CONTENT

Title: Because Bronson Box Told You To
Featuring: Bronson Box
Date: Today
Location: San Juan
Show: Wrestleshow #45

Red heels, flawless legs. The camera slowly makes its journey past the knees and beyond the tasteful but very tight houndstooth miniskirt and up her silky white blouse to settle on her face. Jane Katze stands, hands on hips, confidence emanating from every pore. She walks towards the camera, beyond it we see we’re in a sparsely populated cantia somewhere in the bustling city of San Juan.

As she makes her way through the dimly lit club she draws the ogling eyes more than a few of the bar’s patrons. She stops at a semi-circle of low slung leather chairs with but one occupant. The man brings a glass of scotch to his mustachioed lip and downs the drink in one swallow.

“Aren’t you supposed to sip scotch slowly?” Jane cocks an eyebrow in his direction.

Bronson Box’s bloodshot brown eyes shift upwards to his manager (still not quite looking directly at her), who takes a few quiet steps towards the chair beside her charge and takes a seat. Her calm collected demeanor making her unwavering stare less intense, more… motherly?

“Not exactly in a SIPPIN’ mood, lass.” Bronson raises his empty glass slightly towards the barkeep who nods back in recognition. “I’ve been… distracted as of late. Let UTA happen to me as opposed to me happenin’ to it. I aim to rectify that.”

A curvaceous Puerto Rican waitress sways over to Bronson and presents his fresh drink to him, leaning her ample bosom over the rich looking European juuuust so…

Jane gives the girl an unimpressed smile. “Thank you sweetie.” The waitress gives Katze a nasty look and mumbles something rude in Puerto Rican as she sassily walks back towards the bar. Turning back towards Bronson “What exactly are you going to do, I can’t have you… “

WHAM.

The Original DEFIANT slams his glass down onto the little oak side table, his eyes cast down and away. His chin twitching in obvious annoyance and his managers presumptiveness. “Ye’ can’t have me, what, deary… “ He finally cocks his head to the side, making eye contact with Jane. “I know, I know… this ‘aint home. Different set of rules, different hands movin’ the pieces around the board. Delicateness, tact and all that. I heard it from yer’ bloody gob before.”

Boxer finishes the sentence inside his glass, taking a long swig.

Jane’s previously amicable face twists inward slightly, like she tasted something sour or perchance smelled something rotten. “So is this how it’s going to be? You lose one match so it’s moody drinking and running around like some sort of unhinged asshole?”

Jane pulls a small mirror out of her small clutch bag and goes about checking her lipstick. “If you get crossways with Wingate and become a liability to his little system he’ll cast you aside like last week's leftovers, Bronson. And nothing I say will be able to… “

Boxer reaches over and clamps shut the mirror, drawing Jane’s gaze back towards the absolutely stone cold, dead serious look on his face. “At this point, lass? I could give two turtle shits about Wingate and his precious UTA. Mike Best, his great failure Ms. Beckman, his ridiculous orange stormtrooper Sektor. The whole bloody ball of wax. This place is SOULLESS, Jane… “

The leggy brunette, financial wunderkid, and former submission specialist leans back in her chair, allowing Bronson the floor uninterrupted.

Cradling his glass, probably thankful it wasn't broken during his outburst moments ago, Boxer continues. “The wrestlers, the title belts, the tournaments, the ridiculous brands. The United Toughness Alliance is a soulless joke, and not a good one at that. Jane, you’re lookin’ at the only genuine property competin’ underneath the UTA banner. You know this as bloody FACT, dontcha’ lass?”

Jane nods, Box continues on. “The fact I’m givin’ even an ounce of my time and energy to this ridiculous sterilized product o’ Wingate’s should have the man kissin’ my bloody boots. He wants to feed me another bland High Octane cast-off, another forgettable face in a sea of forgettable faces. Fine. I’ll do to Scott Stevens what I did Rhys Townsend. What I did to John Sektor… “

Pausing to take a swig of his drink then watch for a moment as the melting ice clinks around his almost empty glass. “I’ll rip him open from stem to stern and show all these island savages what a bloody marquee attraction truly looks like. Wingate can stuff his bloody power rankings up his arse because win or lose, any arena he hangs UTA’s shingle out fer’ all te’ see? It’s me they’re comin’ to see. Not some random name generated High Octane sot with bloody cool guy tribal tattoos.”

He stops, turns to the camera. Jane tries to pipe in but Box holds up a single finger shushing her before any words manage to escape her lips. Bronson lets a silent moment hang between he and us before continuing.

“Mr. Stevens you seem rather ready to paint yourself as David and me Goliath, short jokes aside… are you saying to everyone the only way you’ll triumph is via miracle? Beyond that, by all accounts David and Goliath isn’t the story of the meek triumphing over the powerful oppressor. It’s the story of a young man with superior technology taking the easy route and using what at the time was not a child's toy but a weapon of war. The Biblical equivalent of a gun, to quickly kill and dispose of an oddity. A dimwit with a faulty pituitary gland.”

Bronson downs the rest of his drink and delicately sets it aside.

“But stories are stories. And I’m no blind dimwitted giant, and unless the rules have changed you won’t be wielding a weapon… I might, but that’s beside the point. Strip away all yer’ preenin’ and poetic licence all you’ve managed to lob at me is the fact I lost to Kendrix. I did indeed. You’ve lost, I’ve lost, Kendrix has lost, Alex Beckman lost… it happens lad. In the end rankings and belts are carrots dangling from a stick. Yer’ victories come from carvin’ yer’ legacy so deep the shot callers and the bloody FANS don’t have a choice but to get down on one knee and proclaim you legend. That sort of respect don’t come from shakin’ hands and flappin’ yer’ cums tryin’ te’ be CUTE.”

“If you vanished from this promotion tomorrow the impression you’d have left could be filled with any number of clones just like you, with yer’ spiky hair and your prick attitude and yer’ bloody tattoos and yer’ ridiculous movie references. I’ve seen you before Scott, I’ve beaten you before, I’ve seen a hundred of you come and go and come again. If Bronson Box lifted off the surface of UTA there’s nobody like me, lad. Nobody. I’d leave a Bronson Box sized hole not one of you bloody bastards could hope to fill.”

We catch a glimpse of a smile crawling across Jane Katze’s ruby red lips as her client continues.

“So keep bein’ cute there, Mad Max. Keep believin’ yer’self the inevitable hero of your own little fairytale. Because when it comes down to brass tacks you’re a quitter. You have no passion, no drive. Bloody baseball, you walk away from a legacy to play BASEBALL… ye’ FOOKIN’ step-dad lookin’ prat. You know where I’d be if I was ejected from this promotion? Where I’d be if DEFIANCE didn’t exist… I’d still be doin’ this you entitled little shit. I’ll do this ‘til my last dyin’ breath, even if night after night titles and opportunity are denied me over and over and over... “

The WARGOD straightens his tie, sniffs and tugs on his earlobe slightly.

“I’m a wrestler. Not Goliath. Not a character in some bloody Tom Hardy movie. I’m no fairy tale. I’m just the angry little man who’s goin’ te’ uphold the grand wrestlin’ tradition of vicious bloody brawls on the sandy shores of Puerto Rico when I paint with your blood come Monday, sunshine. Now piss off, I aim te’ get quite drunk tonight.”

Jane smiles, raises two fingers towards the bar. “Bronson, I do believe I might join you.”

“I knew you’d see it my way.”

 



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