Lee Scott Rothlesberger — better known as LSR or Lee R., since almost nobody can spell his last name — grew up in Baltimore, Maryland alongside his childhood best friend and self-described heterosexual life partner, Jeffrey Daniels. The two were inseparable, raised on a steady diet of late-90s/early-2000s pro wrestling, especially their hometown promotion Old Line Wrestling, run by Jeff Andrews.

Andrews was the centerpiece of an infamous stable called The Untouchables. For Daniels, Jeff Andrews himself was the hero. For Lee, it was different—his favorite was Kai Scott, the “Evil Genius” and master strategist of the group. Where Jeffrey soaked up Andrews’ flair for audacity and recklessness, Lee admired Kai’s ability to plot, adapt, and execute a plan to perfection.

That influence shaped not just Lee’s wrestling, but his whole presentation. He splits the difference between Jeffrey’s mallrat chaos and his own Kai Scott cosplay: in the ring, he wears black JNCOs that are baggy without reaching Jeffrey’s self-parody extremes. Sometimes he wraps white tape around his waist, partly as another Scott homage — Kai was notorious for faking injuries and coming out in unnecessary medical gear — and partly because Lee insists it gives him the aura of a samurai warrior. Outside the ring, he leans fully into the cosplay: slacks, muscle shirts, and long coats, projecting himself as a cool-headed strategist while Jeffrey mugs for attention.

When they finally broke into the business, the two christened themselves The New Untouchables as a tribute to their childhood idols. Where the originals were martial arts killers, the New UTs took a narrower inspiration: kicks. Armed with Bruce Lee’s maxim—“I fear not the man who has practiced 10,000 kicks once, but I fear the man who has practiced one kick 10,000 times”—they decided their path to greatness was simple: spam superkicks until nobody could stand up anymore.

The pair cut their teeth on the independents before landing in the XHF Network. Their tenure there isn’t the story Lee likes to tell, but it was a pivotal stop: behind the curtain, the retired Andrews took a shine to the two kids who’d grown up idolizing him. That mentorship changed everything. With Andrews’ guidance (and later, Heidi Christenson’s), Lee and Jeffrey began to reinvent themselves as the “Kings of the Super-Indy”—louder, flashier, and meaner than ever before.

And with that guidance came something darker. What started as two cocky Baltimore kids chasing their heroes slowly warped into something crueler. Jeffrey chased the thrill of audacity; Lee refined the art of planning. Together, they became a ruthless two-man engine: one reckless, one calculating, both united in making sure their opponents never walked out the same way they walked in.