Fans of Danhausen aren’t shocked that he’s turning the pro wrestling world upside down, now that he’s finally gotten his big break with WWE
By Jason Fink | April 8, 2026
Back in the fall of 2020, when the world shut down, and everyone was slowly losing their minds, I found mine again… thanks to a demonic wrestling gremlin named Danhausen. Like a lot of people at the time, I was stuck working from home, staring at a screen for eight hours a day in a small sunroom, trying not to go completely insane.
During breaks, I’d wander down the YouTube rabbit hole; some paths you regret, some you’re glad you took. Finding Danhausen was one of the good things.
If you’re unfamiliar, Danhausen is a professional wrestler who’s been grinding for over a decade, bouncing between characters before figuring out something crucial: he didn’t just need to wrestle, he needed to be seen. Social media became his stage, and suddenly, a once relatively unknown indie wrestler started building a following.
A few years ago, he described himself on Conan O’Brien’s podcast as “Conan O’Brien possessed by a demon,” which is about as accurate as it gets. Visually, he looks like a mix of an old silent film horror villain, Pazuzu from The Exorcist, and Chop Top from Texas Chainsaw Massacre 2. It shouldn’t work. But it absolutely does.
I had been watching his videos for months when Glory Pro Wrestling announced he’d be appearing at the Broadway Athletic Club in St. Louis in July of 2021. I bought a ticket immediately. I had to see this in person. He didn’t disappoint.
That afternoon, Danhausen faced Xavier Walker, who stood about 6’6, 260 pounds. Danhausen, who claims to be 6’7 “and 300 pounds, is actually closer to 5’10” and 175 pounds.
But hey, 6’7, 300 is still real to me, dammit.
At one point in the match, Walker was stunned outside the ring when suddenly “Tequila” by The Champs started playing over the speakers. If you know, you know. Danhausen broke into his own version of the Pee-wee Herman dance on the apron while the crowd clapped along. When the song hit its signature “Tequila!” Danhausen blasted Walker with a superkick. The place erupted. It was ridiculous. It was perfect. It was wrestling at its absolute best.
After the match, Danhausen stuck around to meet fans. I made my way over because, of course, I did. The guy who spoke in a bizarre voice and said some of the most absurd things imaginable turned out to be incredibly genuine and gracious. I told him how I’d found him on YouTube and how much I enjoyed his work. I also said I hoped he’d land in AEW or WWE someday.
He signed a photo, we took a picture together, and yes—it’s still the wallpaper on my phone. Like I said, I’m a nerd.
Five months later, he debuted in All Elite Wrestling. Unfortunately, AEW never quite figured out what they had.
For long stretches, Danhausen felt like an afterthought; someone with undeniable charisma who was never fully unleashed. Still, it wasn’t a wasted run. He built relationships, including a friendship with CM Punk. And that mattered. When Punk returned to WWE, he didn’t forget. He pushed for Danhausen behind the scenes, and eventually, WWE brought him in.
His debut came at Elimination Chamber in Chicago, emerging from a mystery crate. The reaction was as former St. Louis Cardinals general manager and president of baseball operations John Mozeliak would say, not great. A lot of fans didn’t know who Danhausen was, and it felt like things might be off to a rough start.
Then came Raw a few days later. In a backstage segment with Adam Pearce, Danhausen did what Danhausen does. He called Pearce “Cold Steve Austin,” demanded a blimp, a Hall of Fame induction, a personal assistant, a camera boy, a “Triple H pointing photo,” and his face on all WWE trucks, despite being in the company for about five minutes. And then, with perfect timing, he looked at Dominik Mysterio and said, “You. Are. Cursed.” That was it.
For the past month, Danhausen has been more over than a dog in a Halloween costume. Watching this unfold has been a little surreal. It’s like catching Metallica in a tiny San Francisco club in 1981 before anyone knew who they were and then watching them sell out arenas and stadiums a few years later. You feel like you were in on something early. And with Danhausen, that feeling is real.
This is a guy who worked at a movie theater with his friends, brought them along as he climbed the indie circuit, juggled jobs as a nursing assistant, and kept showing up match after match, video after video, until something clicked. Now it has. It’s been a very nice, very evil run. And the scary part? He’s just getting started.
Jason Fink is a writer, husband, and dad of two based in St. Louis. A sports fan for over 40 years with a tremendous love for the St. Louis Blues and St. Louis Cardinals, he writes with the perspective of someone who’s lived every high and low. His work blends insight, storytelling, and the kind of opinions every fan has—but doesn’t always say out loud.