It's 6:30 on a Friday night, almost show time at the Big Kahuna, a gaudy, beach-themed complex of restaurants and bars just off Interstate 95 in Wilmington, Del. Backstage, large men in sequined costumes drink and smoke, stubbing out their butts in plates of cold spaghetti. They tell raunchy jokes to women in bikinis and await orders from the promoter of tonight's show, a frenetic, tuxedoed man with slicked-back hair named Izzy.

"Where's the midget?!" Izzy screams.

Izzy scurries about, barking instructions to these men a foot taller than himself. Men named the Giant Leprechaun and the Hustler, all of them minor-league wrestlers with dreams of bigger venues. Izzy tells them when they will go on tonight, and whether they will win or lose.

Off to one side, keeping his distance from the others, sits Rodney Walker. Instead of sequins, he wears a simple uniform of black tights and boots. As show time nears, he finds a spot between an ice machine and a pizza oven to stretch and exercise. He peels off a T-shirt to reveal a thick, well-toned, tattooed torso. On one arm, in blue ink, is the name "Rukkus." On the other, the words "No Fear." Etched in blue on his chest is the face of an infant boy.

For all his menacing muscle, Walker, a handsome man with a shiny bald head and a big smile on his round face, is polite and almost shy. If you met him elsewhere, you'd never guess that three to five nights a week, he transforms himself into Rukkus -- a snarling, fan-taunting, body-slamming, chair-throwing professional wrestler.

As he strides through the crowd in time to a thumping rap beat, his tattooed muscles glistening with baby oil, you'd certainly never guess that only a few years before, he'd worn the crisp dress white uniform of an aspiring Marine officer at the U.S. Naval Academy at Annapolis.

But that was six long, painful years ago. Rodney Walker is 29 now. He's 80 pounds heavier, more worldly wise than he was then.

The Big Kahuna crowd is ready for him. As Walker approaches the ring to face 300-pound Frank "The Delaware Destroyer" Finnegan, they scream obscenities, call him unspeakable things. He screams right back.

It's the sort of treatment you get when you are the bad guy. Walker is used to it. It was worse in his final, grueling days at the Naval Academy, when they called him cheater, traitor, liar. In this dark and smoky place, at least, the taunts are his applause.

Walker puts his hand over the tattoo on his chest. This is for you, Mykelti. Then he steps through the ropes and into the ring.

Seeds of a scandal

The transformation of a promising midshipman named Rodney Walker into a wrestler named Rukkus began at the Naval Academy in the last days of the fall semester of 1992, when a cheating scandal rocked Annapolis.

Some details of the scandal have been widely reported. But the full story of the next 18 months, of how events triggered by Walker grew beyond his control, forever changing many lives -- and the academy itself -- has remained untold. Interviews with numerous former midshipmen, Navy investigators and officers and a review of thousands of Navy documents shed new light on some of the academy's darkest hours.

Walker was a well-liked, sharp-dressed junior. The Atlanta native had arrived at the academy a bit older than most classmates; he enlisted for a year in the Marines and then, at the suggestion of the academy's admissions board, spent a year at the Naval Academy Prep School in Rhode Island.

Walker wanted to become a Marine officer, a chance given to one in six academy graduates. He also wanted to earn the respect of his father, his hero, a successful businessman despite only a third-grade education. And by early December of 1992, Walker was getting there. Just 18 months from graduating, his grades were A's and B's, and Christmas break was nearing.

But first, there was the final exam in Electrical Engineering. EE-311, also known as "Double E" or "wires," was one of the academy's most difficult courses, full of complicated math and arcane terminology.

The EE exam was still almost two weeks away on Dec. 1 when Professor Raymond Wasta, the course coordinator, sent the test he'd prepared via campus mail to the academy photocopy center. A log book would show it never arrived. So, a week later, Wasta hand-delivered a backup copy. Two days later, a Friday, he picked up stacks of photocopies and went home.

About that same time, a friend and classmate of Walker's named Christopher Rounds knocked on his buddy's door. The two, pals since freshman year, lived on the same floor of Bancroft Hall, the massive stone dormitory where all 4,000-plus midshipmen lived.

Rounds told Walker he wanted to take his girlfriend to dinner, but needed money. He had, he confided, a copy of the EE final; would Walker help him sell a few copies at $50 apiece?

Walker, who was pulling an "A" in the class, didn't need the test himself. But he liked to be liked. Plus, he owed Rounds $100. So he agreed.

Almost immediately, the decision haunted him. He'd never cheated before. His grades were solid. But this didn't feel like cheating exactly. It felt more like helping a buddy. They were two among a small group of African-Americans at the academy, and fellow military veterans. In Walker's mind, he was just doing a favor, repaying a debt. No big deal.

