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Deathmatch wrestling thrives on the margins of mainstream wrestling. It’s a world of blood, shattered glass, and extreme violence that embraces pain as spectacle. Its practitioners are often seen as society’s outcasts, those willing to risk everything for their art.
Over the last few decades, one curious visual and cultural symbol has become deeply ingrained in the fabric of deathmatch wrestling: the hatchetman. The hatchetman uses he iconic logo of the Insane Clown Posse and its Juggalo fan base.
You see it inked on bodies, on gear, blasted from speakers in the form of Insane Clown Posse or Psychopathic Records music during wrestler entrances. Even deathmatch performers from places as far-flung as Russia, like Alex Nabiev, adopt the imagery.
This raises the question, Why is the hatchetman everywhere in deathmatch wrestling? Is it a genuine identity — or a convenient shortcut to belonging?
Insane Clown Posse in the Ring
I like Insane Clown Posse. I respect what they’ve built not just as musicians, but as wrestlers, promoters, and creators of a subculture that gave deathmatch wrestling a stage when few others cared. This isn’t coming from a place of ignorance or mockery.
However, liking Insane Clown Posse doesn’t mean I want to see every other wrestler use the same three tracks for their entrance music. After the tenth guy in a local gym walks out to “Chicken Huntin’”, it stops feeling like rebellion and starts feeling like routine. That’s where this critique begins, not in contempt, but in a desire for evolution.
Embracing the Juggalo
From Insane Clown Posse’s perspective, Juggalos represent a family for outsiders. They champion the misfits — people rejected by mainstream society — embracing the weird, the scarred, the angry. Insane Clown Posse’s own history is rooted in outsider status, fighting major label rejection and mainstream disdain.
That same philosophy carried over into wrestling. In 1999, Insane Clown Posse founded Juggalo Championship Wrestling (a promotional vehicle built to spotlight hardcore, comedic, and deathmatch wrestling, the kind of performance that didn’t fit neatly into mainstream wrestling’s polished mold. Through Juggalo Championship Wrestling and their annual Gathering of the Juggalos festival, they provided a stage for underground wrestlers long before it was profitable or considered cool.
For many, Juggalo Championship Wrestling was the first platform that took their brand of chaos seriously. From their perspective, supporting deathmatch wrestling wasn’t a gimmick; it was an extension of the world they’d already built.
During the heyday of World Wrestling Entertainment and World Championship Wrestling, fans often brought hatchetman signs to wrestling events, forging a unique connection between the underground music scene – particularly the Juggalos and Insane Clown Posse culture – and professional wrestling. These signs weren’t just fan props; they became powerful symbols, linking the hatchetman emblem with the wrestling world and serving as a visual rallying point that united like-minded fans.
This crossover helped embed the hatchetman deeply into deathmatch wrestling’s fabric, illustrating how music subcultures and wrestling fandoms often overlap. The presence of these signs at wrestling events reflected a broader cultural exchange where Juggalos found a home in the violent, rebellious spectacle of hardcore and deathmatch wrestling.
It’s important to remember that Insane Clown Posse aren’t just a symbol; Violent J and Shaggy 2 Dope trained as wrestlers, took bumps, traveled extensively, and faced the same grind and rejection as countless others trying to make it in the business. While they’re better known for creating and promoting their own wrestling company, Juggalo Championship Wrestling, than for in-ring accolades, their deep involvement in the wrestling world lends authenticity to the underground scene they helped shape.
They didn’t just slap the hatchetman on merchandise; they personified it. Loud, theatrical, defiant, and determined to be heard on their own terms, Insane Clown Posse as wrestlers and promoters lived the same struggles many deathmatch performers know intimately: being misunderstood, dismissed, and still stepping through the curtain to perform for those who do get it.
Juggalo Championship Wrestling became a dedicated platform for hardcore and deathmatch wrestling. The promotion offered consistent exposure and opportunity to wrestlers who embraced extremity, absurdity, and outsider identity. This solidifies the hatchetman as more than a fan symbol, but as an organizing force in the underground wrestling circuit.
It’s also worth noting that Insane Clown Posse, during their stints in World Championship Wrestling and World Wrestling Entertainment, were never positioned as main-event talent. Their roles were mostly mid-to-lower card; sideshow attractions, comedic violence, or cult favorites. That’s not a knock; they knew their lane and embraced it.
When wrestlers today adopt Insane Clown Posse themes, entrance music, or iconography, they’re not just aligning with an aesthetic; they’re signaling their identity as underground performers, intentionally or not. There’s nothing inherently wrong with that. Still, it reflects an important reality: embracing Insane Clown Posse often comes with an unspoken admission: “I’m not here to go mainstream. I’m here to go hard.”
