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Evan H.
05-01-15, 02:52 PM
[B]Boxer:
As I’ve mentioned so often before, DEFIANCE Wrestling runs through my veins... it has to. I've spilled so many pints of blood over the years for this company something must flow within them, keep me moving forward. Every drop has been worth it. Every single one.

[He pauses to reflect on that.]

Boxer:
I've done awful things in my career as an entertainer, as a fighter. Perpetrated acts of cruelty and unbidden violence that in my of the human races eyes makes me… well, down right evil. I've never disagreed with that assessment. I’m an obnoxious, self centered, willful soul beyond most of my employers wildest nightmares. I do as I please, when I please and how I’m pleased to do it. It’s how I've survived. It’s how I survived my troubled youth, how I survived prison, how I survived endless tours of Europe starting out in this business slightly older and as a much much smaller competitor than most of the hulking beasts that roam the pro wrestling landscape.

[His cold, dark brown eyes meet ours.]

Boxer:
I had to be cruel. I had to be violent. I had to be… evil to carve the bloody path I’ve carved in this profession. There are no lines, there are no limits. I do what’s necessary to etch my name in the history books not as the “greatest” or the “most decorated” but as the most vicious, unhinged, must see attraction in all of sports and entertainment. I’m sculpting a legacy not of gold and glory but of blood and fear.

[He shifts gears. The intensity level slowly starts to climb.]

[He’s not looking at us anymore, we get the distinct feeling he’s singling out one person.]

Boxer:
I was the first wrestler to ever put boots to your canvas. I was the first name the fans heard announced when they took their seats for the first card you ever put on under the DEFIANCE banner. In my second match for you I pinned your soul brother Stephen Greer’s shoulders to the mat for a clean pinfall. I gave your company a World title when I hunted Boston Bancroft down like a dog and dismantled his life... on and on, all for you. All for DEFIANCE.

[Bronson’s upper lip curls slightly causing his mustache to twitch like the second hand on a broken clock. He starts wringing his hands and popping his knuckles.]

Boxer:
But I’m a nuisance. Correct? I’m a headache to deal with, thus the scorn. The shameful way you avoid even speaking to me backstage. You send that ridiculous whore to deal with me. That or you wait for one of your mindless peos to get angry enough to confront me for you. I've lined your pockets selling your bloody t-shirts and plastic doodads for almost eight years... eight years of being overlooked, eight years of being brushed aside, eight years of watching lesser men prance around this roster like any of them could ever dream to TOUCH me…

[The Wargod takes a few small steps forward, his head cocked to the side with a quizative look.]

Boxer:
Tell me, where is Jeff Andrews? Where is Heidi Christenson? Where are all those truly untouchable souls you were so sure were the heart and soul of DEFIANCE? Where is Tom Sawyer, or Christian Light, Stephen Greer, Edward White, Cancer Jiles, Boston Bancroft, Chris Cannon, Jimmy Kort, Kai Scott, Chance Von Crank, Claira St. Sure, Ronnie Long, Python and on and on and on and on, I could spend all day listing all the people who you've placed trust in that have LEFT you… they’re all gone for one reason or another... each and every one.

[He waits a beat.]

Boxer:
Hell, even you’re gone. Aren't you? Building the DEFIANCE brand... that’s what your glorified lapdog, Ms. Evans said you were doing.

[Hurumph.]

Boxer:
You just can’t help yourself… can you Eric? (http://www.fwrestling.com/showthread.php?30436-SLAMTRACK-9&p=126982#post126982) You crave the spotlight. You and that ridiculous cadre of retirees you still laughingly call Team Danger. You can’t legally hog your own spotlight anymore so what do you do? You run to the nearest hole in the road independent and ply your trade. Like an absentee father, you run off to have your jollies whilst DEFIANCE… well, it takes care of itself, right? Kelly can handle anything that comes down the pike. She has Mr. Walker to protect her.

[Now? Now Bronson smiles… wide.]

Boxer:
Do have fun, Eric. Enjoy this last little run while it lasts. Enjoy the hollow adulation from fans that barely even remember who you are... because when you find the time to turn your eyes back to DEFIANCE? Back to your creation? … well.

