[The familiar thunk ca-chunk of a switch being thrown and bank upon bank of awful bright florescent lights come flickering to life. We’ve been inside this nondescript mostly empty warehouse before, empty save for the familiar figure sitting in a black folding chair with his legs crossed in front of him. The sheared head, the three piece suit, the mustache.]

 

[He opens his mouth to speak.]

 

“The setting you set provides the mystery. The reputation provides the motivation. Who I am.... makes me see nothing but the task ahead of me. You called me your prize. I say, I am sat upon the same mountaintop on which I've sat for many many years now. Come claim it. Come make it your own, Bronson. I know it's what you have to do.”

 

[Bronson Box smiles.]

 

Bronson:

A reading from the book of Ryan. You’ve provided us with a wonderful look back at your career, Dan. So many accolades, so many promotions, so many people that mean NOTHING to me. I decided to scale things back a bit for this little sit down, keep it simple because I believe there’s been a bit of a misunderstanding. You still seem to believe I’m trying to BEAT you, submit you, pin you, add another useless prize to my nonexistent trophy case.

 

[From the darkness behind Boxer we hear chains clittering and clanging together.]

 

Bronson:

Do you think anyone here is impressed by you, boy’o? All the many acronyms you’ve lobbed at us like so many grenades through your pathetic little slide show this last week? All the triumphant clips of you winning this title and that title and this award and this accolade... it’s all just wind, Dan. Dust. Sand through a bloody hourglass. All that matters is the fight and the moments we carve out of this business. THAT’S THE PRIZE.

 

THAT’S THE ONLY ACCOLADE I CARE ABOUT!

 

[Boxer smiles, the sound of the chains get a little louder.]

 

Bronson:

Sorry, forgot you’re not a fan of when I raise my voice. Gotta’ think of the children after all. You see Dan, you said it. Defiance is where the fight is. And you know what, Dan? Why I think you’re trotting us down memory lane so often? This bloody highlight reel in your mind serves to inform us all just what we’re dealing with, correct? The great legacy of Dan Ryan, all your little moments just served up. History in a ziplock bag. You're bloody SCARED. Scared that I'm right and you don't have what it TAKES to make it here in MY company.

 

[We see movement in the shadows behind Bronson.]

 

Bronson:

You’re an athletically gifted man, Dan Ryan. Congratulations. You’ve hopped and skipped around the world of professional wrestling long enough that people know who you are. You’ve been stacked against enough weak competition in second rate promotions that you come off as some conquering legend draped in gold walking into MY HALLS like we all owe you something you pompous bastard. I’ve had my fill of self proclaimed legends, myself. From Jeff Andrews to Steve Greer to Christian Light to Eric Dane himself, you lot think you’re so bloody special.

 

[From the darkness emerges a massive silhouette of a man, wild hair with chains clanking around his neck down to his knees. The overalls are history and Frank Dylan James has never more looked the part of The Mastodon dressed in black trunks and wrestling boots. The big West Virginian takes his place behind his leader, crossing his tree trunk sized arms across his chest.]

 

Bronson:

You lot take and take and take and give so very little back. What do I give back, you ask? Myself, Dan. I give of myself for Defiance every single day without hesitation, without distraction. Every time I ply my trade and reap my personal brand of chaos and destruction across this unique little battlefield of ours I’m giving to these people moments that they’ll carry with them FOREVER. When the memory of all those ridiculous acronyms and accolades drift away, when all you are are a boring little yellow blip like all the other little blips on the populous’ memory they’ll still remember Defiance. They’ll still remember the fires Bronson Box set and the souls he pressed beneath his boots.

 

[A little pause, Bronson collecting his thoughts.]

 

Bronson:

Dan, my greatest victory was over a man named Boston Bancroft. A man with so many titles to his credit, a World champion by any definition. World traveled athlete with a pedigree so few have in this business.  Also a family man, also a very bad man who found it deep down in himself to finally be decent. Your story isn’t unique Dan. It’s one I’ve seen so many times before. A beast who couldn't hack it anymore and decided to take the high road. A villain who wanted it all and quit.

 

[From stage right comes skipping the crimson haired siren, Boxer’s companion Virginia Quell. Dressed in a low cut black top and tight brown leather pants The Red Queen has curves for days, leaving very little to the imagination. She makes her way towards where Boxer sits and Frank looms like some sort of Appalachian gargoyle. She passes behind Frank and moves around to Bronson’s left. Resting a hand on the Wargod’s shoulder she doesn't even acknowledge us, her eyes are locked longingly on Bronson.]

 

Virginia: [with a smile and a little peck on the cheek]

Hollis, love.

 

[Boxer reaches up and pats Gin’s hand and continues.]

 

Bronson:

Dan, looking back at your adorable little clips all I can think is that the very definition of all this “focusing on family and finding a heart” you’ve been doing, in my mind is simply called losing your edge. I’ve heard countless people in your little clips remind you endlessly of your responsibility to your family, your wife, your children living and dead. It must be exhausting, the whole lot of it. You see, this is my family. Virginia, Francis here. Edward White as my business partner and friend. My family can take care of itself, Dan. You have so much on your mind, Dan Ryan. Ghost reach from behind you and grab and claw at you, it all eventually starts to pull you backwards, dear boy.

 

The only thing I'm responsible for, Dan?

 

The only thing I EVER have on my mind?

 

 

 

[Bronson slowly pulls the long, rusted spike from his coat pocket.]

 

[A slow terrifying smile crawls across the Wargod’s mustachioed face.]

 

 

 

Bronson: [eyes still on the spike]

Take a guess.

 

[We pull up and back.]

 

http://youtu.be/2O4D5jNzv28

 

[Bronson and Virginia's laughter mixes with the haunting music as we fade to black.]

 

 

 

[Amen.]