DISCLAIMER:Read Defiance TV 34 Before Reading The Following RP
EDIT: Also, my preference? Read it [here] instead, looks better.
[We’re backstage at the BankAtlantic Center in Sunrise Florida. The general hustle and bustle of a wrestling show in progress is drowned out by an absolutely thunderous cacophony of sound from out in the arena. A chorus of every reaction possible from furious anger to pure elation. Each one can be picked out from the raucous crowd.]
Voice from off camera:
[As the camera slowly pans across the hallway we see slide into frame a huge square chest crowned by a dapper if not slightly disheveled handlebar mustache. With spatters of Cancer Jiles blood still fresh on his skin we lay eyes directly on the former Defiance World champion.]
You know who:
Bronson by God Box. Live and in person on ESEN.
[It’s obviously mere moments after the conclusion of Defiance TV 34 where Bronson and his new business partner “The Socialite” Edward White left the self professed King of Cool laying out cold in a pool of his own bodily fluids. A union from the pits of hell formed before our very eyes live on ESEN mere moments ago.]
Out there with the crowd in an uproar with Cancer Jiles’ blood squishing between my fingers as I tossed him around by his pretty blond curls it dawned on me. What better time than right now to address the viewers of ESEN on the eve of this giant supercard where the egg man and myself are to do battle for you, the ESEN audience and represent Defiance Wrestling...
[Bronson balls his fist and examines Jiles’ sticky dried blood still on his knuckles.]
Which is a load of bollocks. Ye’ see ladies and gents... Jeff Andrews is a wee coward. He GAVE himself the Defiance World title and has since ducked every competitor worth settin’ boots to. Myself and the man whose blood currently stains my fists, Cancer Jiles. So what does Jeff do? Instead of the champion of MY company chompin’ at the bit to step in that ring and fight like a bloody MAN... he hides.
[The disgust and contempt drips from every letter of the word.]
He takes the two top men in “his” company and throws them in a match together. Not unduly so, mind you. It’s not as though Mister Jiles and myself haven’t had our differences. Not on screen... and I’m not talkin’ about bloody Twitter either. Cancer Jiles is a tacky stain on the wrestling company I helped build. From the second I met the man I hated him from a place deep deep down in the blackest recesses of my soul. Jeff knew that. So he when he was told to send a championship caliber match... he chose us.
[Snarling from behind his trademark facial accoutrement.]
Jeff Andrews was even to piss scared to get into the ring with the man I just turned to mush with my new friends out there. Now ‘aint that the cutest thing you ever heard? This match in a few weeks? Not gunna’ end up any different that tonight. Cancer Jiles... boy, I hope you’ve come around from yer’ little nap by the time this airs, lad. I really hope so because I want you to listen.
[Box holds out his hands, palms up.]
There’s no bravado here, boy’o. I’m bein’ as sincere as I possibly can be. I’ve worked harder and caused more chaos for this company than you’ve had long nights swilling booze and womanizing anything with a TWAT and a mouth. You’ve wasted what modicum of pure talent you were born with on swill and useless material CRAP. You spent nearly a year spending Edward White’s precious time and money and for what... what did you help him achieve? Other than a giant hole where either his hard earned money or a BLOODY CHAMPIONSHIP BELT WOULD BE YOU SELFISH PONCE!
[Bronson’s jaw quivers with the rush of leftover adrenaline.]
This company means everything to me, Jiles. And if through Jeff Andrews’ pathetic fearful laziness I get to make her shine on the biggest stage she’s ever set foot? I get to introduce our fine red lady to the world wide ESEN viewing audience and baptise her in your BLOOD?!
So be it.
And God help you, lad.
[Box looks straight into the camera.]
For those of you that might not know me. My name is Bronson Box. I was the first face these fans ever saw in a DEFIANCE wrestling ring. And they know deep down in their hearts that one bloody way or another I’ll be the last. I have that power. I have that sway. At one point I nearly brought this entire promotion down around our ears with my bare hands and by God they all know I could do it again in an instant.