The night before the EE exam, Walker sold four copies of the test Rounds had given him -- three of them to varsity football players or their roommates -- then gave Rounds the money.

The two planned to collect the tests by the next morning and destroy them. But word of the test's availability had spread. Late into the night, dorm photocopiers churned out more copies. Of the 663 Mids scheduled to take the exam, it's estimated a third saw at least a few of its questions in advance that night.

At 7:30 a.m. Monday, Dec. 14, a first group of weary Mids entered the lobby of Rickover Hall, where the three-hour test would be given. As soon as professors handed out the 10-page exam, any doubts about the authenticity of the stolen test disappeared. Some EE students looked wide-eyed at each other. Oh, my God. We're really cheating.

Just an hour after the first exam was completed, an e-mail from a student popped onto Wasta's computer screen. "This is a very difficult message to write," it said. "[T]here may be many other people involved ... conduct such as this greatly disturbs me."

Two days later, as Mids began leaving Annapolis for the holidays, the academy superintendent -- an up-and-coming Navy star, Rear Adm. Thomas Lynch -- asked the Naval Criminal Investigative Service (NCIS) to look into the alleged theft of the EE test. Three days after Christmas, the first headline hit The Sun: "Final Exam Disappears."

Making his confession

Within days of his return to Annapolis, on Jan. 8, 1993, Walker was ordered to the NCIS offices. An investigator told him he could go to jail. Her badge, gun and rolling tape recorder scared him, and he confessed his involvement. Then, in a move he'd regret but that blew the investigation wide open, he named two dozen others who had seen the test.

The NCIS sent in 10 agents. They interrogated 34 midshipmen, searched their rooms, convinced many to waive their rights and threatened them with criminal charges. Across the campus, rumors ran wild. An employee of the copy center had died in a car accident. Had he been killed?

Word that Walker had confessed also spread. Classmates were shocked that he seemed intent on taking others down with him. Friends stopped talking to him. Rounds, who says his motto was "Lie 'til you die," felt betrayed and angry.

A few midshipmen typed up a confession and offered Walker $15,000 to sign it and resign from the academy. Walker tore the confession up, then wished he hadn't. Investigators asked him to wear a hidden microphone to document the bribe attempt, but it wasn't repeated.

Finally, Walker called his father, Lonnie. Reluctantly, he told the man he admired most that he'd let him down.

Lonnie Walker was shocked, but told his son to "trust in God. ... If you do the right thing, you won't have any reason to hang your head."

But by then, the cheating scandal was front-page news across the country. Walker had begun sleeping with his door locked. He'd heard of other Mids threatened, even roughed up. The message was clear: Keep your mouth shut and this will blow over. But he had broken ranks, opened his mouth, and now he was alone.

At one point, he tried to take it all back, claiming he had confessed under duress. But the effort backfired: The Navy accused him of lying. Still, with Walker disclaiming his confession, charges against Rounds and others had to be dropped.

In fact, investigators never gathered enough evidence to press criminal charges against Rounds, or anyone else. But investigative documents and ex-Mids reveal a buried secret of the scandal:

Walker's freshman-year roommate was a Mid from Annapolis whose father worked at the academy's copy center. The roommate resigned after his freshman year, but remained friends with a Mid who later roomed with Chris Rounds. Somehow, the test ended up in that roommate's hands.

Today, Rounds still refuses to say where his roommate got the test. (His roommate, who was expelled and now lives in Northern Virginia, says he wasn't involved). But Rounds and Navy investigators say the EE test wasn't the only one to disappear. "It wasn't just one test, it was an 'Exams-R-Us' operation," says a former academy official who was deeply involved in the investigation. Rounds admits he regularly sold and swapped tests.

Nothing left to lose

None of these facts came out in 1993, however. Instead, the investigation and subsequent internal "honor board" hearings charged 28 Mids with violating the school's honor concept, which states unequivocally that Midshipmen do not lie, cheat or steal. But then, over the course of a month, four cases were dropped; then 13 more; then four more; then one more. Finally, just six Mids, including Walker, were recommended for expulsion. It appeared as if scores of others would get away with cheating.

In late April of 1993, Walker met one last time with academy officials, including Superintendent Lynch and a Marine captain he'd once confided in. But before the meeting was through, Walker knew his naval career was over. He left the office without even bothering to salute.

That evening, in a meeting with all 4,200 Mids in Alumni Hall, Lynch announced the results of the EE investigation. A football star during his academy days, Lynch noted that he was glad to report that no football players had been involved. Murmurs rippled through the auditorium.

