Title: Red Leather Yellow Leather
Featuring: Bronson Box
Date: 12/18/13
Location: Northern Utah, The Conclave Training Facility

[We’re in what looks to be decidedly the least high tech gym still in proper working order in the entire country. Plain black heavy bags, several very basic weight benches, huge ropes for MMA style cardio and strength conditioning.
 
Most notably across the top of the back wall hangs a huge black and white banner that reads “I can do everything through him who gives me strength. Philippians 4:13”
 
This isn’t a place to “workout”... this is a place to get strong.]
 
[Through the gunmetal colored double doors that lead into the black and red colored gym wanders the stout little Englishmen we’ve come to identify as Spud Collins. Better known as the man who originally trained the “Bombastic” Bronson Box how to be a proper professional wrestler.
 
Spud is one of those oldtimers that never really made it big but was easily one of the best to even lace up a pair of wrestling boots. A journeyman in his home country and in mainland Europe during the 70’s and 80’s, Spud is a true road tested veteran.]
 
Voice:
Evenin’ Spud.
 
[A voice from behind Spud makes him jerk around with a start.]
 
Spud:
Jesus Christ boy, what’re you doin’ here?
 
[Bronson Box is down on his back dressed out in his black sweats and his old stretched out DEF tank top furiously doing situps. He’s undoubtedly on what must be a three digit number at this point as he’s drenched in sweat. He sits up, resting his arms on his knees.]
 
[Spud cracks an annoyed grimace.]
 
Spud:
Ain't you supposed to be back home on tour?
 
[Boxer curls his upper lip, gets to his feet and reaches for a nearby towel.]
 
Bronson:
I AM bloody home.
 
[Spud rolls his eyes as he continues his gym related duties.]
 
Spud:
Yeah, well your home is pretty empty since you done ran off all our students, lad.
 
Bronson: [patting his sheared head dry]
They were the drizzling shits.
 
[Collins stops and breathes heavily, speaking to Boxer without even turning around.]
 
Spud:
The Bigsby boy was good, so was Butcher. 
 
[Boxer gives a soft harumph.]
 
 
 
[An awkward silence falls over the two men. Box gets lost in thought as Collins continues his rounds cleaning and stocking the small training facility.]
 
 
Spud:
So boy, you gunna’ tell me why you flew halfway around the world just to workout in this blasted place?
 
Bronson:
Just took Edward’s jet, I’ll be back on tour by morning. Can’t think straight in that bloody country. The mewing masses were giving me a blasted headache.
 
Spud:
Oh, so its the fans eh? Boy, you’re a home grown talent and you never gave those folks any reason to hate ye’ before you left for greener pastures. Short of climbin’ the guardrail and takin’ it up with ‘em one at a time yer’ just gunna’ have to adjust to a few crowds chantin’ yer’ name. It’ll tame more’n even Bronson Box to break a bunch of drunk Brit’s sense of national pride… so bugger off with that headache nonsense and get back to work.
 
Bronson:
Chantin’ for what? A bloody cartoon they’ve created in their heads? I ‘aint blasted Cancer Jiles, panderin’ fer’ their love and affection. I’m not some nosey goodie goodie like that useless Dewey prat. Desperate to convince the masses I’m not some fat little ginger with delusions of grandeur.
 
[Spud chuckles under his breath.]
 
Spud:
You and that Dewey boy, Jesus.
 
[Boxer raises an eyebrow.]
 
Spud:
Oh don’t give me that, you’ve been stewin’ about that lad since he bested ye’... twice was it?
 
[The Wargod grits his teeth and starts wringing the towel still in his hands.] 
 
[Collins finally turns around to face Bronson.]
 
Spud:
That’s what I thought. And that fat little wretch showed he can swing a chair and drop a man on his head just as easily as you can. His showin’ at Ascension dropped him right in line for a shot at that pretty blood soaked belt o’ yours, mark my words. If he beats that lowlife Von Crank, believe you me you’re goin’ to be lockin horns with that “ginger with delusions of grandeur” sooner rather than later.
 
Bronson:
I’m not bleedin’ scared of Eugene Dewey…
 
Spud:
No doubt, but by hook or by crook that little Orphan Annie lookin’ fop has managed to shake your damned confidence, lad. The second he stuck his nose in that title match in London you ‘ain’t been the same. Lord help us if that twit gets himself another win over the ever distracted Original DEFIANT… 
 
[Box grimaces at the allegation of weakness.]
 
Bronson:
I’m more concerned with what that beast Ryan wants at this point than the aspirations of that grinning idiot. What was he doing? Protecting me? The man’s obviously gone insane.
 
Spud:
Yeah, well. You’ve proven yourself against Ryan. He’s got his own row to hoe to get back in contention for that strap. Dewey though? That boy’s got you in his sights, mark my words. So my advice is plan for the inevitable.
 
Time ter’ put on your armor, son.
 
[Spud goes about his business leaving Bronson to ponder his words.]
 
[The Wargod breathes a soft sigh as he makes his way over to his gym bag on a nearby weight bench. Throwing the towel on top he reaches in and slowly pulls forth the gold on red leather FIST of DEFIANCE Championship belt.]
 
[He holds the strap in both hands for a moment before placing it over his shoulder.]
 
Bronson:
I said I was going to baptise this belt in Dan Ryan’s outsider blood…
 
I did that.
 
I said I would by hook or by crook beat Dan Ryan and walk out of that savage country the two time FIST of DEFIANCE. Did that too.
 
I don’t lie, ladies and gentlemen. I brutalize people, I dig my spike into the canvas and carve my letters there each and every night to show I was there. I state my intentions loud and true for all to hear but I’m still ignored, still looked at with ill humor. Lumped in with reprobates and lairs like Kai Scott and Jeff Andrews and their ilk.
 
I might be a violent, cruel, ill tempered madman but I’m no liar, boy’o.
 
[He rubs a hand across the main plate of the FIST.]
 
Bronson:
So here’s one for you. One of The Wargod’s many truths.
 
Mr. Collins is absolutely correct. I’ve let my classic resolve weaken and wane in recent weeks. Between my dear Virginia being snapped in twain by that beast Ryan and the awful reception from my so called countrymen I’ve been a bit out of sorts. It truly is time to strap on my armor and go to war. 
 
 
[His eyes pop back upwards towards the camera.]
 
Bronson:
Eugene my boy.
 
I never did get the opportunity to congratulate you on your victory at Ascension. You proved a lot of people wrong, silenced so many critics. But I’ve always known you had it in you, boy’o. You’ve got that same awful plucky spirit Sawyer had. You just don’t know when to stay down. You do our DEFIANCE proud with that resolve, lad.
 
[Again his eyes drift to the belt over his shoulder.]
 
Bronson:
The fact your match with Chance Von Crank will probably create a number one contender for my gold pleases me. Two young homegrown talents hungry for the TRUE main event achievement in this company warms me to my bones. Because either way boys, either way I get to further baptise this title in the blood of my enemies. With Ryan? The blood of an outsider, the blood of a “superstar”... with one of you?
 
The blood of a brother.
 
[A sick smile crawls under Boxer’s signature mustache.]
 
Bronson:
The blood of family.
 
 
Put on a hell of a show, boys. I’ll be watching.
 
[Hard cut.]
 
 
 
 
Amen.
 


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