He chokes off his immediate power with tightwound bands of dayglo synthetic. When he surges he warps his wrappings and the atmosphere reacts. Then he brings lightning. And he inflicts synesthesias of all varieties on the people who are the witnesses of his power.
When we all cower, we are made to witness the resoluteness of the single tiny flower, whose trembling dance is the breadth of the essence of transcendence. When we acquiesce, we are rendered transitive. Then Ultimate Warrior's likeness is mass subconsciousness attenuated. That restless inward voice, all mic'd up and disseminated over broadcast, across airwaves, loud, in the truck cabs. The roadways make fast friends of the glistening devastator's. Now his influence is self-reference. But of course it is--he is all of what we wish we'd ever wanted us to be.
Might it really be just this? I could imagine fluctuations well within the standard deviation leading to many situations wherein it must. If that's enough... Imagination: ashes to ashes, rust never sleeps--Ultimate Warrior, howling, guarding the gates before the Keep of Dreams. Above him, a swirling, winged host of unquenchable memes, armed to the teeth, each a radiant field of obscurity. The scene is a brazen heavenly pastiche. A 1980s folk-art wet dream, airbrushed to the flank of 1970s RV, headed down to the Salton Sea with shit-ton of speed.