Jeff Andrews. [snort] What can Jeff Andrews do that a focused and motivated Eric Dane couldn't do? Dane slipped up and Jeff Andrews ends up runnin’ the bloody place. Like Dane won’t eventually come back in some big hooplah match against someone the DEFIANCE faithful could give a rats ass about and take back his bloody throne just like he did the last damned time. The best Andrews has done thus far is award himself a toy belt and ducked anyone with the motivation to truly test his so called skills as a professional wrestler and take the damn thing from him.
[Box opens and closes his fists, again feeling the stickiness of the freshly dried blood.]
He’s ducked me. He’s ducked Cancer Jiles. He’s ducked Edward White. The only two bloody people that sot has seen fit to challenge is an old legend so past his prime and having suffered so many concussions he’s actually mistaken Tom Sawyer and his pack of short bus rejects as the second coming of Team bloody Danger... oh, and that fat man titted sow Eugene Dewey what wrestles in a button down dress shirt he bought at bloody Wal-Mart.
Well, Jeffery. You sure have proven yourself quite the champion. Paper? What paper? You’re right... you’re impressive, lad. The world bows at your feet. You’ve surely beaten the best.
[Breathing a deep sigh.]
But that’s fine. The management of this bloody promotion has always had a story they wanted to tell. From Dane to Goldman to Cito to Jeffery the ones pulling the strings always have their little plans, don’t they? I’ve never been one for plans. I usually go with my gut... sadly my gut tends to land me in hot water, thusly I sought out a man who not only has a wealth of knowledge but a man who carries himself with class and dignity. My friend, Edward White.
[Shaking his head at the camera with a half smile.]
But don’t fret Cancer. I have Edward’s word he won’t dare interfere in our match. In Cowboy Stadium in front of thousands of screaming fans, millions around the world watching on pay per view you will experience pain, son. I have no doubt you’ll spend the remainder of our time between now and then flappin’ your gums and do your best to convince these fine people you have a snowman’s chance in the fiery halls of Satan’s cursed kingdom of even coming CLOSE to beating me on such an important stage to me personally.
[Pause. The intensity in Bronson’s eyes telling a story for the camera.]
Go on. Tell the good people how cool you are, lad. Talk about yer’ bloody sunglasses.
[Feet up. Legs out. Hands, snugly interlocked behind a heavily bandaged head. Percocet induced smile on full blast.]
“Where in the holy fuck do you get off?”
“I can deal with this.”
[The Count of COOLSYLVANIA points to his forehead.]
“What I can not... WHAT I WILL NOT deal with is this.”
[Manifesting one of those plastic bags that detectives put evidence in, Cancer unveils a broken pair of sunglasses. Said sunglasses are the pair from Defiance TV34.]
“I’ve had these a year and a half. They have been to hell and back. They have seen things that only an autistic child can dream about.”
“And you broke them.”
“You, a fucking yellow-belly Scottish coward.”
[The world has ended. That is the look on Cancer Jiles’ face right now.]
“I’m going to stab you in the fucking face, Bronson Box. Numerous times. ON PAY PER VIEW. That means, people are going to pay big money to see you get shanked in both of your eyeballs.”
“Then, after I’ve fucked your skull nice and good with a serrated tip, I’m going to place _THESE_ sunglasses on your ugly Scottish face. You wretched fucking pig-bastard of human being.”
[My dear, The Count sure is swearing like a Perscription Popping Sailor. He must be in a lot of pain.]
[Both emotionally, and physically speaking that is.]
“What a fucking goon you are-- with that stupid fucking accent and that stump of shit you call a personality. With your, I’m the original defiant non-sense. How about this, Mr. Origin Stone? How about the only thing original about you is that originally your head looked like a prepubescent penis.”
“And now... it's hit puberty.”
[It’s okay if you don’t get it. Most people aren’t next level like Cancer Jiles is.]
“To think, after all this time you’re actually under the impression that I need to tell people I’m COOL?”
[Time passes. It’s due to sheer bewilderment.]
“How fucking dense, art ye?”
[Yup. That was The Count’s attempt at calling Scottish.]
“--Has all of that gasoline guzzling finally gone to that cue ball head of yours???”
[Another pause for bewildering purposes.]
“THIS, speaks for itself-- you fucking Mongo.”
