letters slapped on it, she’d grab it. Then came the tag titles—five-time JWP Tag Team Champion, three-time Daily Sports Tag Champion. The kind of resume that reads like a kleptomaniac breaking into a trophy shop.
And it wasn’t just the wins—it was the absurdity. In 2007, she entered a battle royal as a Chinese gimmick named “Yoneyamakao Lee,” representing a fake fed called New Beijing Pro Wrestling. She wore the absurdity like a crown, and fans ate it up like sake-soaked soba.
Act II: The Woman Who Cried Retirement
By 2011, Yoneyama had done everything. She had climbed every mountain, screamed into every mic, pinned every girl. So, like a true wrestler, she announced her retirement with all the solemnity of a Catholic funeral. There were tears. There were streamers. There were American tour dates. And then… she changed her mind.
At her “retirement” show, the ten-bell salute barely finished ringing before she grabbed the mic and said, “Screw it, I’m staying.”
It was the biggest heel turn of the year. Fans felt cheated. Promoters were furious. JWP stripped her of every belt, every booking, every ounce of credibility—and Yoneyama? She just shrugged, slapped on another mask, and wrestled the next week. Not all heroes wear capes. Some wear glitter, clown noses, and a middle finger aimed at tradition.
Act III: Wrestling’s Chameleon Queen
If Kaori Yoneyama has a superpower, it’s identity theft.
She has wrestled under more names than most criminals. Gokigen Death. Yoneyamakao Lee. Death Yama-san. Happy Pumpkin. And let’s not forget “Gokigen Desu,” a name that sounds like a children’s cartoon and hits like a pissed-off meteor.
You never know who she’s going to be when the music hits. One night she’s in a lucha mask dancing to cheerful techno. The next, she’s in a deathmatch bleeding from the forehead like a samurai on his last breath. She’s part Joshi legend, part children’s entertainer, and part street magician who somehow manages to confuse, amuse, and bruise every opponent unlucky enough to share the ring.
But beneath the chaos is a technician—one who can move with lightning speed, chain wrestle like a veteran catch artist, and transition from slapstick to submission in the blink of a mascara-smeared eye.
Act IV: Stardom’s Anarchist, YMZ’s Queen
Stardom tried to tame her. Good luck.
They handed her belts—the High Speed Championship, the Artist of Stardom trios titles—and she handed them back in a flurry of dance moves and shoulder rolls. When she wasn’t teaming with Mayu Iwatani, she was elbow-dropping teenagers in gauntlet matches. She joined Tokyo Cyber Squad, Stars, Oedo Tai—more stables than a Kentucky Derby.
Some wrestlers are defined by their faction. Yoneyama treated factions like one-night stands. She’d take the photo, do the pose, and then disappear into a cloud of glitter and debt.
And then there’s YMZ—her own indie wrestling circus, half promotion, half fever dream. Think of it as pro wrestling’s answer to punk rock backyard theater. No rules. No ring ropes. Just vibes, violence, and cheap beer. It’s the promotion where Yoneyama reigns not as a queen, but as a benevolent chaos god.
Act V: Death, Laughter, and the Longevity Scam
Kaori Yoneyama should not still be going. Not in 2025. Not after twenty-five years of moonsaults, hard bumps, and reinvention so relentless it’s borderline pathological. Her body should be in a museum. Her knees should’ve filed for divorce. But there she is—running ropes, pinning rookies, and laughing in the face of Father Time like she owes him money and knows he can’t collect.
She doesn’t just wrestle. She infects the ring with anarchy. She is joy and menace. A paint-splattered chainsaw in a tutu. A deathmatch queen who’ll make you laugh mid-suplex, then roll you up for the win.
She never cared about tradition. She cared about the art of it—the chaos, the absurdity, the living theater of it all. She isn’t the greatest because she held the most titles or won the biggest matches. She’s the greatest because she made wrestling her playground, her canvas, her private joke shared with a hundred thousand fans who got the punchline.
The Final Fall (That’ll Never Come)
Kaori Yoneyama doesn’t get a Hall of Fame moment. She’s not riding off into the sunset on a stallion of legacy and champagne. No. When she finally goes out, it’ll be on a slip, not a bang. A banana peel. A flash roll-up. Maybe a pie to the face.
But don’t count on it.
Because if history’s taught us anything, it’s this: you can count three, but Yoneyama will kick out. Again. And again. And again.
After all, death is just a gimmick.