Bronwen O'Connor
Explosions Imminent
Part Two

The two blokes stood and stared in dismay. Bronwen clicks the knife shut in one hand and jams it back into her pocket, and braces herself for another fight.

"Fuck this," Liam says, "fuck this shit. I'm not fightin' her, she's …"

"Your fucking blood", Bronwen says disdainfully. Liams face goes ashen.

"Listen, I'm sorry, it got way outta hand," Liam protests, "I didn't think dad would get that out of control. I didn't know—"

"Ye didn't know he wanted to kill hundreds of people?" Bronwen snarls.

"I thought…I thought if ye came ye might be able to talk 'im out of it," he blurted. "Bronwen, I was fucking counting on ye, and just playin' along. I'm truly sorry."

"Oh for fuckssakes," she moans, covering her face with her hands. "And what was't ye proposed that I would do about it exactly?"

"Well, c'mere and I'll tell ye," he said, beckoning her towards a dark doorway.

She had hit a brick wall a month ago. Recession in the United States. No one wanted to knock down old buildings now, in light of maybe stretching a buck, even if it meant asbestos or black mold slowly killing off the lessening workforce. The calls, once flooding in and having to be re-directed in the name of everyone else's progress, ceased almost entirely. A call to a business associate confirmed it wasn't just her.

"Better to move to Canada lady, if you want to stay in demolitions," he'd said."Recession isn't affecting them nearly at all. Fucking socialists having the last laugh."

No calls meant no work, meant she got bored very quickly, and the bed-fellow of boredom was always restlessness and a surging need for destruction of any kind. After getting into pointless amounts of scraps in bad neighborhood bars, she started drawing too much attention and realized it was a piss poor substitute.

She started dreaming about SFT, and RAW, and realized that's what she should have done all along. Bronwen wanted back into the game, eager with a taste for more, knowing full well that she was more seasoned a fighter coming back than she'd been even when taking a hardcore title in RAW.

In addition, she started having some sinking feelings she shouldn't have left things with someone there like she had. So she'd come back when she'd heard about F1X. She knew as well, that he might be drawn to the new fed, figured it might be the best place to look around. And if he wasn't, all was well and good, she could still get her fight on and destroy some little bitches like Hunt with a little more skill.

This skullfuck of affairs with her Uncle had been a bit of an inconvenience, a minor road block she'd stumbled into to, flipping open her cell on the side of the highway in Montana, instead of snapping it back shut. Left it alone.

In the distance, a throaty rumble can be heard drawing closer. A motorcycle headlight can be seen bouncing erratically on the darkened buildings across the street, growing brighter as seconds pass. With a squeal of tires and a spray of sparks as a chunk of exhaust pipe rubs on the cobblestones, a black motorcycle screams around the corner and comes to a halt in front of the now-dark pub. It idles lowly as the rider throws a helmet to Bronwen.

"Where the fuck were ye?" Bronwen shouted, punching the rider in the shoulder. Beneath the visor, she could see his eyes crinkling as he cracked up, huge shoulders shaking.

"You look like shit dude," the rider laughed as she got on the bike behind him.

"Come on, let's roll, get somethin' to drink, smoke a joint, get a bandaid..."

And just like that, it should have been over, but it wasn't.

Three days later, three explosions rocked the downtown core of Belfast, all in a triangulated simultaneous detonation. Six hundred people screamed at the same time, as fluid sopping rainbows of paint poured down from God unto the pious, soaking children, pinking and greening babies, purpling old ladies, and turning housewives yellow and green, no longer envious, or pious, but horrified.

"It's those GreenPeace blokes," they screamed.

Michael Hunt And Respect

"I want blood, yours or mine has yet to be determined…"

I knew that wouldn't be good enough for you. I knew you would get all bent out of shape because I didn't sit back and count all the ways so clichéd to these kind of trite rants you and your type spit out. You bring up respect and assume that the respectful thing to do is to not go on and on about how you are nothing but a speed bump... Since when is bringing up how lame you are been a form of me respecting you? Respect? Let's take a look at that for a moment.

You want respect but turn to slinging dope between wrestling matches to get a little extra cash. Should I really have to respect a two bit drug dealer? The dealer clearly smoking too much of his own product, I might add. Respect? Do you expect me to respect a never-will-be, who will end up in a body bag? Yes, work those streets, because you're so damn "renegade gangsta", and see what it does for your life. You are heading down that dead end street on your own, regardless of what I might think of you.

So…'Suck a dick up and a hiccup' and you bring up chivalry? Indeed, chivalry must not be dead! I realize you're pained by the fact that I didn't recognize your "chivalry". Excuse me if I confused it with just being a fucking pig. Oink oink, you little shit. Pigs don't look very good bleached blond, and neither do you. Save the chivalry shit for the two dollar squeezes and fifty cent whores who suck your dick up for a pick-me-up.

Another cheap little dealer with a hard on for the thug life. I see your type all the time—locked away in safe little gated communities, far away from the city they throw up gang signs for. You say it's for the pool, but I know it's because you'd get laughed out of where you started from now. I know your type all too well. If I had a nickel for every cheap hood that felt the sting of my explosive properties, well, this drunk Mick would have more than enough to buy you out and turn you legit.

A drunk Mick. You're armed with stereotypes and the ironic part is that you're a walking exemplar, in the worst kinds of ways. You know what they say about guys who throw around stereotypical terms? They fucking believe every word they hurl out of fear and ignorance. Next you'll be looking around for my leprechaun or my shillelagh. Stick your stereotypes up your ass. Better yet, call up your drug mule and stick 'em up his.

Fuck you. Fuck your respect too. Respect is earned, end of story. You are incapable of earning anything but coke and snot encrusted bills. Blood money. I hope you see now that the blood has already been drawn. You sell drugs made by slaves to those enslaved by it. Even worse, you have become nothing but a malignant pawn in this new drug induced cycle of slavery. Respect, chivalry, drunken micks, oh my. You are a fine example of what is wrong with this world and not even a drunk mick is down with that.

A fight isn't a fight without blood. That's given, idiot.

Now seriously, I know you didn't mean to bring up your name. Since everyone brings it up and uses it to berate you, there's no way you would bring that up as a talking point. Right? Oh but of course you do...like a pedophile that can't stop touching boys. Stupid. I wasn't going to say a thing. In fact I was doing my best not to bring it up. But here you go bringing it up yourself. Maybe that's all you do have? After you strip away the drug-store jacket, the fancy clothes and that little wad of money what do you really have? Oh now, that's right, you have your name and your "respect." That doesn't amount to a cap-ring gun, and neither do you.
 

Now that I haven't been ignoring you any longer, I feel somewhat compelled to defend the honor of the Pope. He may not be right to many of you, but most of you have a little man-crush. It's the hat, has to be, and the man himself. He's turned the Vatican green, and not only that, he's named pollution as an abomination. You pollute bodies with drugs—lay off him. As for Michael Jackson, you know you wanted him to touch you too.
I won't ignore you anymore Michael. In fact, I am giving you my full attention. Nothing will get in the way of my attention to you. I will focus on you. Hell, I'll let you be my fucking leprechaun.

Now go off and think about which Fight One title is "more bling" than the other. Go and sling some hash to some prostitutes, take 'em out on the town, and fuck your STD infested brains out. Live it up you little bitch. At Aftershock you can expect Bronwen O'Connor to give you her full attention. Do me a favor though, before you come out to the ring to take me on, do take a bath. Don't bleed on my face either. Better safe than sorry, shit like you has no cure.