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Umaga, the Samoan Bulldozer, dominates and destroys his competition in WWE. He entered the company just a few short years ago and has left a litter of broken bodies in his wake. He is a barbarian unleashed, plucked from the Samoan wilderness and released on WWE.

But when the average WWE fan watches Umaga each week on Raw, questions about the beast come to mind. With no one to help him along - no manager or friend - one wonders:

How the hell does this man consistently get to the arena?

What about cars, flights, and hotels?

Does he make those noises all of the time?

In this Special Report, WWS set out to find the answers to these questions by sending our only reporter – me - on undercover assignment to follow Umaga and figure out exactly how this barbaric monster is able to negotiate life on the road.

Monday, Nov 26
Charlotte, NC
11: 24pm

It is just a few minutes after Monday Night Raw has gone off the air. I wait outside the arena, near where the wrestlers exit, as Jeff Hardy signs autographs for dozens of fans. Jeff Hardy has showered, changed and is looking well rested as his tag team match with Triple H vs. Umaga and Snitsky was the first of the night.

Suddenly, Umaga bursts out of the building.

Umaga is still in his ring gear, and is in a rage. Grunting and screaming in his Samoan jungle gibberish, he's clearly been looking for Hardy since the tag match earlier. Hardy jumps into the driver seat of his rented 2008 Honda Civic and begins to peel away.

Umaga jumps on top of the car and hangs on.

Monday, Nov 26
Charlotte, NC
11:58pm

My cab races up to the Marriott Charlotte City Center just in time to see Jeff Hardy handing his keys to the valet. Umaga leaps off the roof. A shocked Hardy bolts inside. Umaga pursues, and is distracted only briefly by the terrified valet guy who receives a Samoan spike. Hardy gets a few more precious seconds to escape when Umaga repeatedly gets stuck in the confusing revolving door. Finally, he smashes through the glass and enters.

"So this is how he gets to the hotel," I realize.

Tuesday Nov 27
12:12am
Charlotte Marriott

Umaga is loose in the Marriott lobby.

The piano player in hotel bar Savanna Red attempts to soothe the savage beast with a moving version of "Memories" from Cats, but to no avail. Umaga spikes him, climbs up on the bar, and splashes the piano to splinters.

He sniffs the air and catches a whiff of Hardy's scent. He rushes towards the elevators. I follow in hot pursuit and watch Umaga collide headfirst with the elevator door. He does this again and again. Finally, I approach slowly and press the "up" button. The button responds with a "ding." Umaga stops and looks straight into my eyes.

I piss my Khakis.

He gets closer and closer and for a second I think I see a glint of something - was it understanding - in his eyes. The elevator door opens and he climbs in with a grunt. I am amazed as he slowly extends one finger and pushes a button on the wall. He saw what I did and mimicked my behavior!

Maybe he's more than just a ruthless monster. Maybe somewhere deep inside he's…

The elevator doors close.

Tuesday Nov 27
1:14am
Charlotte Marriott

I throw on my handy Ric Flair disguise and approach the Marriott manager. I've got to find out what room Jeff Hardy is in or this investigation is over. A glace at his nametag gets the conversation started.

"Roger? It's me. The Na-na-na-Nature boy. Remember when partied together Horsemen style in the penthouse back in '86?"

"Ric Flair?"

"Sure. I mean…Whoooo!"

"You're not Ric Flair. Get the hell outta here."

Realizing that the biggest investigation of my life has come to an end, my eyes well up with tears. I begin to cry.

"Wait a minute," manager Roger says. "You are Ric Flair! Nobody cries that fast except the Na-na-na-Nature boy! It's been a while. Jesus Christ, you don't still wrestle do you?"

After a quick run down of the last 21 years of Flair's career and an apology for the STD Roger contracted in '86 after "partying" with one of Flair's leftover ring rats, he pulls up Hardy's room: #1248. Hardy's got to be in his room right now, the Roger confides, because he just ordered an adult movie suite on Spectravison. It's ironically called Team XXXtreme and features the films Swantons of Boobs, Whisper Wetly in my Wind, and chubby chaser fetish film: Twist of Fat.