[For a guy who has been getting his face smashed in on the regular, Cancer is looking pretty good right now. His hairdo is colored in a natural shade of crimson-blond, and his NEW PAIR of even larger than life T-shades are hiding the black and blue raving about his eyes. In fact, if it weren’t for the gown he’s donning, you might think he were kicking back in the cozy comforts of the Defiance Promoe Boof.]
[You know, as opposed to where he actually is.]
[That would be the hospital.]
[The Count’s new home away from home.]
“The original defiant-- what a fucking unfunny joke.”
“Originally, when I first came to the federation you think yours... which is another legit gas in itself-- I saw you, Bronson, and thought... huh, I didn’t know Defiance had a midget roster. It sure would be fun to toss one of them around.”
[Yes, The reigning God of COOLYMPUS just imitated a younger version of himself. His tone of voice while doing so changed zero. However, he did move three pieces of his hair a millimeter to the left. So you’re aware, that is where they were three years ago.]
“Funny to think, that little sideshow act who I thought was on loan from Barnum, would one day go on to become the raging glass-eater known as Bronson Box-- The Warden of Pain. The Hammer of Life. The Flippant Scot. The...”
[Lord COOL chirps off a few more nicknames that he’s imagined Bronson Box has gone by over the years. He ends with, THE MOTHERFUCKER WHO PUT HIS HANDS ON MY PRECIOUS AND THINKS HE’S WALKING OUT OF TEXAS STADIUM ALIVE.]
[He got off track.]
[By the way, PRECIOUS = the shattered T-shades in the plastic evidence bag, and not Cancer’s weenie.]
[Besides, Count COOL is too old for Bronson’s liking. See:The Boston Bancroft Affair. Spoiler tag would read, A bizarre child kidnapping love triangle between brothers of the mustache.]
[Anyway, after laying back down after a fit of rage landed him on his feet, Cancer relaxes his tone and eases his way back in.]
“What do you know? Turns out I’ll be getting my wish after all.”
[The native of Philadelphia sharply raises his hand as if he were about to cut someone’s speech off.]
“I should be careful of what I wish for. You are the Bronson Boxer. You have no morals to tie you down. Your depravity knows no bounds. You’ve had lunch with the devil, and then skipped out on the check because who the fuck is going to call Bronson Box out on anything?”
[It was dinner, not lunch.]
“Other than me that is.”
“Heh, and look at what that has gotten me?”
[Some big ass bills to pay. That’s for certain.]
“Let me tell you what else I know, Bronson. I know that you... the baddest of dudes, is horrified to face Cancer Jiles.”
“You heard me correct.”
“I did not stutter, I said Bronson Box fears Cancer Jiles.”
[The Count nods accordingly.]
[T-shirts are being made.]
“A lofty statement, sure. Then again, most people don’t know what I know, and what I know is that ever since our match was announced, you’ve been going out of your way to make sure I wind up where it is that I am."
"On a recurring basis.”
[Cancer’s already reserved a suite at Dallas Memorial. That’s the hospital where Jerry Jones stayed after his heart surgery.]
[So I’ve heard.]
“I know you’ve aligned yourself with the one man who know’s me best-- that Benny Arnold motherfucker who canceled my sweet-ass health insurance.”
[Benny Arnold is Cancer’s former tag team partner and longtime friend, Edward White. Ed is rich. Like, Saudi oil and all the Microsoft and Apple patents rich.]
“Mind you, in a move that could be described as, NO ONE SAW COMING.”
[It was shocking.]
“Gee, I wonder why you would do that, Bronson? I wonder why all of sudden you would start shining Edward’s shoes and taking his orders? Is it because you wish for a life of servitude? I know that’s what you religious nuts strive for, so if that is the case-- have fun doing it blind.”
[That last comment was in reference to the eyeball shanking Cancer mentioned earlier.]
“Shit, and if that weren’t evidence enough, just recently you absconded to the top rope... going places you’ve never ever gone before.”
[More self-satisfying head nodding.]
“How’d it feel, Bronson? Ya know, actually being eye to eye with other human beings for the first time in your pathetic life?”
