If you’re the kind of person who looks at a man with a nailed board named “Janice,” a face like a horror movie villain, and thinks, “I bet he majored in Sports Administration,” then congratulations—you understand Abyss.
For over a decade and a half, Christopher Joseph Park—the 6’8″, 350-pound behemoth better known as Abyss—terrorized rings across the globe, dragged bodies through tacks and barbed wire, and still somehow managed to graduate with two degrees. Behind the mask was a man with the kind of educational résumé you’d expect from a football coach, not someone routinely being powerbombed through flaming tables. But that was Abyss. A contradiction. A contradiction with a chain.
Beauty and the Barbed Wire
When TNA Wrestling (now Impact) was the ambitious younger sibling of the pro wrestling world, Abyss was its answer to The Undertaker—only louder, bloodier, and significantly more fond of thumbtacks. He made his official debut for TNA in 2003 and quickly cemented himself as the promotion’s sadistic cornerstone. Think Kane with a darker sense of humor, or a Michael Myers who occasionally screamed promos into the void.
But Abyss wasn’t just a walking horror show. He was TNA’s longest-tenured original, a Grand Slam Champion, and the fourth wrestler to complete their version of the Triple Crown. He fought everyone—Sting, Kurt Angle, AJ Styles, Samoa Joe—and often beat them senseless. His matches were violent poems, usually ending in someone getting stabbed in the chest by a piece of furniture.
Janice: The Weapon of Motherly Affection
Abyss didn’t just bring chaos—he brought creativity. While other wrestlers came to the ring with chairs, bats, or ladders, Abyss introduced us to Janice, a two-by-four studded with nails and presumably forged in the backroom of a Cenobite convention.
Named after his “mother” in storyline (naturally), Janice wasn’t a weapon—it was a mission statement. It was the kind of thing that made even ECW fans clutch their pearls. And yet, it was deployed with gleeful regularity. Abyss would hoist it high, a deranged lumberjack swinging justice—or at least orthopedic surgery—down on his opponent’s spine.
Joseph Park: The Legal Monster
In one of wrestling’s strangest but somehow endearing storylines, Abyss removed his mask in 2012 and reintroduced himself as Joseph Park, a mild-mannered attorney who “had never wrestled before” but was coincidentally the exact height, weight, and shape of his missing “brother” Abyss. You’d think the fact that Joseph had Abyss’s face might’ve raised questions, but in the wonderfully stupid logic of pro wrestling, everyone just rolled with it.
Joseph Park became a cult favorite—a bumbling, good-hearted dope who bled at the sight of his own blood, which, hilariously, would trigger a transformation into the very monster he was searching for. It was part comedy, part horror, and 100% the kind of long-term storytelling wrestling rarely commits to anymore.
The Man Behind the Mask
Outside the ropes, Chris Park was a company man. He stayed loyal to TNA through their many identity crises, heel turns, and questionable booking decisions. While others jumped ship to WWE or AEW, Abyss remained the devil they knew.
He turned down a WWE contract at one point—a choice that might baffle outsiders, but made perfect sense for a man who seemed genuinely invested in building something outside of Stamford’s billion-dollar bubble. Park believed in TNA, even when it stapled a storyline to his forehead and lit it on fire.
Hall of Pain
Abyss’s wrestling style was less “technical showcase” and more “chainsaw sculpture with a side of dental trauma.” Monster’s Ball, Barbed Wire Massacre, Full Metal Mayhem—he helped define TNA’s signature hardcore matches, usually while bleeding and screaming like a Lovecraftian tax auditor.
And let’s be honest: nobody took a thumbtack bump like Abyss. Not Mick Foley. Not Terry Funk. Abyss was a man who looked at 10,000 tacks, rolled up his sleeves, and said, “Better make it 12,000.” You don’t just wrestle in that environment—you survive it. You swim in pain and occasionally use it to pin AJ Styles.
His Brother’s Keeper
The evolution from Abyss to Joseph Park and back again was pro wrestling’s answer to Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde—except both characters were employed by the same company, had legal degrees, and occasionally tagged with Hulk Hogan. The dual persona gimmick gave Park a chance to showcase something rarely seen under the mask: range.
Chris Park could be terrifying, hilarious, tragic, and absurd—sometimes all in the same segment. As Joseph, he evoked sympathy. As Abyss, he evoked an OSHA violation. Together, they were one of wrestling’s most unique identities.
Fade to Black Hole Slam
In 2019, after 17 years of violence, mask-ripping, and monster’s balls (yes, that’s what they were called), Abyss finally unchained himself from in-ring action. He was inducted into the Impact Wrestling Hall of Fame in 2018 by longtime on-screen tormentor Father James Mitchell—a fitting, if ominous, way to close the casket.
Today, Chris Park works behind the scenes for WWE as a producer. Fewer thumbtacks, more travel insurance. He’s traded Janice for spreadsheets and headsets, helping the next generation of talent chase their own monstrous legacies.
The Monster Lives
There may never be another Abyss. Not because wrestlers won’t wear masks, or hit each other with nails, or bleed in front of sobbing children—but because few performers can take a character so drenched in violence and imbue it with pathos, history, and yes, humor.
Abyss wasn’t just a monster. He was a mirror. The kind that stares back at you. And maybe, just maybe, stabs you with a plank of wood on live television.