The camera pans around the room before focusing on Butch himself who is adorned in just his personalised Venum© fight shorts and a pair of black and red sparring gloves ad by the looks of him, most notably the sweat decanting from his body like he’s just been in the shower, he’s already been training for quite some time.
He works out on a black “Reebok” free-standing punch bag in front of him, starting with a simple combination of jabs and reverse punches, always keeping his guard up and bringing the punching hand back to his chin. After a couple of those, Butch adds several more moves onto the combo, going from jab, counter to a hook and then an uppercut, keeping his body moving, releasing a grunting sound every time a blow connects with the bag. Butch mixes it up a bit by adding kicks to his routine. He fires another one-two with a jab and a counter punch but brings his back leg up and stings the bag with a static roundhouse kick before instantly bringing another roundhouse into the equation as soon as his left foot touches the mat in front of him. Butch ducks his head as if avoiding a left hook and smashes the bag again with a left counter punch afore releasing another lethal roundhouse, but this time, instead of stepping onto his front foot, Butch re-chambers his leg, drawing it back in to a folded position and unleashes two more whipping roundhouse kicks, each at a higher height.
Butch’s routine continues for another twenty minutes or so, as he continues to add and mix up his combinations, never staying in one place, always bouncing on the soles of his feet, moving around the bag as much as possible, almost as if he were shadow boxing at the same time and bag training at the same time. Eventually, as he starts to feel his energy and sugar levels dropping, Butch ceases his training temporarily, releasing a gushing deep breath out through his mouth as he steps away from the bag, stooping down and sitting cross-legged and straight-backed on the mat. He uses his teeth to grip onto the Velcro strap that keep his gloves on his hands and detaches it from its connection and wriggles his hand free from the glove. He grabs a nearby bottle of Lucozade Sport, taking a long swig from the bottle, draining it of almost half its contents in one gulp. A refreshing sigh emanates from Butch as he reaches up with his gloved hand to wipe away the sweat from his forehead and dripping down his face. He catches the camera in his peripheral vision and he turns his head fully to focus on it for the first time.
(Butch): I’m assuming you want my two-cents on Ronnie and Talon’s words?
The cameraman, still keeping the camera atop his shoulder, pops his head to the side from the eyepiece to speak to Butch directly.
(Cameraman): It’s in your contract to respond to any promos or interviews that an opponent records and makes public.
A sarcastic chuckle seeps out from Butch’s mouth and he smiles as he climbs back up to his feet, using his free hand to take off his other glove.
(Butch): Kid, I’ve wrestled in the HWA for almost seven-and-a-half years, I know what my contract entails, I was the one that negotiated it.
The young cameraman stutters, caught off guard by Butch’s response who maintains his smile, draining the plastic juice bottle of the remaining liquid.
(Butch): Relax son, I’m just messing. But you are right, it is in my contract to respond to any verbal bashings that any opponent of mine or any other f**k-tard for that matter wishes to bestow upon me.
The cameraman laughs nervously, unsure of what to reply with and pops his head back behind the camera.
(Butch): And I guess, seeing as I have no one in my immediate vicinity to slander my opponent for me or prompt me whenever I seem to run out of things to say, it’s going to be have to be a good ol’ fashioned monologue.
Butch issues the camera with the fakest of cheesiest smiles and a much exaggerated pair of thumbs-up. His gaze averts from the camera lens for a moment and he claps his hands behind his back, his eyes focusing on the ceiling.
(Butch): What can I say about Ronnie McNeil? More to the point, what can I say about Ronnie McNeil that hasn’t already been made obvious in the past forty-eight hours? I mean, I could go on all day until the cows come home about how much of a jackass he is, how much of a low-life hypocrite he is but I think Hans and Vanessa said more than I ever could.
Talon’s right though, Ronnie, you are are a beast. You’re a well-oiled, battle-ready wrestling machine aren’t you? You’re the man I’m meant to fear, isn’t that right? A man who grew up on the “streets” who has become…what was that titled you gave yourself Ron? A self-made legend?
Butch chuckles as he repeats the last phrase over again.
(Butch): A self-made legend eh? Boy it must be awesome to live in your world eh Ronnie lad? Unfortunately, the only thing that you are legendary at Mr McNeil is coming up short when its time to man up. Because that’s all you do Ronnie. You skulk around in the shadows complaining about all your so-called troubles, complaining to everyone under the sun about how unfair life is, not bothering your arse about the opponents you’re forced to face week-in, week-out, the ones who you don’t decree to be in your league. But as soon as you’re thrust back into the main event spotlight, your mouth goes off like a runaway locomotive. You’re whole life Ronnie, reeks of ingratiating bullshit and absolutely shite banter. You think because your black, because you’ve been called a ###### all your life, because you grew up on the streets, that because once upon a time your wife and mother-in-law came under attack, that you know about the ugly side of life.
You’re Ronnie McNeil aren’t you? Living Legend, the Franchise, the greatest technical wrestler since the likes of Chris Benoit and Bret “The Hitman” Hart; you could ask a million sports fans if they know who you are and they’d all give an emphatic “Yes”. So, like Hans said before, drop that patter because its frankly become old and tasteless.
A brief moment of silence ensues as Butch stoops down to grab up another bottle of Lucozade Sport, taking a smaller drink this time.
(Butch): But, back on point.
Butch slaps his hands together, rubbing his palms together in eager anticipation.
(Butch): Road to Ruin…just around the corner isn’t it….
Butch proceeds to pull his sparring gloves back onto his hands and slams a hard left counter punch into the bag in time with the next word.
(Butch): Goddamn, I can’t wait! After all, Ronnie, my upcoming demise is imminent, is it not? According to your esteemed NWO colleague, the Reflection of imperfection, you’re going to destroy me, which, I’m being perfectly honest, I cannot wait for!
But you see, this is where you’re interpretation of what’s going to transpire at the pay-per-view differs from both my own and the reality of what will happen…you see, after this…
Butch points, or does his best attempt whilst wearing boxing gloves, at himself.
(Butch): ...Tartan Army Warrior dishes out all of this apparent hatred and anger on you, the only thing you’ll be begging for is the sound of the ring bell and that, my unfortunate friend is….
Butch hits the bag again, emphasising each word with a punch.
(Butch): just….
A left jab crashes into the bag.
(Butch): a matter…
A right cross flies over, sending a loud thudding sound from the impact of the punch.
(Butch): ….of…
Butch leaps into the air, twisting his body in a ninety-degree motion, chambering his left leg before straightening out in a line, sending the base of his shin and foot thundering against the bag before landing perfectly in a right-sided fighting stance. Butch glances at the camera.
(Butch): Fact…
To be continued...
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