[He pauses to yank his pocketwatch from his right front vest pocket and checks the time.]

[His eyes meet ours one last time.]


Boxer:
The landscape might look a little... different.

Take care lad, and congratulations.


[A low guttural chuckle. Exit stage left.]




[Amen.] (https://youtu.be/uYv7Kfk0rZI)

Justin
05-02-15, 04:05 AM
“Jesus fuckity fuck.”

These words fail to properly express my complete exasperation with this entire situation. To put it a different way, I am Eric Dane’s last fucking nerve, and Bronson Box is bumbling all over me. I’m standing in the exact same studio where he shot his snide little video this morning, only all of the defining DEFIANCE propaganda has been taken down, covered, or will be edited out in post.

Recently it has become against my lawyer’s wishes for me to appear on television for my own company. It’s a long story, one i’m not going to get into today. So there I stand, in front of a dull grey wall, with a fair amount of my “good cheer” crushed out of me by Boxer’s long-winded attempt at pushing my buttons.

“Alright, fine. If this is what you want, you’ve got it.”

I could feel my eyes rolling deep into the back of my head even as the words fell out of my mouth. I can’t stress enough how little I felt the urge at doing this whole schtick, but at the end of the day if you let one of the children talk back to you, before you know it the whole mewling lot of them start standing up and acting like they’ve got an opinion that’s supposed to matter.

“First thing’s first, you impish, ungrateful little shit,” I grunted, trying not to show more malice than necessary. “You’ve got a big, heavy set of balls taking to the airwaves to call me out out when you know that A.) I’m off of Television; and B.) I’m working on outside projects that allow me the funds necessary to continue to pay the insurance it costs to keep you on the payroll.”

I snorted, derisively.

“What you can’t get through that shiny, oversized head of yours, is that every time you throw a temper-tantrum or beat up some stage-hand or injure one of my stars and keep them off of television, it costs me fucking money.”

The scowl across my face wasn’t a byproduct of my general distaste for having to deal with morons, but more the visage of disappointment at someone of whom once upon I time I had such high hopes. I take no joy in this. In fact, the longer it goes on, the more I can feel the irritation rise. I can actually feel my ears turning read.

“And that right there is why you’ll never be the Greatest Attraction in Sports and Entertainment.” I spat those words out with venom. “A title that you don’t even understand.”

“You’re too fuckin’ thick-headed to comprehend that to be the greatest of all time, you’ve got to draw the most money. You don’t get there by causing the biggest dent in my pockets..”

“You have to move merchandise.”

“You have to pop ratings.”

“You have to drive up the buyrates, and more than anything you have to drive the profit margins up rather barely break even.”

I shake my head, simultaneously amused and disgusted that I have to tell this man, this supposed Greatest of All Time step by step how to get the job done.

“Your problem is you’re too goddamned thick-skulled to realize that The GOAT draws more money than he costs. Liability isn’t greatness, Boxer, it’s my blood pressure going up and my bottom line going down.”

I pause, aching for a smoke. I’m trying to quit again, but going on the road is gonna be the death of that pipe-dream. I find my mind wandering momentarily, imagining that first nerve-soothing drag. It doesn’t last, I do have a point to get around to making.

“If you had so much as a mote of business acumen rattling around in that big glowing melon of yours, you’d get that me paying more to keep you on TV than I pay you to actually appear on-screen is so bad for business that I’ve had to fire two accountants for questioning me about it.”

The urge for a cigarette subsides a bit. The endorphin dump from cutting someone to shreds on camera can overtake just about anything, even a twenty-five year habit.

“And me, I’m reluctant to even stand here and tell you this because every logic circuit I have is screaming at me for exposing you like this.” My lip curls. “Once they figure you out, what little bit of use you are to me is reduced drastically.”

Fuck it. He asked for this.

“Meanwhile you run around telling anybody who’ll listen about how you’re the “Original DEFIANT.” I throw in finger quotes for effect. “What you are, Boxer, is a gimmick-infringing sad sack of shit. Seriously, Lip-Fuzz, let me explain this to you…”

Pause. A deep breath keeps me from shouting.

