If you ever found yourself down an alley in Duisburg at night and thought the shape in the leather jacket was just another tourist looking for schnitzel—you’ve never met Killer Kelly. Born Raquel Lourenço on March 21, 1992, in Lisbon, she’s the human equivalent of a barbed wire kiss: unexpected, cutting, and a little addictive. Portugal didn’t know what to do with her. So she packed her gear, her pain tolerance, and her psychotic glare and exported herself to the world.
Wrestling isn’t her gimmick. It’s her currency. Her passport stamp. Her love letter soaked in sweat and maybe a little blood.
The Evolution of Kelly: From Lisbon to Limbs in Lockdown
Kelly’s journey began in Wrestling Portugal, the kind of place where you learn to fall on hardwood and thank them for it. By 2017, she was making the European indie rounds, stacking losses like unpaid parking tickets—Camille, Alpha Female, Viper—but Kelly wasn’t there to win. Not yet. She was there to bleed and learn, and she did both.
When she first popped up in Westside Xtreme Wrestling (wXw), Germany’s answer to “What if this punk bar booked a wrestling show?”, people underestimated her. Until she became the inaugural wXw Women’s Champion. Then they just feared her.
Wrestling like she had something to prove and everything to burn, Kelly didn’t just wrestle matches—she made them feel like bar fights held inside a psych ward. Her matches weren’t five-star classics. They were violent poems. Haikus of headbutts.
WWE: Where Killer Kelly Got De-fanged (Briefly)
In 2018, WWE scouted her for NXT UK, thinking maybe they’d found the next buzz-cut antihero. And for a minute, they had her. But WWE’s production-polished style never quite knew what to do with Killer Kelly. They saw “metal” and tried to give her pop music. She wrestled Meiko Satomura in the Mae Young Classic—one of the hardest matches of her life, and that’s saying something for a woman who once wrestled in a dog collar. But soon enough, they did what WWE always does with people who don’t fit their mold: they let her go.
Cue the murder smile. Because freedom is where Killer Kelly thrives.
Impact/TNA: Where the Chain Wasn’t Just a Prop
You know you’re watching Killer Kelly when someone’s turning purple and the ref’s begging her to let go. She made her Impact Wrestling debut in 2020—flashing that grin and snapping on the Killer Clutch like a python with a grudge. Her earliest work was with Renee Michelle, and despite losses, Kelly was clearly there for the long game.
By 2022, she was back with a vengeance—literally choking out Tasha Steelz with a steel chain in her first few weeks. That chain would become as synonymous with her as face paint was to the Road Warriors. It wasn’t a prop. It was a statement.
MK Ultra: Tag Team Carnage with Masha Slamovich
Then came Masha Slamovich, a Siberian hurricane in human form. Pair her with Killer Kelly and what do you get? MK Ultra—a tag team so unhinged it made The Dudleys look like public school teachers. Together, they turned the Knockouts Tag Team Division into a demolition derby. Tables. Chains. Blood. More blood.
They were two women in black gear and darker intentions. Kelly once said, “We don’t want to win—we want to destroy.” And yet, they won. Twice. Two-time TNA Knockouts Tag Team Champions, and they did it with more violence than finesse. Their tag matches were not friendly contests. They were felony tapes.
The Return, the Blood, the Baby
While suplexing opponents into next week, Killer Kelly also managed to fall in love with Myron Reed, got pregnant, and had a daughter, Ruby, in November 2024. Somehow, the woman who once bloodied faces in Düsseldorf became a mom, a Twitch streamer, and a horror game connoisseur. She could cuddle her baby one minute and then headbutt you into oblivion the next. Range.
When she returned in June 2025, she walked straight into the path of former partner-turned-champion Masha Slamovich, and everyone watching immediately knew: this wasn’t going to end in a handshake. This was going to end in blood—probably both theirs.
The Violence is the Point
What sets Killer Kelly apart isn’t her win-loss record. It’s that every match feels like she might actually snap. She doesn’t wrestle to climb the rankings—she wrestles to exorcise something. Watching her is like watching a woman at war with herself, and you just happen to be in the blast zone.
Her wrestling isn’t about headlocks. It’s about head trauma. The screaming fans, the slow stalking between moves, the far-off look in her eyes like she’s somewhere else entirely. Maybe she is. Maybe she’s remembering her childhood in Portugal. Maybe she’s remembering how to take pain and turn it into spectacle.
She idolized Low Ki, Shibata, Asuka—people who kick like gunshots. But she also learned from the Gail Kims and Mickie Jameses of the world that presentation matters. And she presents herself like your worst nightmare wrapped in fishnets and fury.
Killer Kelly Isn’t a Character—She’s a Genre
If wrestling has its genres—comedy, technical, high-flyer—Killer Kelly is in the slasher film section. Her matches are moody, tense, and always end in some form of trauma. She doesn’t care if you like her. She’s not selling you a t-shirt. She’s selling you a nightmare.
And in a world of gimmicks and glowsticks, sometimes a nightmare is the most honest thing in the building.