For Walker, it was the last straw. First, Rounds had gotten off. Now the football players, including Duke Ingraham, one of Walker's customers, whose father was a Navy football legend and a close friend and former classmate of Lynch's. Everyone, even the superintendent, seemed to be lying to protect someone. Walker felt alone, outnumbered -- and angry.

From his seat in the back of the huge hall, Walker stood up, and the auditorium grew still.

"Admiral Lynch," he said, "can you explain why Duke Ingraham came to your quarters the night before his honor board hearing?"

Mids were shocked someone would stand up to "the supe." Lynch said he didn't recall seeing Ingraham that night. The murmuring in Alumni Hall grew into a low rumble. Walker, who felt he had nothing to lose, pressed on.

"Then how come the next day, Duke was telling everybody about talking to you?" Walker shot back. Lynch said that if he had seen Ingraham, it was only to say hello.

"Sir," Walker went on, "I was approached and requested to wear a hidden microphone and record conversations with certain midshipmen, and you knew -- "

"That's enough, mister!" a red-faced Lynch shouted. "You will sit down!"

Chants began filling the hall. "Duke, Duke, Duke ..." went one. Others shouted, "Bull----!"

Walker looked around at what he'd wrought. Years later, he'd realize: "That was probably the first time Rukkus ever came out."

Shattered dreams

When he left Atlanta in 1988, Rodney Walker had dreamed of returning home in the uniform of a Marine Corps officer. Instead, five years later, he found himself in a peanut vendor's uniform at Atlanta Braves games.

He'd soon trade that for the green trash-collector's jacket of the Dekalb County Sanitation Department. Then he was a cable TV installer, then a high school football coach. He was lost, aimless. His parents saw signs of depression -- and a simmering anger.

Back in Annapolis, Mids shocked by the paltry number of expulsions came forward with new information about classmates who had cheated, and the EE investigation was expanded. Eventually, 134 Mids were accused of cheating and/or lying. In April 1994, 67 were punished and 29 were expelled, including 10 varsity athletes and the class president (Duke Ingraham was not among them).

In May of 1994, days before his graduation, Rounds was expelled, too. Admiral Lynch, meanwhile, was accused in U.S. Senate hearings of mishandling the initial investigation and protecting the football team. Instead of getting a promotion, he would admit to "failure" and later retire.

Today, class of 1994 graduates are still taunted by their Navy peers as cheaters, and the "Double E" scandal remains among the darkest blotches on the academy's 152-year record.

For Walker, the outcome offered a sense of vindication. But it didn't change much about his post-academy life.

Early one Sunday morning, Walker got home from a night out with friends. He found his father sitting in the kitchen watching professional wrestling on TV. It reminded him of the days when his father would take him to wrestling matches at Atlanta's Omni arena.

A commercial flashed the phone number for something called the North Georgia Wrestling Academy: For $2,500, you too can become a professional wrestler, it said.

"I think I might want to try that," Walker told his father. He was short, but had always been athletic. And the one-on-one battles, even if they were faked, looked fun. You sure? his father asked.

"Hey, I've got nothing else to do," the son replied.

After three months of training, Walker got his first televised match. He called himself Dr. DOA, wore a mask and growled a lot. Soon, he began traveling through Georgia, Alabama and Mississippi, performing each weekend. He drove with other wrestlers, four of them crammed into a tiny Chevy. They would sleep in cheap motels, or drive all night to get home by dawn. Once, Walker performed at a National Guard armory in Florida before a single fan.

It was the dregs of the wrestling world, and a huge distance from the Naval Academy's hallowed grounds. But he was earning back the praises of his biggest fan, his father.

Family man

As Walker's new career crept forward, there was suddenly -- and unexpectedly -- someone else to make proud -- a son.

Walker had been dating Sherry Norris, a pretty young woman from Indiana, for about a year when she became pregnant. The child was born June 2, 1996, three months premature. They named him Mykelti.

Mykelti remained in the hospital three months to give his lungs and eyesight time to develop. By the time he was out, things between Walker and Norris had become strained. One night in October, Norris packed her bags, took Mykelti and left. She lived with friends in Atlanta and family in Indiana. On Christmas Eve, though, she returned so Walker could see his son. He gave Mykelti a stuffed tiger.

That day, however, Mykelti had a fever and seemed listless. The next morning, Norris called to say she was taking him to the hospital. Walker met her there, then met a doctor who suspected the fever was due to severe teething. He wanted to do some tests. Walker had a wrestling match that night. He kissed Mykelti, who was crying, and left.

