When you’re going to interview a man who has proudly built a professional reputation as a “butcher” and a “madman”, I suppose it’s natural to be a little nervous.
Larry Shreve, a.k.a “Abdullah the Butcher” and “The Madman from Sudan”, has spent his 50 year professional wrestling career spilling real blood in a fake sport, with a frenzy bordering on obsession. He has no idea how many times he has bled, or been bled upon during that time. But on the phone, the 70 year old Windsor, Ontario native was soft-spoken, even gentle.
At 30,000 feet in the air on my way to Atlanta, I pondered these strange contradictions, but I had no idea how strange Abdullah the Butcher would turn out to be.
Abdullah the Butcher House of Ribs and Chinese Food is a ramshackle barbecue joint, and a fitting shrine to the man with the bloodiest legacy in wrestling history. It’s frequented by meat-lovers and flies, with the mingled odours of fried chicken and sweat. The walls are lined with photos of Abdullah jabbing hapless, blood-soaked opponents with a large fork, his weapon of choice. You could have stuck a fork in my appetite too.
When we meet the man in the flesh, he seems a lot less fearsome, battle scars and all. He graciously welcomes us into his home, but can’t hoist his 360-plus pound frame out of his armchair. He suffers from a debilitating arthritic hip badly in need of replacement, but says that won’t happen until he loses at least a hundred pounds. Every so often, he groans in pain, and I feel sorry for him.
Yet, he is a dream interview, animated, candid and bizarre. For some reason, he insists on starting the interview as if I woke him up, and gives the camera his signature, wide-eyed madman stare. The permanent grooves on his head are a testament to a slave-like dedication to his bloody craft, deep scars that have served to send millions of fans home happy.
Get breaking National news
But it’s all entertainment, he says. He attaches a razor blade to his finger with tape and acts out his technique for getting “the juice” flowing. Only it’s no act. Seconds later, blood is dripping down his head, and I’m wondering whether to let the camera continue to capture this wonderfully graphic moment, or give him a tissue to mop up the mess.
Then he wants to demonstrate on me. “You’re not really going to cut me, right,” I ask, more than a little worried about what this unpredictable behemoth might do. He puts me in a headlock and grazes my forehead in a punching motion, but draws no blood. I am one of few people who can say that after being in this position.
But there will be new victims. Despite his advanced age, Abdullah can’t wait to get back in the ring once he gets his hip taken care of.
I have to admit it; a small, sick part of me can’t wait to watch.
Comments