Post by barrybridges on Nov 20, 2024 10:31:58 GMT
Barry Bridges reclines on his well-worn sofa, surrounded by the echoes of his illustrious career. Trophy cases line the walls, championship belts and framed posters standing testament to battles past. His faithful spaniel, Kendo, dozes at his feet, tail occasionally flicking as Barry absentmindedly strokes his head. A glossy flyer for Out For The Count rests on the coffee table, the names of the competitors printed boldly.
Bridges:
Well, Kendo, it doesn’t get much bigger than this. November 24th, Out For The Count. Two teams, five men apiece. They’re calling it the clash of the titans, and rightly so. And here I am, stepping into that ring with the “Dream Team,” ready to prove why they gave us that name.
He picks up the flyer, his eyes scanning the opposing lineup.
Bridges:
Johnny Fresno, Bulldog Spirit, Gavin Owens, Tiger Kid, Half-Nelson McGrath—quite the lineup. But you know what, mate? They’ve got their big names, but so do we. Jack Sherry—captain, Worlds Lightweight Champion, and a born leader. Arthur T. Turtle—wily, smart as they come. George Thompson—Commonwealth champ, one of the toughest blokes I’ve ever seen. And Eamonn Keane? A fighter through and through.
Barry leans forward, intensity creeping into his voice.
Bridges:
And then there’s me. Barry Bridges. Commonwealth Heavyweight Champion. They call me iron-willed for a reason, Kendo. I’ve been through wars in that ring. I’ve been bruised, battered, and bloodied, but I’ve always gotten back up.
He lets out a short laugh, shaking his head.
Bridges:
Johnny Fresno? He’s got that Worlds Heavy-Middleweight belt, and fair play to him—it’s no small feat. But belts don’t win matches. Grit does. Determination does. And that’s where I’ve got the edge.
Barry’s tone grows quiet, the fire in his eyes unmistakable.
Bridges:
This match isn’t just about pride or bragging rights. It’s about proving who’s the toughest, who’s the best, and who’s got what it takes when the stakes are sky-high. I don’t care if it’s Fresno, Owens, or Half-Nelson standing across from me—they’re going to find out why you never count me out.
Kendo stirs, letting out a soft bark as Barry smiles, patting the dog’s head.
Bridges:
November 24th, we’re stepping into battle, and I wouldn’t want to go to war with anyone else but this team. Dream Team? More like the winning team. Fresno, you better shine that belt while you still can—because when the dust settles, you’ll remember the name Barry Bridges.
The camera lingers on Barry’s resolute expression as he tosses Kendo’s ball across the room. The spaniel leaps after it, and the screen fades to black.
Bridges:
Well, Kendo, it doesn’t get much bigger than this. November 24th, Out For The Count. Two teams, five men apiece. They’re calling it the clash of the titans, and rightly so. And here I am, stepping into that ring with the “Dream Team,” ready to prove why they gave us that name.
He picks up the flyer, his eyes scanning the opposing lineup.
Bridges:
Johnny Fresno, Bulldog Spirit, Gavin Owens, Tiger Kid, Half-Nelson McGrath—quite the lineup. But you know what, mate? They’ve got their big names, but so do we. Jack Sherry—captain, Worlds Lightweight Champion, and a born leader. Arthur T. Turtle—wily, smart as they come. George Thompson—Commonwealth champ, one of the toughest blokes I’ve ever seen. And Eamonn Keane? A fighter through and through.
Barry leans forward, intensity creeping into his voice.
Bridges:
And then there’s me. Barry Bridges. Commonwealth Heavyweight Champion. They call me iron-willed for a reason, Kendo. I’ve been through wars in that ring. I’ve been bruised, battered, and bloodied, but I’ve always gotten back up.
He lets out a short laugh, shaking his head.
Bridges:
Johnny Fresno? He’s got that Worlds Heavy-Middleweight belt, and fair play to him—it’s no small feat. But belts don’t win matches. Grit does. Determination does. And that’s where I’ve got the edge.
Barry’s tone grows quiet, the fire in his eyes unmistakable.
Bridges:
This match isn’t just about pride or bragging rights. It’s about proving who’s the toughest, who’s the best, and who’s got what it takes when the stakes are sky-high. I don’t care if it’s Fresno, Owens, or Half-Nelson standing across from me—they’re going to find out why you never count me out.
Kendo stirs, letting out a soft bark as Barry smiles, patting the dog’s head.
Bridges:
November 24th, we’re stepping into battle, and I wouldn’t want to go to war with anyone else but this team. Dream Team? More like the winning team. Fresno, you better shine that belt while you still can—because when the dust settles, you’ll remember the name Barry Bridges.
The camera lingers on Barry’s resolute expression as he tosses Kendo’s ball across the room. The spaniel leaps after it, and the screen fades to black.