When he returned to his parents' house after the match, no one was there. He rushed to the hospital to find that Mykelti had been placed on life support. His organs were failing; his heart had stopped twice. The diagnosis: spinal meningitis, a severe viral infection that can kill seemingly healthy infants within hours. The doctor came back in. He won't survive this, he told Walker and Norris. He's brain-dead. They removed him from life support. The next morning, Mykelti died.

Walker put the stuffed tiger into the coffin beside his son, who was buried in South Bend, Ind., beneath a headstone that read: "Daddy's little boy."

A few months later, Walker took one of the few pictures he had of Mykelti to a tattoo parlor. "Can you draw this on my chest?" he asked.

With Mykelti now etched above his heart, Walker began saying little prayers before each match: I'm doing this for you. Watch over me.

"For a long time I was angry at a lot of people. I was angry at [Norris]. I was angry at [Mykelti]. I was angry at God for giving me a son and taking him away from me," he says.

The anger began affecting his wrestling. He'd begun it as a part-time career; now he pursued it with a passion.

"I lost everything I had," he says. "Basically, I had nothing to lose. He became my inspiration to keep going."

But he found the wrestling personas he'd tried so far weren't working. They were good guys.

"That really wasn't me," Walker says. "I prefer to wrestle as the bad guy. I'm just more comfortable."

It was while driving to a match outside Atlanta that he picked out a nasty new name: Rukkus. In the ring, he would think about Annapolis and Admiral Lynch and Chris Rounds. The negative thoughts fueled the emotions of his nasty new character.

Lately, he is trying to channel the anger, and to understand it.

"It's not totally fabricated," he says. "There are parts of Rukkus that are part of me. It's sort of like acting out all the things you wish you could do, saying all the things you wish you could say."

In return, fans have made him a target. "I've had bottles thrown at me, I've been spat on, had cigarettes thrown at me," Walker says. "I've been called every racial name in the book. It just adds fuel to the fire. I know how a bad guy feels when everybody hates you. I can relate to it.

"Except, back then" -- in Annapolis -- "it was real."

'... I was better than them'

Today, Walker has gained some perspective on his experience at the academy. Instead of being a Navy officer carrying around a dirty secret, he has a clear conscience. And despite the low pay and the late nights, he'd rather be Rukkus.

"My moral standards were higher than theirs," he says of his academy colleagues. "Even now I think I was better than them. It's a little bit easier to live with yourself with the truth, knowing you're not hiding anything."

Some Navy people say Walker confessed because he was cornered. But in hindsight, others grant him grudging respect. Former academy spokesman Mike John, who in 1993 told reporters Walker had "an ax to grind," now thinks Walker really was trying to do the right thing.

"I wonder: Who's the better person now, in the long run? Who do you trust? Maybe it just would be Rodney Walker. My assessment is he's probably a hell of a lot better person than some of those who sleazed out of it," John says.

Sometimes, Walker still dreams of what life might have been like if he'd just said no to Chris Rounds. But more often, he dreams of something else, of reaching the big leagues -- TV's World Wrestling Federation or World Championship Wrestling, whose stars can earn millions. Most nights, he earns $250 to $350, sometimes less than $100. His best year so far brought him $35,000.

Tonight, he's driving to the Georgia Belle Flea Market, a tin-roofed building outside Atlanta. If he's lucky, he'll earn $50. Tonight is "Fans Bring Weapons" night, and nearly 100 people have paid $8 for admission and the chance to bring garden hoes, toilet seats, traffic signs and metal bars to be used by the wrestlers.

Walker is backstage, stretching and pumping up his muscles. He smears himself with baby oil, then wraps strands of barbed wire around his neck.

It's nearly 11 p.m. when Rukkus struts into the humid room, his rap anthem "Murder" blaring through hissing speakers. He circles the ring once before entering. He touches Mykelti's face and then grabs a crutch and breaks it across the back of tonight's foe, Vic Violent.

"You wanna see hard core?" he yells at the crowd, then smashes a square of drywall over Vic's head.

Vic fights back, crunching a trash can on Rukkus' head, then driving a golf club into his gut.

The fans hold up insulting, hand-drawn signs. They yell unprintable slurs. Rukkus drinks it all in.

"I fear no man who walks the face of this Earth!" he yells into a microphone, as Vic Violent comes at him with a bowling ball.

A little before midnight, the match ends in a draw. Walker leaves through a back door, climbs into his tiny Ford Festiva and sets out for home. Just a handful of cars share the road.

It's an odd sight, this big man in his little car. He says he bought the Festiva because it gets good gas mileage. Later this summer, he plans to take a few nights off and drive it to Indiana -- to visit Mykelti.