Post by Deleted on May 30, 2016 0:41:45 GMT -5
After XHW had returned from Chicago and the festivities of Xtreme All Access: SBX, the show returned to business as usual. The Stomping Grounds were abuzz with lights, cameras and action, and it was overwhelming. For Marcus Monroe, though, it was unnecessary. He'd been left off the pay per view card, which gave him more time in the gym. He never left the Bronx when the show did, and the time alone did him some good. The solitude let him realign after his last loss, and now The Pugilist Patron Saint was facing off against the man who challenged for the Bronx Championship at the pay per view. He knew it was the biggest match of his career so far, and he'd been preparing.
However, it was time for a break from punching bags and lifting weights. In a quiet bar not far from the Grounds, Marcus sat alone at the bar top. The television played highlights of the most recent pay per view at Marcus' request, and the timing was perfect that it was going over the Bronx Championship match. In front of him sat a stout beer, surprisingly not Guinness, and Monroe was staring intently at the screen. He wore a plain grey shirt and his sunglasses hung from the V of the neck. He looked over at the camera.
† Marcus Monroe †
For years, I was told to give up my dreams and face the truth. Face the poverty, the hopelessness of growing up a poor lad in Ennis, that I was a kid not going anywhere because I didn't have the best childhood. I sat at a pub, young, and I was ordered to give up and just decide to work in a bog or factory. For me, that wasn't enough. It wasn't enough to sit there and get shit-housed every night, just because my ma was a runner and my da wasn't some Duke or something. And when I took to fighting, I knew that it was my ticket out of Ennis. It was my ticket here, where I want to be.
Monroe turned back to the TV, raising a tattooed hand to point at the screen. The screen was showing a spot where Hawthorne was pummeling Vegas. Monroe took out a cigarette and lit it, letting it hang from his mouth as he put the lighter back in the pocket of his skinny jeans.
† Marcus Monroe †
And if you listen to Hawthorne when he says it, it was his ticket too. And I'm certainly okay with that. Carson Hawthorne is, if you ask me, the best fighter on this roster. Arin Vegas is clinging to that belt by the skin of his teeth, and eventually, Hawthorne is going to beat him senseless and take it off of him. [ He took a drag of the cigarette, letting the smoke slowly billow out of his mouth. ] Carson Hawthorne is exactly what he says he is. He is a prize fighter, a mercenary who shows up when there is some laurel to be won or some reward to accept for the win. He wants to get paid. He wants to show off his brand new championship. He wants to be recognized for his contribution to this company, and if he gets it, good for him. See, that's where our similarities end.
He took another drag, this time drowning the smoke with a large gulp of his beer. The corners of his lips curled up into a small smile, which is unusual for the deadly serious Monroe. He looked back up at the screen, which showed Hawthorne being pinned after being rocked with his own discus elbow smash.
† Marcus Monroe †
I'm not like that, Carson. I don't care about titles, or money, or fame. I don't want the spoils of war, and I certainly don't want to crash against the rocks that are Arin Vegas. Me, Carson? I just want to fight. I want to feel the adrenaline pumping through my veins. I want to feel your knuckles crash into my cheek, my chin, my forehead. For me, it's the fight that is the real prize. Because you can't replace the feeling of a good fight, the dull ache in your bones, the bruises, the torn skin on your knuckles from pummeling the other guy. Women can distract you, titles can placate you, but the thrill of the fight is what keeps you coming back for more. You keep this vendetta against Vegas because you enjoy the challenge he presents you. Yes, he has what you want in a material sense... But he also is your foil mentally. Me, I'm not a foil. [ He shook his head, stubbing out his cigarette in a dirty ashtray on the bar. Another beer is set in front of him, and with the practiced ease of the bartender, it's obvious it isn't his first refill. ] I'm just a dirty Irish lad, full of vitriol and testosterone, looking to fight a dirty French Canadian kid full of greed and selfishness. That's why I will be going home Thursday the victor. I want to fight you, Carson, not because you're the number one contender. Not because you've faced our champion twice now. But because I think that you're the guy on the roster to beat the Hell out of, and I know that when it's over, you'll give respect where it's due to a fellow brawler.
He held up his pint, offering a toast to Carson Hawthorne and the idea that he would respect Monroe if he won. The two were both brawlers, they had the same origin story. To Monroe, Carson was the only opponent on the roster that offered him the challenge he would present to himself. He took a drink of the beer after the toast, wiping the tan foam from his red mustache.
† Marcus Monroe †
And if you can't give me the respect I deserve after I win, I'll see you next week. And the week after, and the week after. I'd like to think that I understand your mentality, Carson, and I'd hate to be disappointed. Make no mistake, when we get in that ring, you're a target. You're the dummy that I've been beating to death every night since I've gotten here. You're the faceless bullies from my childhood. You're the enemy. But at the end, if you want to come out and have a pint to numb the pain of my fists, your first round is on me. Whichever you choose, I'll be waiting for you in that steel cage, with nothing but my fists and my love of fighting waiting to bring you down. I imagine you're probably a religious man, being French Canadian. If you are, before that match, you should say your prayers.
Monroe slammed the rest of his beer before lighting another cigarette. He tossed some money down and stood up, meandering out of the bar with his cigarette in hand. The trail of smoke lazily followed him out the door while the bartender counted his money. The emptiness of the bar is more pronounced now, and the bartender changed the channel back to what he wanted to watch: Soccer. The camera faded to black amidst the XHW logo.
