CLANG

 

CLANG

 

[The gyms equipment is old and worn. This isn’t one of those cute little gyms with the televisions and the clean towels folded neatly near each machine that you get a membership to that you forget about a few months after the new year.]

 

CLANG

 

CLANG

 

[There’s no treadmills or cute dance based workout classes. No bring a friend free day or t-shirts with the gyms logo on the front at this sweat soaked dimly lit hellhole.]

 

CLANG

 

CLANG

 

[No, this is the sort of gym men go to work things out all on their lonesome. A place to disconnect from the world and focus on the simple repetitive task of getting STRONG.]

 

CLANG

 

CLANG

 

[Currently only one man has chosen to spend this beautiful sunny afternoon alone under flickering seizure inducing florescent lights working things out and he’s well known for having pure strenght in spades. The former World Champion, “The Original Defiant” Bronson Box.]

 

CLANG

 

CA-CHUNK

 

[Box racks the what looks to be near four hundred pound bench press he's obviously been at for some time and sits up with sweat pouring off his face, his white wife beater soaked through. His trademark mustache mussed and waxless. He doesn't acknowledge the camera immidietly. He waits a few moments, starting the process of unwrapping the athletic tape from around his hands before beginning.]

 

Bronson Box:

So you were a bad man, were you Justin? Now you’ve come here to my company looking for some sort of cockamaimy redemption have you? You think facing me is your opportunity at some sort of stepping stone after you kissed Christian Light’s arse last week?

 

[Box raises the corner of his mouth just slightly amused by the thought.]

 

Bronson Box:

Son, have you even watched this bloody show?

 

[Wadding up the spent athletic tape Bronson tosses it off camera and gets to his feet. With his chest and arms still quivering from the brutal workout he throws a grungy looking towel over his shoulders and finally looks towards the camera.]

 

Bronson Box:

I hear those words “you haven’t seen what I can do” or “you don’t know who you’re messing with” from you outside types that waltz in here into my church with with some sort of personal agenda you’re looking to play out. I must admit you’re playing that little game better than some that have come through and gone just as quickly. Approaching Light, the farm boy and that socially inept mongoloid Dewey as they were all misty eyed over that idiot Sawyer was smart, got you booked. Preying on peoples emotions like a true heel.

 

[Box lets that sink in for a few beats.]

 

Bronson Box:

I haven’t seen what you can do, lad? Let me quess... you’re some washed up never was from the ass end of that cesspool of a country “down under” that lied, cheated and stole every accolade you ever achieved. Now, you may point to me and my indiscretions and say “pot kettle black” but you’d be wrong. I back my ill deeds with power and viciousness, never backed down from a fight in my bloody LIFE... but you? Well you REEK of chicken shit, boy’o.

 

[Grabbing each end of the towel around his neck Box plants his feet and settles in.]

 

Bronson Box:

Seeing as you’re obviously another run of the mill outsider I implore you to look back at DEFIANCE’s tape library... look at what I’ve done in my tenure here. Listen to the words I spoke to your new friend Christian Light before I carried him to one of the best matches of his recent career during the finals of that God awful tournament. Go back even further and witness the mayhem I’ve wrought against people like Edward White, Boston Bancroft, Heidi Christenson.

 

You simply aren’t in my LEAGUE, son. Not here. Not in DEFIANCE.

 

[Stopping and shaking his head.]

 

Bronson Box:

But lets for a moment ignore all that... lets just be two men about to go to war. Let’s say you’re not the lying little outsider you are. Lets pretend this play at redemption isn’t what it is, a thinly veiled attempt for you to weasel your way into a position to bilk money and airtime from the company I’ve helped build brick by bloody brick. You want it “brought” do you? That right there I can bloody do, boy'o. You’re echoing the same tune I’ve been whistling since the day I set boot on canvas here. I don’t yearn for gold, Justin. I never have. I don’t even need wins, in all honestly. At the end of the day if I walk back up that ramp under my own power and behind me I leave someone a broken bloody heap proven to that I’m everything EVERYTHING I say I am? That’s a good blasted day for Bronson Box.

 

[Stone cold intensity burning from his retinas.]

 

[He takes a few steps towards the camera getting very close to the lens.]

 

Bronson Box:

When that bell rings, son, I’m going to beat your head into the canvas until it’s nothing but a gelatinous pile of ground meat and bone shards. That’s not some lofty threat... I’ve done that. It’s on bloody tape. That’s what I do. Not after I drop you on your head several times ofcourse.

 

I wrestle people I respect. I break people I don't.

 

[Talking with his hands now, that extra workout adrenaline finds Box a little more emphatic than usual... if that’s even possible.]

 

Bronson Box:

Whether you are what you say you are or you are what I know you are... at the end of the day it’s all moot, fella’... it’s all HOT AIR. Sling your cute little barbs boy, call me names, doubt my resolve because at the end of the day you’re NOTHING TO ME! I know it, Edward White knows it, Angus Skaaland and Darren Keelber know it, even Jeff bloody Andrews knows it. In this company whether I’m on the ‘A’ show, the ‘B’ show, the last match or a bloody DARK match I AM THE MAIN EVENT... I AM THE ORIGINAL DEFIANT!

 

And you? You’re another out of shape, six foot whatever “name” from some company nobody has ever heard of filling a spot on my roster. You’ve got it backwards son. You’re being fed to ME, not the other way around.

 

[After wiping his face with the towel and discarding it he turns and starts his way off torwards the locker room.]

 

[Looking back over his shoulder.]

 

Bronson Box:

I hope to God you have that washed up ponce Light or his two ginger morons ready to sprint from the back to pull me off your wasted bloody carcass because win or lose, pinfall or disqualification I’m going to END your run here before it even starts, lad.

 

.

 

http://youtu.be/ijaYapHoXk8

 

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Bronson Box:

Amen.