“Again.”

BAM

Bronson Box has carved for himself a legitimate legend in this, the sport of kings.

“Again.”

BAM

At fifty two years of age what could be considered his “best years” are probably behind him.

“Again, lass.”

BAM

Whatever the hell that means. Because by the looks of him?

“Alright enough, enough. Come’ere.”

He’s still an absolute beast.

Broad and squat, DEFIANCE Wrestling Hall of Famer, two time FIST of DEFIANCE, the Original DEFIANT is just muscle atop more packed muscle. His sheared head and trademark mustache dripping with sweat after what looks to have been a hellacious workout with his latest pupil. The Scottish Strongman reaches over to where several gym towels are draped over the nearest available turnbuckle, wiping his face. He tosses another one across the ring.

It’s plucked out of the air by The Concrete Queen herself, Brixton’s own.

“Thanks unc. But enough with the lass shit, I told ya’ once I told ya’ a thousand bloody times… ”

Duchess Vaughn is built similarly to their uncle. Just an absolute brick shithouse.

The Wargod looks genuinely sorry for his slip of the tongue.

“Aye, aye. Sorry. Cut an old, soundly concussed Scotsman some slack, eh?”

Bronson lets the awkward silence grow. He looks them up and down.

Twisting the towel in their hands, their lip curls.

Eyes focused in the nondistance.

“Pissed off, are ye?”

Duchess looks back at their uncle and nods curtly.

“If I’da had a bloody PROPER partner I’d be headin’ into that title match… “

THWAP

The Starmaker slaps his huge gnarled hand suddenly atop the turnbuckle.

“IF? FOOKIN’ IF?”

Boxer’s voice isn’t loud. It’s just… everywhere.

There isn’t many walking the earth that can curl someone as truly, naturally bad-ass as The Brixton Juggernaut… but even they steal themselves when the Wargod speaks with this sort of authority.

Bronson walks the few steps it takes to get right inside Duchess’ personal space.

They begin to open their mouth but Bronson just slowly shakes his head.

“When you came to me last year lookin’ fer’ pro wrestling trainin’ I swear to Christ, child I was THIS fookin’ close to tellin’ you to hike it back to that bloody bridge troll of a sister of mine… “

Vaughn can’t help but grin at the serious dig at her mother.

“GO ON, CHILD… SMILE. Ya’ just got played, girl. Angus and Eric put you in a situation. She capitalized on it, you didn’t. You showed up to wrestle. Congratulations. She just staked her fookin’ claim, loud and clear. This right here, though? This is your opportunity to punch back… ” 

Again, he lets the awkward silence sit between them.

“So. You’re punchin’ from underneath.  What are you gonna’ do about it?”

The camera pulls in close on Duchess Vaughn's face as a small sinister smile starts to spread.

Just as it does, we cut to black.