Jeff Hardy is in danger.

Tuesday Nov 27
1:18am
Charlotte Marriott
12th Floor

The door to room #1248 has been scratched and clawed at. The doorknob has been ripped off. But the door still stands. Jeff Hardy must have barricaded himself in.

Lying in front of the door in tattered shreds of carpet is Umaga, sound asleep. As he lies there passed out from exhaustion, I almost feel sorry for the beast.

How many nights at a time on WWE tours has he spent on hotel floors like this? Has he ever known the comforts of a real hotel?

A bed? A robe? Free HBO?

Exhausted, I sit down on the Marriott floor and also fall asleep.

Tuesday Nov 27
7:29am
Charlotte Marriott
12th Floor

Chaos.

I awake to screams.

Umaga must have been awakened by the smell of room service breakfast being delivered. A terrified Marriott employee is cowering against a doorjamb as Umaga devours the scrambled eggs and cantaloupe off of the top of the room service cart.

The attendant, thinking he might escape the animal, bolts down the hallway. Umaga pursues. They take the stairs. I take the elevator.

Tuesday Nov 27
7:34am
Charlotte Marriott
Lobby

The elevator doors slide open and the attendant zooms by. A grunting Umaga is right on his tail. The attendant bursts outside through the lobby doors. Umaga follows, but why?

"Is this what you want," the attendant screams. "Fine, take it!"

From the inside of his Marriott tuxedo jacket he reveals a raw steak wrapped in aluminum foil.

This guy picked a bad day to steal from the kitchen. He tosses it one way and runs the other.

The steak lands in the large side luggage compartment of a curbside shuttle. Umaga dives in after it. Blood pours down his chin as he sinks his teeth into the pink meat. The shuttle driver, blissfully unaware of Umaga's presence, emerges from the lobby enjoying a fresh Starbucks Ginger Spice Latte.

He closes the luggage compartment door. Umaga is locked in. The side of the shuttle reads, "Charlotte/Douglas International Airport."

I pay the $22.00 and hop in.

Tuesday Nov 27
8:54am
Charlotte/Douglas International Airport
Curbside

We arrive. Umaga has been locked in a small, dark compartment for over an hour. He must be totally confused and completely crazed. The driver opens the side door, and Umaga explodes out of the luggage compartment with a scream. His wild eyes lock onto the eyes of the shocked driver. The driver collapses in a heap.

Umaga reaches into the man's chest and rips out his heart.

With the still beating, bloody heart in his hand, Umaga bolts into the airport. He is in a total frenzy. The sight of this savage beast with a bloody beating heart in his hand sends the terminal into total disarray.

People scream and scatter in all directions.

Employees scream and duck behind their ticket counters.

TSA agents scream, scatter in all directions, duck behind the ticket counters, and crap their pants.

Umaga is glassy-eyed and discombobulated. He dashes down a hallway, through a glass door, out into an atrium. It's the airport smokers' lounge. I slowly make my way out after him. I peek around the corner to discover him plopped down on a concrete bench, heart still in his hand.

He's…he's crying.

I can’t believe it. As I sneak up through the plastic ficus plants to get a better look a hand suddenly grabs my leg. A man is lying on the ground below me!

"Get out of my house, bruddah."

"Who the hell are you?"

"I'm the homeless mother f*%#$r who lives in this atrium. Now get the f#$k out, bruddah."

The man is in tattered clothes, reeks of filth, and his accent sounds a little bit…

"Excuse me, but do you speak Samoan?

"F$%k yeah bruddah. What's it to you?"

"See that jungle looking guy over there with the human heart in his hand? He's Samoan. I need to communicate with him. Will you translate for me?"

"Got a quarter?"

"Sure."

"Then lets go."

We cautiously approach the beast. The homeless guy asks something in Samoan. Umaga turns, looks at us, and answers back!

"He speaks," I ask.

"F#$k yeah."

"I don't know where to start. Ask him - ask him why he's crying."

The two men talk back and forth for a several minutes. I'm surprised at how natural the conversation is. How…human. Finally, the homeless guy translates.