Insane Clown Posse’s wrestling influence didn’t end with World Championship Wrestling and World Wrestling Entertainment. In Total Nonstop Action wrestling, their connection to wrestling continued to make waves. Perhaps most notably, when wrestling legend Scott Hall made a memorable ringside appearance alongside Insane Clown Posse, it highlighted how Juggalo culture had become deeply embedded in wrestling, allowing it to be embraced by iconic figures. This moment stands as a testament to Insane Clown Posse’s lasting footprint, bridging underground culture and broader wrestling audiences.
Insane Clown Posse’s presence extended beyond live wrestling and music. They were also playable characters in the 2004 video game Backyard Wrestling 2: There Goes the Neighborhood, further spreading their hardcore, theatrical style to gaming audiences and amplifying their crossover appeal.
Originality Over Imitation
Hardcore and deathmatch promotions, such as Combat Zone Wrestling and Independent Wrestling Association Mid-South, also embraced Insane Clown Posse’s music and cultural aesthetic. While no official catalog of entrance themes exists, Insane Clown Posse and other Psychopathic Records tracks have become something of a default soundtrack in these circles.
This musical overlap links Insane Clown Posse’s horrorcore style with the brutal spectacle of hardcore wrestling. Deathmatch wrestling may not have grown the way it did without Insane Clown Posse’s support. Over time, however, what began as a welcoming subculture started to feel more like a uniform. The hatchetman tattoo, the music, the merchandise — they became almost expected in deathmatch circles.
Consider legends like Mick Foley, Sabu, and Necro Butcher — all worked JCW, but none relied solely on Juggalo culture to define themselves. Wrestlers often signal their proximity to Juggalo culture through clothing, music, or stable affiliations, which complicates the idea of belonging.
Raven, for instance, wore an Insane Clown Posse “Great Milenko” shirt on World Championship Wrestling broadcasts and briefly aligned with the Juggalo-associated stable, Buddy Van Horn’s 1988 dark comedy, The Dead Pool, which included Insane Clown Posse and Vampiro. Still, his character remained distinct: dark, brooding, and psychologically layered — separate from carnival theatrics.
Later, Great Muta joined World Championship Wrestling’s Dark Carnival, also featuring Insane Clown Posse and Vampiro. Despite the alliance, Muta remained unmistakably himself: a mystical figure drawn from Japanese wrestling tradition, not Juggalo culture.
Vampiro, on the other hand, perhaps did more than any mainstream wrestler to promote Insane Clown Posse from within. He wore clown makeup, leaned into the mythos, and helped Insane Clown Posse’s aesthetic bleed further into televised wrestling.
These examples illustrate the key point: association is not the same as identity. Many wrestlers borrow from the Juggalo image for storyline or spectacle, but maintain personal uniqueness beyond the paint and soundbites.
In contrast, Japanese deathmatch legends such as Mitsuhiro Matsunaga, Atsushi Onita, Jun Kasai, and Masashi Takeda forged identities rooted in themes of samurai honor, punk, nihilism, and horror. No hatchetman. No clown gimmicks. Just personal visions of violence.
So why do international wrestlers adopt Juggalo imagery? Russian deathmatch performer Alex Nabiev wears a hatchetman tattoo. Whether it’s sincere fandom or a symbolic shortcut, the answer points to one thing: a sense of belonging.
Known for his extreme self-destructive style, Nabiev pushes boundaries with no-limits violence, sometimes wrestling in brutal “Blood and Sand” matches outside traditional rings — literally battling in sand-filled yards. Like the Russian GG Allin of wrestling, he carves a legacy defined by nihilism, shock, and unpredictable intensity. While the hatchetman marks his connection to the underground, what Nabiev brings to the ring is entirely his own sickness.
This pattern extends beyond wrestling. Many rap and horrorcore artists adopt Insane Clown Posse’s lingo, face paint, and the hatchetman symbol to build identity and community. Like wrestlers, they find in Insane Clown Posse a ready-made mythology and fanbase that signals outsider status and rebellion. While this can create strong bonds, it also risks diluting individuality, turning vibrant artists into echoes of a dominant iconography rather than innovators in their own right. The question then becomes, “How do you honor your roots without becoming a copy?”
Deathmatch wrestling is filled with loners and outsiders. Juggalo culture provides a ready-made identity and a built-in fan base. For some, that’s survival. For others, it’s a creative crutch. That shortcut comes with a cost. It can dilute originality, turning unique voices into copies of a louder one.
Pain alone isn’t enough in deathmatch wrestling anymore. If everyone bleeds, wears the same shirt, and walks out to the same songs, what sets anyone apart? The best deathmatch wrestlers don’t cosplay rebellion; they invent it. They build personas out of trauma, vision, and risk.
Insane Clown Posse gave deathmatch wrestling a megaphone when few others did. That’s worthy of respect. For the scene to grow, however, it needs new voices, not just hatchet-wielding echo chambers.
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