There Can Only Be One Foam Sword Fighter

Everyone claims that Gasser is unbeatable.

"When he beats your ass, remember, he does that to everyone," says a 30-ish guy in camouflage pants and an un-ironic '80s headband.

The legend of the Barbarian began when, at 5 years old, Gasser molded clay daggers in art classes at the Nelson-Atkins Museum of Art. At age 16, he convinced his dad to help him make steel replicas of 6-foot swords and battle axes in their Prairie Village garage. Gasser went to the University of Missouri-Columbia and the University of Kansas, but he wasn't interested in taking classes unless they were related to the Middle Ages. After learning Viking history, Medieval Latin and mythology, he dropped out. He fell into the restaurant business and worked for a decade as a corporate chef for Planet Hollywood, writing menus and opening new franchises.

About six years ago, Gasser attended a Renaissance festival in Ohio and spotted a 6-foot-1-inch metal sword that called to him. "When I saw that great sword ... the clouds opened up, babe, and the angels started singing," Gasser says. "It's really cool how all things flow together in your life."

In 2001, Gasser, who was divorced, returned to Kansas City to be near his daughter and stepson. A friend convinced him to try out for one of the staple character positions at the Kansas City Renaissance Festival in Bonner Springs. "I said, 'Listen, I just want to carry my sword around.'" He was cast as a barbarian who simply wandered around and grunted. Gasser got bored with posturing. By his third year, he made swords of PVC pipe wrapped in blue foam. He handed them out to kids and adults, asking them to fight him. Soon, he was taking on as many as 400 people a day.

The demand for safe assault gear was there, but the technology wasn't. At the time, most homemade swords were nothing more than PVC pipe wrapped with pool noodles. Gasser says he sank $10,000 into experimenting with PVC and steel rods wrapped in foam insulation. He visited a psychic who told him that he had been through battles in past lives, and this quest was his attempt to atone. "The goal of my company was just so I could sword-fight all day long," he says.

The weapons evolved into a 25-step process that turned out Fiberglas rods encased in sheets of industrial foam and wrapped in fabric. He formed a company, Barbarian Battles, and rented a warehouse at 31st Street and Main to mass-produce his swords.

Then Gasser found a self-proclaimed "barbarian woman." In March 2006, he joined forces with Mary Hill, an office manager at a drug and alcohol assessment center in Olathe and freelance interior designer. The 54-year-old Hill began traveling weeks at a time with Gasser to Renaissance festivals and comic-book conventions across the country. Her daughter agreed to wear leather and strike chivalric poses for the launch of Barbarian Battles' Web site. But Gasser adds that his relationship with Mary Hill is strictly platonic. She's going through a divorce, and he's too focused on his business — and on becoming the One — to have time for romance, he says.

Gasser estimates that he has sold more than 10,000 weapons. He says his clientele includes customers in Trinidad and Canada and soldiers in Iraq. His weapons retail for as much as $58 (for a great sword). But Gasser says he barely covers costs. Earlier this year, Gasser halted production and gave up the warehouse in a last-ditch effort to accomplish what he calls his "epic quest for the ages." He dreams of building a realistic yet cost-effective foam sword.

At the park, Gasser watches his men battle back and forth across the parking lot. For most, he notes, the hardest challenge is finding the right weapon. He talks about weapons like most men talk about women. Finding your true wartime companion can be tricky, he says. For instance, sometimes you want a great sword because it looks "sexy," when really you'd be happier with a staff, a more defensive weapon. A weapon should become an "extension of the body," Gasser says. "Ultimately, you want no difference between your offense and defense. It just is."

I grab a great sword from his trunk arsenal. This will let me learn about his fighting style. We are both left-handed, so I mimic his movements as we square off. I spread my hands a foot apart on the hilt. Mimicking my master, I shift weight to the balls of my feet for leverage.

Gasser tells me to forget what I've seen from drawn-out sword fighting in most movies. Banging swords together is called "killing air." It might have looked cool for Conan, but in a real battle it would ruin your weapon and drain energy. He has a fighting philosophy that guides his economy-of-motion fighting style: "As barbarians, we don't fight one at a time — we fight 15 at a time." Gasser slashes toward an invisible enemy. "You want to be like a surgeon out there. Kill! Next! Kill! Next! Kill! Next!"

Gasser calls out like a photographer at a modeling shoot: "You are a snake!" Swivel the blade out front like a cobra head floating back and forth in "relaxed readiness," he says. Attack directly, without swinging wide or pulling back to telegraph a shot. To block, go back to snake mode, moving the hilt back and forth in a pendulous motion.