The bored young waitress with the faded purple hair can’t be more than her early twenties. She lazily doom-scrolls what looks to be reddit on the cracked screen of her smartphone. She mutters to herself and nobody in particular in a light Londoner accent “How can the world be both on fire and so bloody boring all at the same time?” 

The only other waitress in the joint, who looks to be on her way out, leans in before making her exit. “Oye, Clair. I know you love the live ones, gots what looks like a sad circus man over on table eight if’n yer’ feelin’ froggy. He’s got some blood on ‘im, so be careful.”

Clair lifts her head from her phone and leans back on the stool she’s occupying in the mostly empty diner where she’s supposed to be working. The streets of Edinburgh, Scotland tick by the long dinner windows like some sort of huge television tuned to some tourist show. The scene is almost idyllic, if not for the aforementioned large, sad looking “circus man” sitting smack dab in the middle of it all over at table eight. Clair’s jaw can’t help but hang slightly slack for a second out of the sheer size of the big bald individual with this mustache right out of Conan O'Brien’s prop closet.

Not to mention the fact he seems to be wearing like a… is that a gymnastics outfit or something?

Clair chuckles under her breath, tucks away her phone and pulls out her order pad both from the front pocket of her apron. “Like a gift from the gods. Thanks mate.”

She slowly makes her way over to the huge man. She reaches down and picks up the closed menu, looking like it hasn’t even been opened. “Welcome, what can I get you tonight? And might I add, I ALMOST wore that same outfit this evening, so funny that.” The man’s sad gaze into the non-distance isn’t broken as he grumbles the words “coffee, black” in a Scottish accent that’s clearly been out walking.

“You can always tell when someone from this part of the country has lived abroad, you can always hear it in their accent. Again, the outfit, gotta’ figure you’ve got a pretty interesting job.”

Again “coffee, black” and she takes the hint. Nodding away awkwardly back to the little window behind the counter that peeks back into the kitchen. “Hey.” She pssts the cook away from what he was doing whilst simultaneously pouring a cup of coffee. “What?” The annoyed young man Scotsman in his late thirties leans on the ledge. “What, just coffee? No food? Goddamnit.”

“Shut the fuck up. See that guy over there? The big one with the… face, I guess?”

He rolls his eyes and leans best he can out to catch a quick glimpse and upon laying eyes on the cat nearly swallows his fucking tongue.

“THAT’S… I mean that’s fookin’ Bronson Box, are ya’ daft, lass?! Baddest Scottish born motherfucker to ever live and breathe?!”

Clair shrugs her shoulders. “Is that like the lead singer of a baaaand or… a magician or something?“ The young cook just shakes his head in complete disbelief and turns back to his pots and pans. “Unglue yer’ eyes from that fookin’ phone and take a gander at the side of a bus every now and again before ya’ get hit by one. Bloody hell.”

On her way back to the table with the man's coffee a bus does indeed happen to roll by at that exact moment. The huge advertisement being for some sort of huge professional wrestling show over at Edinburgh Castle. Both sides of the ad are filled with faces she doesn't know from Adam but holy shit, smack dab in front on the left side facing off against another very Scottish looking fellow is the sad circus man currently sitting at table eight.

She slides into the booth bench opposite the man and slides him his cup of black coffee.

“Why aren’t you at your show.” She nods her head at the bus stop just outside the diner where the man’s face sits a few feet from them silently howling. Bronson Box wearily lifts his head and takes a few beats to process the young woman’s boldness and the bus advertisement she was referencing outside the window.

She repeats herself, undaunted by Bronson’s overall vibe. “Looks like you’re missing your show, Bronson is it? My mate back there, Tony told me. Assuming it’s some sort of stage name. Never heard the surname Box before. Mind if I ask you your real name? Or is that some sort of wrestler rule or something, like superheroes. Similar outfits, come to think… “

“I’m no hero. Also you talk a lot.”

Clair grins. “Yeah, I’ve been told that. So what’s your deal?”

His tired brown eyes are bloodshot. She can see them clearly as he leans back in the booth and finally focuses his attention on the bold young waitress sitting in front of him. 

“What?” He cocks his head slightly as he asks the question with a look of vague disbelief at the audacity of this random child.

“If you haven’t noticed you’re the only customer in the place. Last person through was a janitor. Before that a couple plumbers. Then in walks… well, you. Can you blame me? Honestly?” She notices his pause and she silently taps her nametag.

