The ACTS of DEFIANCE pay per view has just ended. Out in the arena the fans are still at a fever pitch having just witnessed the EveryChamp Dex Joy viciously assaulted after retaining his title by the returning DEF original, Edward White. The Socialite having just buried a lit cigar in the side of Dex’s face. Trash litters the ring and the rampway all the way up to the curtain through which Ed White and Associates just past minutes ago.

Backstage the Bombastic Bronson Box has spent a majority of the evening after his brutal tag team match in Iris Davine’s trainers room having his shoulder and various wounds tended to. It’s taken this long to get back and shower and throw some of his things into his bag. He’s dressed out in his usual casual black slacks and plain black t-shirt. Staples adorn his forehead, currently he’s fumble fingering the sling-brace contraption Iris had given him earlier for his shoulder. The Wargod’s trademark lack of patience wins the day and he rips the thing off, wads it up and hucks it across the room towards the open locker room door-

Where it lands at the feet of Edward White.

The two old friends stare at one another in silence for a few moments.

Box:
You got less fat, congratulations.

White:
Why thank you Hollis, that’s sweet of ya’-

The Socialite saunters into the room alone. We catch a glimpse of Big Nicky and Jane perched outside the room. Ed nods to Jane as she shuts the door.

White:
You look like shit my friend. I’m surprised this locker room ain’t in tatters after losing to a little snot like that smarty pants Reform, fella’. 

Ed spies Bronson’s blood stained singlet tossed across the bench and picks it up.

Box:
Been a long time, Ed. Even I’ve managed to change some.

Bronson snatches the singlet out of Ed’s hands and hucks it in his bag.

White:
You been wearin’ that same pinstripe abomination since day one of your career and you’re gunna’ stand there and tell me you’ve changed? Bullshit, you ain't changed one thing about yourself since you shaved your head, grew that ugly thing on your face and started physically, VIOLENTLY assaulting people for a livin’. Turnin’ fifty’s ain’t changed you. I’m not one of these new boys and girls round here, Hollis, I got-damn know you. The real you. Two mean, ruthless bastards with no damn need or want for friends by the grace of the devil himself, became just that. Remember?

The Socialite takes a step forward and moves right into The ACE’s eyeline.

White:
So I ask you respectfully, friend- what the ever lovin’ hell are you doin’ playin’ second fiddle with that Blackwood boy and that old prick Harmen? 

The question is abrupt, Ed stands his ground in the awkward silence that follows.

White:
I been catchin’ up on the comin’ and goin’ around here seein’ as I’m lookin’ to get back in the saddle and lo and behold, who do I see? My dear Blood Diamond brother on what I foolishly assumed was a similar path back to prominence. No honor, no respect, WINS. The man with whom I ran this here promotion with? The man with the Hall of Fame legacy built not on titles and big main event hooplah but on BRUTALITY and RUTHLESSNESS. You told me once that you wanted to be "the greatest attraction in sports and entertainment today" by making sure your Faithful worshiped at no other altar but yours. That cold business came out of your mouth, my boy. You even remember that fella’ anymore? Look at chu’ comin’ out tonight to some other man’s music like some sort of second stringer… disgraceful.

Bronson Box takes a beat before meeting Ed’s gaze and taking a very sudden step forward. Ed doesn't flinch, he doesn't twitch one single muscle as Boxer meets him nearly chest to chest.

Box:
What I’m doin?! None of your FOOKIN’ business what I’m doin, boy’o. What’s all this about eh? Pissed off I didn’t come visit you in the slammer, sunshine? Cry me a fookin’ river, Ed. Just like you I ain’t got the time to piss away anymore!

The Socialite just smiles and wipes away the flecks of Boxer’s spittle that landed on his white lapel. 

White:
Yeeeah… you haven’t changed as much as you pretend to, my good man. A tiger as bloodthirsty as you can’t change its stripes. But now that you mention it, not that I give a damn at this point, why the hell didn’t you visit?

Bronson’s jaw untightens. In the past Ed’s absolutely right. Box would have trashed the locker room and kicked Ed halfway down the hallway for being so forward, so pushy, so critical. Now?   Box remembers the plan.   He calms down.

Age brings its fair share of problems, its aches and pains… but age also brings gifts. Patience being one of them.  Honesty being another.

Box:
I lost time in prison too, if’n you remember ye’ self centered prick. Haven’t set foot in one since I was released not long before I started in wrestlin’ as a young man. I, uhhh- I honestly didn’t want to see a mate behind bars, if ye’ must know the fookin’ truth.

The sincerity and lack of bravado takes Ed completely off guard.

Now he’s not sure about his previous statement regarding change.

Ed’s disappointed. Then he’s frustrated.

Then he’s just angry.

We see the scowl develop behind Ed’s thick salt and pepper beard.

White:
Well this is truly disappointing. I thought to find my greatest compatriot in this locker room, or at the very least something that remains of him- but it’s evident now that man is dead and buried. I pity you, Hollis. I pity what you’ve become.

It’s the Wargod’s turn to look unphased. He just goes back to packing his things.

Box:
Get the hell out of my locker room before we have a real problem, Ed.

He looks up.

Box:
And stop usin’ my shoot name, ya’ fookin’ prick- 

Then back down to his things.

Box:
Only my friends get to use that name.

Ed just shakes his head, disappointed. Without a word The Socialite leaves what he sees as what's left of his former tag team partner to his business.

Once alone, instead of bother or anger or frustration-

Bronson smiles the kind of smile that sends a cold shiver up one's back.

Stay calm. Remember the plan.

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