Reinhardt Hoffman steps off the landing down into the dim, smokey little pub located somewhere on some isolated backstreet in the network of streets and alleyways known as the French Quarter in historic New Orleans, Louisiana. Surrounded by dark wood paneling, a dark wood bar extends the length of the long narrow room. Opposite the bar a long row of booths one after another. Their tall rounded back walls creating a sort of cubical for intimate and or lonesome drinking. As The Gentleman German scans the room he sees a large plume of smoke escape from one of the booths. And a familiar voice... 

“BARKEEP. Another Lagavulin, if you’d be so kind.”

Any empty glass slides to the end of the table just as Hoffman walks up and takes a seat. Across from his friend the “Bombastic” Bronson Box. Not quite three sheets, but close, The Scottish Strongman slumps uncharacteristically relaxed in his seat. He lackadaisically acknowledges Reinhardt by silently raising two fingers to the bartender.

“To what do I owe the pleasure, boy’o? “ he narrows his eyes and grins the grin of a man almost drunk enough not to have a care in the world. 

Reinhardt looks at his friend with concern as the bartender slides two iceless glasses of golden Lagavulin onto the table, taking a small sip. “You’re still in town.”

Less a question, more of a surprised statement of fact. Boxer follows suit and downs a much bigger sip of his drink. “Aye. One place is as good as another. Don’t matter.”

He finishes his drink and takes another long drag off the lit cigar clipped between the gnarled fingers of his red right hand, repeating the order from moments earlier. Puff, slide the glass to the end of the table… “BARKEEP.”

The former Ace of DEFIANCE sighs contently and hooks a thumb towards the decidedly thumb shaped bartender. “Besides, he lets me drink ‘til I pass out. Makes wakin’ up and gettin’ back to drinkin’ that much easier. One of the few things I like about this piss-soaked town.”

Another glass of scotch slides onto the table, settling in front of The Wargod. Reinhardt finishes his first drink and gets to his feet. “Boxer… Hollis, my friend.” He looks him right in the eyes best he can manage with Boxer tucking back into his newest drink.

“There was a time you were the beating heart of DEFIANCE Wrestling. Displays of brutal pro wrestling violence that are etched into the bedrock of the company. You set the pace we all strive to match to this very day. THAT is why it matters. Why you matter.” He leans in and places a hand on Boxer’s shoulder.

“Please find your way back from wherever it is you’re lost.”

The square jawed German turns on his heels and slowly makes for the door. Leaving the “Bombastic” Bronson Box to mull over his friend and training partners words. After a few moments his already gnarled, mustachioed face twists into a grimace as he downs his drink.

“BARKEEP.”

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