Title: Because Bronson Box Told You To, pt. 2
Featuring: Bronson Box
Date: Same evening.
Location: Same pub.
Show: Wrestleshow #45

It’s much later in the night. The previously sparsely populated cantina is now absolutely jumping. People at every table, lined up at the bar. And still sitting in the same little corner we left them, Jane Katze and the Bombastic Bronson Box. Both a number of drinks in, Jane looks about as unfocused as we’ve ever seen the usually composed secretarial sexpot. Next to her Bronson seems less phased, almost calm… for him at least.

Jane giggles an especially girly little giggle. “You’re drunk.”

Bronson’s eyes shift over to his business manager. “You’re bloody drunk ye’ wee… somethin’ or, erm… oh, bloody shut it. I’m fookin’ fine. I been drinkin’ since I were a lad. My da’ made sure of it. Said it’d put hair on me chest.” He downs the watered down glass of scotch and tries to balances the glass atop two others on the table beside him in a little pyramid, failing miserably, all the glasses clinking onto the table in a heap.

The leggy brunette looks her charge up and down, she’s always been attracted to men who weren’t any good for her. Her previous employer was a greedy, pompous prick but he was cunning and worldly. Bronson was something altogether different. Something… dangerous.  “Why are all the most fascinating men so goddamn crazy?” She hiccups quietly, with a look on her face that silently begs the question, did I just say that out loud?

Bronson looks over again, amused. “Pardon me, lass?”

Jane blushes immediately. “You’re right, I AM drunk… “

Boxer shifts his weight and recrosses his legs turning towards Katze in his seat. “Oh no, sunshine, you’re expounding on that one. Come on then, it’s not every day I’m in a bloody sharin’ mood. I’m at that precious point between too little and far too sauced. Now speak.”

Katze rolls her eyes. “I know your stance, you’re not interested. I’ve made no bones about the fact I find you an intriguing figure. Why do you think I put up with your nonsense? Pay off injured parties and for damaged dressing rooms. You’re worth it… you goddamn needy psycho.” The end of that last sentence swallowed up in another swig from her drink.

Boxer narrows his eyes at her little smirk, the look makes her laugh and dribble booze down the front of her flowy white blouse. “Shit, you ass.” She flicks as much of the liquid off with her free hand then dabs at the spot with a napkin.

A glimmer of sincerity flickers across Boxer’s face. “I ahhh.. thank ye’ fer’ that. Honestly. You’ve proven a valuable partner, Jane. Don’t think any of this UTA nonsense would be happening without yer’... well… without you, anyway. Thank ye’... “ Uncomfortable as all get out, Box motions to their waitress to bring another round.

The sincere thank you gives Katze pause. “It’s my pleasure, especially since you’ve made us both a lot of money. I have no idea how you managed before I took care of your affairs, honestly.” Another little half joking smirk that Bronson accepts with a snort.

The same busty waitress from before hands Bronson his fresh drink. “I was a babe in the woods, lass. A babe in the bloody woods.” He raises his glass to Jane. “To us, and to all the poor prats who dare te’ get in our fookin’ way… ” The two clink glasses and drink.

Box fidgets with his glass for a moment. He slurs his words every so slightly. His accent seems to grow thicker the more he imbibes. “Not many people understand wha’ I’m tryin’ te’ do. Why I do and say the things I do. Ye’ve always seemed te’ get... “ It’s Jane’s turn to shush Bronson with but a single finger.

She leans forward, resting her weight on her knees still cradling her drink. She brushes a single strand of brown hair from her eyes and trucks it back behind her ear before continuing. “Impact. Lasting impact. When you say you see the truth of it, you aren’t just saying a line… you mean it. Some people can’t see the forest for the trees, you’re just the opposite. Some people get focused on winning this title, winning this match, achieving this little goal or that one. You’re focus is always on Bronson Box and the lasting impact you can leave whereever it is you’re plying your trade. To make each and everyone person, love you or hate you, remember you. Crave to see you.”

Jane raises her eyebrows at Bronson as she takes another drink. “Yada yada, you sell a mountain of t-shirts every month.” She smiles and sits back once again in the low slung leather chair. “I appreciate people who have true vision. Who can see the big picture even with the heat is on. As unhinged as you tend get, you never seem to lose sight of that. It’s a rare gift.”

“In yer’ estimation, how does this Stevens prick measure up, eh? Shoot straight with me, lass.” Jane can’t help but smile, what an odd night. She’s had casual conversations with Bronson before but never like this. The great and mighty Wargod is legitimately smashed.

“You said it yourself, he’s every other wrestler on the block. And his weepy tale of feeling disenfranchised, lost in the shadow of his father's legacy… it speaks of a weak will. No passion, no drive. Not really, anyway. He’s another lazy run of the mill talent churned out by those goons in Chicago. I think he’s blissfully unaware of the meatgrinder he’s about to prance into Monday night. Does that about cover it… sunshine?” Jane and Box share a knowing look.

Box takes a deep swig of his scotch. “Fookin’ right, lass… Fookin’ right.”

The duo continue on their revelries as we pull back and away.


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