[Interior.]

 

[The gym area is just a large athletic torture chamber with high echo producing ceilings. Heavy and speed bags, huge ropes for climbing, lots of weights, a ring. Nothing high tech. A black and white sign that runs the length of the far wall reading “I can do everything through him who gives me strength. Philippians 4:13” gives us a hint as to who calls this place home.]

 

“AGAIN!”

 

[We hard cut to a little old Englishman who must be all sorts of bad ass seeing as he’s currently barking orders at the the Wargod, Bronson Box. Sweat pouring off his brow as he squats what looks to be almost 700 pounds. His black DEFIANCE sweatshirt is sopping wet, veins the size of small snakes cross cross his beet red forehead.]

 

BAM!

 

[The weights hit the floor and the little Englishman throws the towel from around his neck at Boxer’s feet.]

 

"BLAST IT HOLLIS! That ‘aint even close and that’s nearly a hundred pounds short of yer’ best!"

 

[Box glares at the little man with respect.]

 

Box:

I think that’s fine for today, Spud. Thank you.

 

[Boxer reaches for a clean towel from a nearby stack.]

 

Spud:

If’n ye’ want my advice, ye’ puffed up...

 

[Boxer cuts the little trainer off with just a slight twitch of his head.]

 

Box:

I said that’s enough for today, Mr. Collins.

 

[Boxer motions towards the camera crew. The squatty little Englishman just shakes his head and mutters himself out of the room. Boxer turns around with a little flourish, flinging the towel around his bulging neck. His bare feet slap against the small puddles of sweat on bare cement floor, his still red focused directly on us.]

 

Box:

He’s quite the fellow, Spud Collins. Trained me years ago. Not scared of me one little bit, that one. Hell of a man. Would you care to kick ‘im down a flight of stairs, Dan? Maybe yer’ master plan of sendin’ me weapin’ to the bloody hills like some sobbin’ milk maid might work out better a second time. Ye’ crack my girls neck thinkin’ “this’ll set him off his game, this’ll end this”... well guess what lad? I’m still here an’ I’m ready to finally finish breakin’ open that blasted skull o’ yours, maybe peer down yer’ neck an’ check and see just how black that soul o’ yours actually is, lad. Because I’m guessin’ I’ve been right all along and it’s as black as mine.

 

[Boxers arms are still covered in veins, his shoulder muscles twitch ever so slightly.]

 

Box:

You liar, you bamboozler, you FAKE… do you know why I miss Tom Sawyer? He was honest. He was an idiot, but he was damned honest. I knew where I stood with the boy. Bancroft ended up being the same way. I see Boston Bancroft in public and we immediately each feel a sense of deep rooted mix of hatred and respect only he and I know. These men were honest. About who they WERE and what the WANTED.

 

What do you WANT Dan Ryan?

 

Why are you here? 

 

[Bronson just stares at the camera in silence.]

 

Box:

I’m Bronson Box, the Wargod. The Original DEFIANT. I’ve bled endlessly for this company whenever it’s faithful demanded it. Now I demand it. I said at the start of my reign as FIST of DEFIANCE I would baptise that belt in blood. I might have lost the title belt but God knows I still retain the title of FIST.

 

We’ve bled a considerable amount you and I thus far, Dan but believe me… PLEASE believe me when I say that we are far from done. We'll bleed BUCKETS by the time this dance is over.

 

[Slow fade to black.]

 

v/o:

Amen