“Losing the first ever DEFIANCE promoted match to Jimmy Kort, Jimmy fucking Kort, does not somehow engender you to me. Oh, Yeah. I forgot, you don’t like to bring up how Aquaman rolled you up and embarrassed you on your first night in my company while you’re ranting and raving about how goddamned DEFIANT you are.”

I wink at him, I can feel his mustache bristling from here.

“You’re not a special snowflake, Boxer, not then and not now. A guy no-showed the event, I can’t even remember his name. Evan Hurley had been trying to get me to take a look at you for weeks. I needed a warm body in the ring, and you had your gear. You were, as you have been ever since, a means to an end.”

I’d almost forgotten how fun this was. Hell, I’d almost forgotten how good I am at it. I can’t help it if part of me thinks I’m selling out the business, the greater part of me needs this roided up farce of a man to understand just exactly what he means to me when he goes out of his way to get under my skin. Sure, he’s a scary motherfucker and he’s carried the ball for DEFIANCE more than once. However, he’s not the first scary motherfucker who’s ever turned their eye on me and he’s not the only person who’s loyal to the ideals that allow me to have a promotion to run in the first place.

“What do you even want?” The question is rhetorical. Venomous. “A cookie? A raise? A hearty handshake and a pat on the back? You want me to tousle the hair that you don’t have and give you a hug?”

I can’t help but chuckle.

“Everybody knows you’ve got the weirdest kind of Daddy Issues, but the one thing that Big Daddy Dee is not, is your ol’ pappy.” More chuckling, the sheer visual of it cracks me up. “Hell, son, if and when I ever lay hands on you, you can better believe that you ain’t gonna get back up with a drip of blood on your lip and a black eye and a chip on your shoulder.”

It occurs to me that wrestling Bronson Box probably wouldn’t be a walk in the park. The fact of the matter is I know going in that I’d have to damn near kill him to keep him from doing the same to me. Maybe I should just tell him that.

“More like you’re gonna wake up in traction, wondering how you’re gonna make rent or pay for your stay in the hospital once DEFIANCE stops footing the bill. I’m not Dan Ryan, I don’t have mercy on my lessers, and I ain’t gonna feel bad about putting you out to pasture just like I have a whole host of better men before you.”

I’m back to disgusted. The sheer audacity of this guy has my skin crawling. To be fair he reminds me of me fifteen years ago. You know, if I was short and bald and had bad facial hair and a stupid accent.

“You think you’re so good.” He is.

“You think you’re so violent.” He most certainly is.

“You think you’re the first one to trade in blood and fear.” This, he is not.

“I’ve been digging men’s eyes out of their sockets with a fork since you were rotting away in that prison, jerking it to the thought of bare-knuckle-boxing your way into some kind of a legacy.” I was ramping up the heat at this point, getting close to hitting my creciendo. “So fucking what you’ve been a part of DEFIANCE since day one. Why wouldn’t you? I pay you more than you’re worth to scare old women and act like a spoiled little brat who lost his binky.”

A genuine smile replaced the scowl on my face.

“For fucks sake, Boxer. If you think you’ve got it so bad then by all means see if Lee Best or James Wingate are willing to pay you, pay for you, babysit you, and wipe your iddy-biddy-widdle hiney for you when you make boom-boom in those ridiculously striped tights.” The smile widens. “See if they’ll even take your call.”

Hell, if only I could pawn him off on Best. Wouldn’t that be poetic justice? I let that last bit stick in the air for a bloated moment, imagining him trying to tear the hair out of his bald head listening to me. Finally, when I’d regained enough composure to go on without laughing in his face, I bring it on home.

“In closing, my special, special friend, you ain’t the GOAT, and you’re sure as shit not the Original DEFIANT. EYE am, and you don’t have the tools required or the wits about you to do anything about it but throw a hissy-fit and beat up a ninety pound woman.”

And now, finally, I get to the point.

“Grow the fuck up.”

There is one thing that I can tell myself for sure as the blinking red light goes away and I’m no longer being recorded for distribution. Nothing good can come of this. Maybe if I’d taken a different route with him. Maybe if I’d taken him under my wing instead of prodding him with a stick. It’s too late now, though, the shots have been fired. The good news for me is that I’ve got a long and substantial resume when it comes to dealing with psychopaths.

The bad news, however, is that it’s starting to wear on me.