“Kidding aside, all of that jazz fluting... just for little-old-me?”
“Well, I guess in our case it would be bigger-old-me.”
“Nevertheless, I should feel so special.”
[You couldn’t see it, but there was an exaggerated roll of the eyes.]
“But, then again, you’re just a scared little bitch who’s going to get everything he has coming to him.”
[TEH PHIGHTING WURDZ!!!!]
“We will bathe in blood, you and I.”
“I WILL extract my pound of flesh, and you will be left to wondering why it was you spent so much time talking about Jeff Andrews, and not enough time contemplating the very real consequences of a COOLtanium rearranged face.”
[The click kachunk of a switch being thrown harbors the blinding fluorescent lights overhead flickering on with the subtlety of a sword through the face. We’re in the same nondescript warehouse environment we’ve seen a hundred times in wrestling promos. The lights go through their usual struggle to live, flashes of a familiar figure appear center screen... finally the lights settle in the on position and our host comes into stark white terrifying view.]
Voice from the flickering madness:
[Dark maroon pinstripe three piece. Sheared head and freshly waxed deep handlebar.]
[The ORIGINAL DEFIANT. Bronson Box.]
You want my full and undivided attention, Captain Sickbed? You’re feeling a wee bit unloved with me spouting off about our brave World Heavyweight champion between the numerous tirades callin’ you a tacky shallow ponce with not an ounce of manhood in the entirety of that leathery bleached insult to athetic endeavors everywhere you call a body... so sorry about that, boy’o.
[Boxer runs his tongue over his teeth causing his mustache to twitch as he gives all that a second to sink in.]
Honestly, boy. The damn sunglasses? [an astonished shake of the head] That. That right there is the problem I have with you, Jiles. The yellow stains you call promos are the same jibber jabber over and over. The same tired gags. The same sad references to your bloody hair and your damned clothes and your asinine moveset. That chop? Never has one man talked so much and said so little. If something of actual substance passed over your quite surely infested lips and tongue the world would stop stunned into complete silence, lad.
[Boxer adjusts the tiny white rosebud pinned to his lapel. A subtle hello to his new business partner, surely.]
I’m short, I’m a goon, I’m a coward. Go on lad. Please God do go on. Tell me all about it. Curse to the high heavens scream obscenities until yer’ bloody narrator covers his ears and starts to bloody CRY, boy’o because it changes NOTHING you flippant little nuisance.
[Boxer reaches into his front jacket pocket.]
[And out comes something Cancer knows quite well.]
Remember this, lad? The five way ladder war where I unified the Defiance Crown and the WfWA World Heavyweight title. You remember that night, don’t ye’ Jiles? That was the night I ACTUALLY stabbed you, laddy. Ye’ see, Cancer. I don’t say things I won’t actually do. I don’t run my mouth for just anything. Whilst you live in an echo chamber of your own braggadocious lies and ego enhancing nonsense I stand firmly on truth. Honesty. Straightforwardness.
When I say something like “I’m going to stab you in the face” I actually bloody DO it.
[Eyes like spikes.]
Win or lose. Cancer Jiles, you’re not WALKIN’ out of that arena. I will paint a bloody PORTRAIT in the pints of blood I squeeze from your lifeless husk. A portrait Dan Ryan and Castor Strife can enjoy as they try desperately to top the spectacle I’m going to put on at your expense, boy. You’ve squeaked by in some incredible wrestling matches in your time, Cancer. Some tight scrapes. It’s a bloody shame we won’t be seein’ any of that classic Jiles resilience when we stand toe to toe in that ring in Texas.
Ye’ see... I’m not lookin’ to wrestle you, Cancer. This truly will be a spectacle.
It’ll be a bloody SACRIFICE.
[Box looks at the spike, still clutched in his hands. The rough coppery metal still stained with flecks of dried blood from past use.]
Because I am a goon, Cancer. Of the highest bloody degree. I’m a mean judgmental thug with my own ideas of right and wrong and YOU, CANCER JILES ARE GOD DAMNED WRONG!
[Mustache quiveringly intense.]
