1976/Hillbilly Vic

While Percival is at the Cauliflower Alley Banquet in Las Vegas this week, he has asked that we repost this story from 1998. Hope you enjoy it.--Rob

I was in the Kansas City offices---Heart of America Sports, they called it---signing contracts, answering letters, and setting up future matches for my champion, Tank Patton, a huge young athlete originally from Staunton, Va. He was a very big man in the sport at the time who measured 6'4" and weighed 275 pounds. He used a move we called "THE BIG GUN" (clothesline) to win most of his matches but also relied on brute strength and wrestling holds to make an opponent succumb to his wishes.

We had wreaked havoc in every arena in the Midwest and had the title of Central States Champion in my grasp. It seemed that NO ONE could or would be able to top my creation. Men the caliber of former world's champion Pat O'Connor, Bob Geigel, Big Ron Bass, Omar Atlas, Yasu Fuji, Ron Etchison, Ray Candy, and even the big huge Alaskan Mike York had fallen victim to the Big Gun. Who would be next?

Suddenly, the upholstered door of the office with the NWA logo on it swung open, and a huge man just stood there. He had long hair and a beard, wearing nothing but bib overalls, a straw hat, and old farmers' boots covered with cow dung. He seemed a little confused by the ways of city life and was very nervous. He stuck his hand out and said, "Hey neighbor, my name is Hillbilly Vic, and I'm from Hazzard County, Kentucky, and I'm here to scuffle." I pushed back away from the desk quickly and kept at more than arm's length from this huge, country looking character.

"You folks aren't very neighborly up here, are y'all?" he said. "I'm just trying to get into the rasslin' business and make a name for myself." I asked him who he had fought, and he replied, "Most all of everybody in Hazzard County---and whooped 'em too. I can whoop you, if you'd like." I said, "NO … I don't think so." Where was Tank now when I needed him? I was looking for a way to get away from this THING.

"I'm a-gonna go to the TV station on Saturday to scuffle," he said, "but I don't know how to get there … can you take me?" I was a little reluctant to accept but feared for my own life at that moment and agreed. "Just meet me in front of the old office building at the Hotel Kansas Citian at 8:30 Saturday morning, and I will get you there." As he turned and left the office, I had hoped that this would be the last time I ever see this two-legged nightmare.

I went about my business and that night went to St. Joe for a house show. Who shows up but Hillbilly Vic. He was standing there with officials from the NWA and apparently talking to them about getting into the business. I kept away from him but acknowledged the hand wave and smile he gave me when he saw me from a distance. I hope people don't think I am associated with him. My God, how could people live like that?

Saturday morning, I was at the hotel about a quarter past eight and was doing some newspaper reading when a big, cream-colored, 15-year-old, 1961 Chrysler New Yorker pulled up in front of the hotel. I thought to myself, "This couldn't be him---NO WAY! This is something out of the movies, it can't be happening to me."

Out stepped this huge Hillbilly with a jug in his hand, and he proceeded through the revolving doors. He stuck out his hand with the jug in it and said, "Here, this is for y'all to enjoy … some of the best sipping shine in Kentucky." I took the jug, not wanting to make him mad. I looked at this huge 6'6" creation and said, "You ready to go to the TV matches? Follow me."

I started towards the garage area where my new '76 Eldorado was parked, and Vic stopped me. "Hey," he said, "We can go in my car; that way, I will know how to get around." Reluctantly, I started towards the front where he had parked and turned to see a few of the patrons of the hotel quietly laughing at what was going on. I hollered, "Well, what the hell are you looking at?" and started out the front door.

The outside of the car was covered with splotches of brown color that smelled beyond horrible---more than likely farm stuff. Not wanting to offend him by being ungrateful, I slowly got into the car, with a little coaxing. Sitting down, I then noticed the dash, covered with about 1/2 inch of dust, and the floorboards had about an inch of dirt on them. "My God, how do they live like this?"

"Well, how do you like my new $100 automobile? I just got it before I left home last week. Nice, isn't it?" Not wanting to offend him and disrupt his train of thought while driving, I said, "Gosh, Vic, this is a nice car, really nice looking and in great shape. Do you have it insured?"

"Yes, Sir!" he replied. "FULL COVERAGE.... Blue Cross and Blue Shield."

And that's the way it was…

Percival A. Friend, Retired
The Epitome of Wrestling Managers