"He's crying because he's sad. You see, Umaga isn’t just a savage beast plucked out of the Samoan wilderness. He's a man. A sensitive man with feelings.

"He was living a happy life as a Samoan wild man until one day a guy named Armando Alejandro Estrada appeared and promised him a life of great riches if he became a WWE wrestler. So Estrada led him to WWE and got him on the roster."

"Wait," I stop him. "Did Estrada speak Samoan?"

"No."

"Then how did they understand each other?"

"Umaga says he didn't get it either. Anyway, he's sad for a lot of reasons:

"He's sad because suddenly Estrada disappeared for no good reason. He's is sad that Vince picked him to face Lashley at Wrestlemania. No one can have a good match with Lashley. He's sad that he got a 30-day wellness policy suspension when all he ordered from signature pharmacy were Samoan poppy seeds. He's sad that Jim Ross keeps referring to his series of matches with Triple H as 'a feud' even though Triple H wins every match. And he's angry."

"Why?"

"He has a hell of a bad toothache. Had it for a year and a half."

"Why didn't he mention it before?"

"He screams it everywhere he can hoping someone will help him. In Samoan junglespeak, 'I have a bad toothache' translates to 'AAAAAABBBHHHSSSMOTEEE! KA. KA. KA. KA. MA. MA. TA. KO. BA. TOOOMMMAAASSSAAAAATA!'"

"Any this whole time everyone thought he was just shouting crazy gibberish to intimate his opponent."

"No, bruddah. The mother f%$&#r is in pain."

"I've got a gift card to Sears Dental in my wallet. Here. Umaga can have it."

"He thanks you. He says no one has been so kind to him in a long time. He says he will pay that kindness forward."

"How?"

"Watch this."

Umaga rises and walks back into the airport. I follow behind him, but turn to acknowledge the homeless guy as he lies back down in the fake dirt.

"Thank you, bruddah," I call out.

"You're welcome," he answers. "And call me Superfly."

Tuesday Nov 27
9:37am
Charlotte/Douglas International Airport.

The terminal has all but emptied. There are dozens of police cars outside, cops leaning over the hoods, guns pointed straight at Umaga.

"COME OUT WITH YOUR HANDS UP."

I know Umaga doesn’t understand, and he continues forward, heart in hand. I have to do something.

"I'm a hostage," I lie. "Don't shoot." Umaga walks straight ahead, out of the building, right at the police. What is he thinking?

"Don’t shoot," I repeat again. "Let us through."

The beast walks to the back of a parked ambulance. He opens the back doors and yanks out the gurney. The dead shuttle driver is sprawled out on it, his chest ripped open. Umaga grabs the body, and sticks the mans heart back in his chest. He places his hands over the wound and begins to chant. His soft Samoan chanting becomes louder and louder and his entire body starts to shake. Finally he lets out a scream and the man's eyes pop open. Umaga has brought the man back to life!

"Mystic Samoan jungle heart replacement technique."

Its Superfly. He followed us out.

"All Samoans are capable of it but most never have the chance to use it. They also all have heads as hard as coconuts. Comes in handy when the company you work for claims on CNN they banned chairshots to the head but the boss' son-in-law nails you with them anyway."

The stunned police and EMTs surround the resurrected driver. I grab Umaga and we make our escape.

Tuesday Nov 27
10:01pm
Charlotte/Douglas International Airport
Smokers lounge atrium

Superfly kept us hidden in the atrium all day. I slide into the again bustling airport and buy Umaga a one-way ticket on the red-eye. It's to Savannah, GA, the site of the next live RAW event.

Umaga has been making it to one WWE live event to another though chaos, anger, and a lot of luck.

But not today.

I hand him the ticket and he looks bewildered. I know what he's thinking. There's no way he can get back into that airport, let alone fly…first class? I reach into my bag, and give him one last present.

My handy Ric Flair disguise.

Email WSS editor Marc R. Warzecha with your feedback on this entirely true Special Report at: TorchWarz@yahoo.com


Send feedback on this article to pwtorch@gmail.com and we'll regularly publish reader feedback in the "Torch Feedback" category on the Main Listing.

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