I judge you. You joke. You gimmick. Come at me, boy'o. Like a man. I DARE you. Open your mouth and TELL ME WHAT YOU’RE GOING TO DO LIKE A MAN! BLOODY SHOW ME SOMETHING!
No jokes, no rapid fire delivery. For once... [balling his fists, grabbing at nothing] for once stand up like a PROPER man. Because if you don’t? If you prance into our match as though you have not a care in the bloody world OTHER than what cute new way you’re going to spout that insipid word of yours?
[The sore neck would be from Bronson checking over his shoulder.]
[Indeed he is. No more hospital rooms and green jello for the Count of COOL.]
[Not yet anyway.]
[For now, Cancer’s double-timing a strict lung regime with a strong to excessively strong emphasis on water aerobics. You know, because he’s got to work on the immense endurance needed to survive an evening with Bronson Box.]
“That’s right. I’ve been given a clean bill of health for you to wipe clean again.”
[It might not have been clean, but Cancer was definitely given a bill recently.]
“Which means, right about now the drool has started to run down your quivering lip.”
[An unimpressed Jay.Oh. motion.]
“I can see it clear as day-- being your ugly face has been so firmly impressed upon my mind as of late. And PLEASE, don’t take that as me saying I’m impressed with you, because I couldn’t be further away from such a thought.”
“No, what that meant was your face is like an unwashable shitstain corroding my cerebral cortex.”
[Heh, shit for brains.]
“Frankly, it’s all I seem to see these days, Bronson. You, and that stupid fucking mustache. When I wake up in the morning, it’s Bronson Box in my Lucky Charms. When I take a dump, it’s Bronson Box stinking up the place. When I smoke a bowl, it’s Bronson Box ruining my high.”
“No lie, I’ve had to abstain from having sex because... well, you’re not my type.”
[You might say Cancer has some big balls for the laissez faire way in which he speaks to Bronson Box.]
[Now you know the why.]
“It doesn’t matter how many times I bang my head against the wall... or black out from holding my breath under water.............”
“Your, condescending mannerisms.”
“That look of despair... and rage.”
“It’s all that I can see.”
“Take right now. This very second. Not only can I see the puddle of drool you’re standing in, but I can see the fire blazing out from your ears and nostrils over the discontent you hold towards my superstar hairdo and clean shaven face.”
[Bronson does tend to be a little hot headed at times.]
“I can see your wide eyes narrowing in on my silk-shirt.”
“To answer your question, yes, it cost more than your car, Bronson.”
[Intended for correction purposes, a flexed finger goes shooting out.]
“Oh, that’s right. You don’t own a car. You own a bicycle with a giant front tire.”
[With delicate precision, Cancer removes his T-shades and takes a moment to palm-massage his eyeballs. The black and blue around his eyes is still noticeable, but no where near the rave it once was.]
[...............and then he shades back up.]
“I hate you, Bronson Box.”
“You, have totally mindfucked me.”
[Not. Easily. Done.]
“Kudos on that. Though, it’s not because your threats against my life and career have me shaking in my boots. I mean, you of all people should know I was just hanging out with Hades a few months ago, so therefore I don’t scare easily.”
[It’s true. Ya see, Cancer was buried and left for dead by a band of misfits. On a certain day a certain someone took a Defiant throne... he chawped his way to the surface. Since then, he’s been FEARLESSLY at war with the everyone.]
“Rather, it’s because you have blinded me, Bronson. To say you’ve taken the shades from off my face... well, would be quite fitting, wouldn’t it be?”
[The look of disgust on Cancer’s face is tangible.]
“You have pulled the wool over my eyes by taking me away from the things I should be doing. Like, reading a good book. Or taking a nap. Or making fun of the Untouchables.”
[To be clear, Cancer hasn’t read a book in... a while.]
“But no, instead of The OG of COOL crypt walking to Screamin Jay-- instead of him sleeping well at night... his mind is plagued with your ugly face.”
[Sad faces all around.]
“Fortunately for me, I know how to get rid of such a problem.”
[Upside down his frown goes.]
“I know I said I was going to take both of your eyes for the hubris you exerted towards The COOL."
"Now though, I think I’m going to CHAWP off your head, too.”
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