She entered the ring like a firecracker tossed into a beer-soaked bar—volatile, loud, and impossible to ignore.
They called her Major Gunns.
Not for her grappling. Not for her submissions. Not for any moonsault or lariat or technical hold.
No, Tylene Buck’s arsenal was different.
Camo bikini. California tan. A body sculpted by gym mirrors and swimsuit catalogs.
In the bombastic, attitude-soaked tail end of the 1990s, when pro wrestling was less sport and more circus, she arrived at center stage in World Championship Wrestling like a tequila shot in a room full of light beer.
This was no Cinderella story. This was a pin-up pulled into a shootout.
California Dream, Wrestling Nightmare
Born in Sacramento in 1972, Tylene Buck wasn’t raised in the dungeons of Calgary or the mid-south bingo halls where so many of her wrestling peers sharpened their steel. She came from tanning beds and trade shows.
Before the ring, there were bikinis. Fitness expos. Glamour shoots.
She looked like the kind of woman marketing execs stuffed into posters for protein shakes and Vegas pool parties. But wrestling came calling in the tailspin years of WCW—1999 to 2001—when they were willing to try anything.
They made her an “nWo Girl.” One of several models flanking the last gasps of a dying faction. She wore leather. Posed at ringside. Smiled on cue.
That didn’t last. Nothing in WCW did.
Enter Major Gunns
Repackaged in fatigues and attitude, Tylene Buck became Major Gunns, a campy, cleavage-first mascot for the Misfits in Action, a bizarre comedy faction led by “General Rection” (yes, really).
The gimmick walked a line somewhere between Army surplus and softcore satire. And in the hormone-fueled atmosphere of late-’90s wrestling, it clicked—cheap heat wrapped in lycra.
She slapped fans’ hands and saluted with a bounce. But then came the mud.
At New Blood Rising in 2000, Major Gunns was booked in a “R.O.T.C.” match—a Rip Off the Camo mud wrestling contest—against Miss Hancock (Stacy Keibler).
The match was pure spectacle: erotic, ridiculous, borderline satirical. It wasn’t about holds. It was about ratings.
Gunns won. But nobody remembers the winner.
They remember the mud.
They remember the moment when wrestling stopped pretending to be a sport and leaned harder into something else: shock value on pay-per-view.
The Turn: From Patriot to Traitor
In one of WCW’s last truly memorable heel turns, Major Gunns threw in the towel on behalf of her team leader, General Rection, costing him the U.S. Title against Lance Storm.
It was a betrayal scripted in slow motion. The American babe turning on her flag-waving comrades to join Team Canada—an ironic twist as potent as it was ridiculous.
Now a heel, Major Gunns ditched the star-spangled strut for rigid discipline. Storm, the no-nonsense technician, wouldn’t let her flaunt the goods anymore.
She stayed in Team Canada.
It was a fascinating attempt to push character development—this caricature of a woman forced into modesty—but the crowd wanted Major Gunns, not Sergeant Conservatism.
Eventually, the storylines fizzled. So did WCW.
She was released in February 2001, one of many casualties in the lead-up to WWE buying the company.
Her run, like the promotion itself, burned hot and brief.
After the Fire: XPW and the Descent into Adult Territory
After WCW folded, Tylene didn’t chase a WWE deal. She veered left, into Xtreme Pro Wrestling—the West Coast’s grittier, sleazier, bloodier cousin to ECW.
She aligned with The Sandman, who looked like your drunk uncle with a kendo stick.
Her main feud in XPW? Lizzy Borden—part valet, part adult actress, all chaos. Their catfights were less wrestling and more car wrecks with hair pulling.
From there, Buck drifted deeper into wrestling’s underworld.
She joined Double Trouble Wrestling—a fetish-driven niche promotion that lets fans customize matches. Want Tylene in a bikini match with hair-pulling rules? Done. Topless? No problem. Nude? Pay extra.
It was wrestling as commodity, made-to-order chaos.
Tylene Buck went from pay-per-view mud matches to crowd-funded topless slams.
From television lights to webcam glow.
The Other Side: Pornography and Cam Life
By 2005, she’d gone full adult. Under the name Brandi Wylde, she began filming scenes for Seymore Butts’ Lighthouse Talent Agency.
She appeared on cam sites like MyFreeCams, building a different kind of following—no less devoted, but entirely removed from the squared circle.
It wasn’t a fall so much as a transformation.
The wrestling industry had always valued her body more than her bump card. She just took control of the narrative.
For a woman whose in-ring career had been built on objectification, it was almost poetic.
If the business was going to sell her sex appeal, she’d damn well own the rights.
Legacy: A Flashbulb in a Fog of Chaos
Ask the average wrestling fan about Major Gunns and you’ll get chuckles, maybe an eye roll.
A punchline.
A symbol of WCW’s spiral into absurdity.
But look closer, and you’ll see something else:
A performer who knew her role, played it to the hilt, and owned every beat.
She didn’t revolutionize women’s wrestling. But she reflected the era better than most.
She was the flashing neon sign on wrestling’s Vegas strip: over-the-top, underdressed, and fully committed to the bit.
And in a world where the rules were written by carnies and shredded by chaos, that’s no small feat.
One Last Salute
Tylene Buck didn’t get a Hall of Fame ring.
No retirement speech. No farewell match.
She got a cam room and a loyal fanbase who remember the way she strutted into that mud pit in 2000 and owned it.
She was never Trish. Never Lita. Never Chyna.
She was Major Gunns—flawed, flashy, unforgettable.
The kind of character that only could’ve existed in that bizarre, beautiful, broken era of late-’90s wrestling.
And maybe, in her own way, she won something more valuable than titles.
Control.
Because when the final bell rang on her wrestling career, she didn’t fade.
She evolved.
And in this business, that’s as rare as gold.