“Ok Clair. You know what? After the evening I’ve had? Ask yer’ questions.”

He takes a sip of his coffee. “Hollis.”

Clair raises her eyebrows silently asking “pardon.”

Another sip. “My names. Hollis. From up near Banff.”

She nods. “So what are you doing sitting here at table eight drinking coffee when your show’s goin’ on up at the castle? By the looks of the ad you’re a pretty prominent figure. Sorry, I don’t follow wrestling. Didn’t even know who you were before Tony filled me in. Sorry.”

He shakes his head. “It’s refreshing, actually. I fookin’ hate wrestling fans. Snide, overly opinionated little shites, the whole lot of them. As for my show, it isn’t my show. Hasn’t been my show for a very very long time now. That much is clear.”

“But there was a time it was your show?”

He nods with the glimmer of what could be a very wistful half smile. It retracts back into tiredness and sadness just as fast. “For many years I got to set the pace. I got to set the standard by which everyone else had to measure.” Boxer sighs and takes another sip of his coffee. “Now like some sort of old car pushed too hard for too long I’m shaking apart at the seams. Have been for a while. So much so I had to leave the only place on God's green that feels... feels right.”

“You went somewhere?” Clair’s questions are asked with kindness and sincere interest.

He pauses for a minute. He nearly drinks through his coffee.

“I’ve always struggled. My heads never been quite right. I get… angry. Once upon a time I could harness all that anger. Like feedin’ a wood burnin’ stove with logs made of bad fookin’ intentions. Usin’ that to fuel my… well, my butchery of folks that need butcherin’.“

She sits with that for a minute and smiles.

“God that sounds so fucking metal, mate.” She says it very matter of factly.

He raises an inquisitive eyebrow. “Pardon?”

“That sort of like, freedom. Just… unleash all your shit on people that deserve it? To have the physical means to just rage at the people crawlin’ up your ass at any given moment? Must feel really good.”

You can see the gears turning in Bronson Box’s head. “Come to think of it? It really does, lass.”

Clair looks out the window at the bus just as it starts to roll away. “So the guy you're growlin’ at on the ad there, that's the guy who beat you tonight, is it? The one that made you show up here in your wrasslin’ undies to chat me up and drink our shit coffee?”

The quiet is long enough to make Clair the slightest bit uncomfortable before finally Bronson opens his mouth again. “Tonight was supposed to be the end of it. I made promises to people who matter to me that this would be it and I’d move on.”

Clair chuckles under her breath and she fiddles with her coffee cup. “You don’t strike me as the just move on type, if you don’t mind my saying. So what awful shit are you cooking up for this poor local boy now?”

Box shakes his head. “No. He got his moment in the sun at my expense. In front of this crowd, damn him… my crowd. This was supposed to be my crowd, my moment. Proof I’m not to… “

He stops. Clair is about to inquire as to what, but by the look on Boxer’s face he clearly would rather not talk about it all anymore.

He looks down at his coffee cup. “I umm… don’t exactly have any, umm… pockets.“

Clair smiles. “It’s on the house. Sign a napkin for superfan Tony back there and we’ll call it even.”

The giant man stands, Clair is taken aback by how much bigger he looks at full height and not hunched over a sad cup of coffee. Looking far less sad and troubled than when he walked in Bronson sniffs and leans over to carefully sign his autograph for the cook on one of the white paper napkins and hands it over to Clair.

He pauses awkwardly. Genuine human interaction is always trying for poor Boxer.

“This was. An… unexpected evening.”

He extends his gargantuan, calloused hand for a shake. Clair doesn't hesitate and lets her tiny hand vanish in the huge professional wrestler's grip. She looks at the huge mitt and mutters to herself. “Like shaking hands with bloody Ben Grimm.”

She smiles up at him with a start. “Also. Age is a ridiculous thing to measure one's worth against. It's a convenient excuse to quit. Don't.”

Again Bronson’s eyebrow raises inquisitively.

Clair slides out of the booth and stands. She turns to Bronson as she straightens her apron. Tucking her order pad back into the front pocket.

“Seems to me that Blackwood fella’ still has one coming. Find a way to fuckin’ send it, mate.”

He nods, looking strangely reassured.

“Take care of yourself, Clair the waitress.”

As he turns to leave. “You too, Bronson the butcher. Stay metal."

Ding ding goes the diners door chime and the Bombastic Bronson Box wanders back out into the cool, muggy Edinburgh evening.

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