♣BRICKTOP♣
Callum McRae
Callum McRae
Stage Name: Bricktop, (Brick)
Real Name: Callum McRae
Social Media: @ShitBrickHouse
Age: 24
Birthday: December 14th
Hair Color: Black (Dyed Red)
Eye Color: Red
Height: 188 cm / 6'2"
Weight: 102 kg / 225 lbs
Alignment: Heel
Nationality: Scottish
Fighting Style: Brawling/Pro Wrestling Slams/Impacts
♣Appearance♣
Wrestling Gear
Wrestling Gear 2
Wrestling Gear 3
Casual
Smoke - Ironed Out
Bulldozer
Globe Trotting Elbow
Backalley Bulldog
Gutter Cleaner
♣Finishers♣
Down n' Out
Brick House (Standing Hold)
Brick House (Ground Hold)
Brick House (Slam)
♣Likes♣
•Cheap Lager & Corner Pubs: Swears by “piss beer” as being better than any big money brand he has tried. The more shade the producer, the better the brew.
•Women: Pretty self explanatory.
•Smell of Gasoline: Something about it reminds him of his childhood, the parts he doesn’t hate.
•Lighters: Flip lighters specifically. While he doesn’t smoke, he likes playing with them like a fidget toy.
•Women in his Stuff: Not going through his junk, but wearing it. He likes to see a gal he invites over in one of his T-shirts.
•Messing with Security: Talking shit from afar to security, trying to get them to leave their posts to deal with him.
♣Dislikes♣
•People Who Use Big Words: Use normal words like normal people. Christ.
•Snitches: Snitches are bitches.
•Being Ignored: By women especially. He’s a good guy with a lot of things to say… people should be listening when he says stuff.
•Spelling: As if he handwriting wasn’t bad enough without the errors.
♣Personality♣
Callum thinks he’s the funniest, smartest, and most charming man alive, and if you don’t believe it, he’ll gladly remind you until you roll your eyes. He struts with a cocky swagger and wears his bad-boy look like a badge of honor, the leather-jacket rebel act that has, against all odds, actually gotten him farther in life than it probably should have. He believes his looks could kill and his words could melt steel. To most people, though, Callum is more like a cheap cologne aggressively applied: overwhelming, hard to shake, and trying far too hard to package himself as more than the sum of his parts.
He brags endlessly, tells jokes that land with a thud, and mocks opponents with the confidence of someone who doesn’t realize the room has turned against him. Timing has never been his strong suit, he’s the guy who keeps talking after everyone else stopped laughing.
Callum dropped out of school early, and it shows. He isn’t particularly well-spoken, often reaching for big words he doesn’t quite understand, mangling them in ways that make him look more foolish than clever. He’s misinformed on most topics outside his immediate world of fighting, pubs, and back alleys, but he’s never the first to admit it. Instead, he doubles down, insisting he’s right because in his mind, things just are the way they are, and no amount of learning is going to change that. Self-improvement isn’t in his vocabulary.
That ignorance gnaws at him more than he lets on. In private, Callum punishes himself with frustration, dwelling on the cracks in his own bravado. In public, though, he puffs his chest out and turns the volume up, desperate to bury insecurity under noise. He has an easy mind to confuse, a soft ego to bruise, and a chip on his shoulder the size of a brick if he catches even a whiff that someone’s been talking down to him.
And yet, underneath all the noise and flaws, Callum is fiercely loyal. What he craves more than respect is belonging, a place where no one looks down on him for the things he isn’t. With Zui Fang and the gang, he finally found that. Around them, he’s at his best, not because he changes, but because he doesn’t have to. They know he’s a degenerate, a loudmouth, a rebel without a clue, and they still treat him like one of their own. They mock him, give him grief, but they also stand beside him. And for Callum, that’s everything. He’s still the same brash, abrasive punk, but now he’s their punk. Their “Brick.” And that loyalty is one of the few things about him that’s unshakably real.
♣History♣
Callum McRae was born in Glasgow, Scotland, to a fractured household from the start. His father was a shiftless man, more comfortable at the pub than at steady work, while his mother carried the family as long as she could. Hoping for better prospects, the family relocated to Manchester, England, but the promises of opportunity dried up as quickly as his father’s paychecks. The drinking grew heavier, the disappointments sharper.
Eventually, Callum’s mother had enough. She left, determined to make a better life elsewhere. She tried to take Callum with her, fighting for custody, but the battle turned toxic. His father fought back, not from paternal love but out of spite, a hollow victory meant to hurt her more than it helped him. With custody won, Callum stayed in Manchester with a man who had no interest in raising him, while his mother slipped away, lost to the shuffle of constant moves and silence.
By sixteen, Callum was already sliding out of society’s grasp. He skipped classes, picked fights, and gave up on school entirely. With no structure at home and no respect for authority, he gravitated to the only place that offered him any recognition: the street. He fell in with punks and delinquents who thrived on chaos, swapping textbooks for graffiti tags, stolen bottles, and busted knuckles. Manchester became a cage, so he slipped further and further outside its bars.
His father eventually drove him out after one too many screaming matches, and Callum didn’t look back. He crashed on couches, slept in squats, and followed gangs wherever trouble led them. He bounced from Birmingham to Liverpool to London, roaming through England like a restless shadow. Petty vandalism grew into heavier jobs, breaking into shops, stripping cars, lifting whatever could be sold fast. Callum wasn’t a strategist, but he was always the first to fight and the last to let go.
By eighteen, his luck ran thin. He was caught behind the wheel of a stolen car, pinned with the job after his mates vanished into the night. Sentenced to just under a year, Callum kept his mouth shut inside, never naming names. For him, silence wasn’t loyalty so much as pride — a refusal to look weak. Prison didn’t break him; it honed him. He fought often, not for protection, but to remind himself he still mattered. When he walked free, he had nothing waiting for him but the knowledge that he could survive, even if it meant clawing for it.
Callum wandered with whatever gang would have him. The faces changed, the jobs stayed small, but the rhythm was the same: move fast, fight harder, and chase fleeting thrills. Alongside fighting, he found another love, women. Callum wasn’t smooth, but his bad-boy look and reckless charm carried him further than it should have. Nights ended in strangers’ flats more often than not, and though trouble followed, furious boyfriends, protective parents, jealous rivals, his crew’s constant movement kept grudges from sticking. To Callum, fights and women became life’s only reliable currencies, and he spent both freely.
It was during one of those clashes, a turf war in a nameless alley, that his path crossed with Zui Fang’s gang. His crew swung above their weight and paid for it, left broken and bloodied. Callum kept swinging long after the fight was lost, and that refusal to stay down caught Zui Fang’s eye. Where others would’ve run him off, she extended her hand. For the first time in years, someone offered him more than a scornful glare or a jail cell.
He joined without hesitation. With Zui Fang’s crew, he found belonging, rhythm, and purpose. Life became simpler: fight when told, party when able, and chase women in between. Trouble followed, but for the first time, Callum didn’t drift alone, he had a gang at his back.
When Zui Fang led the group across Asia and eventually into Japan, Callum followed without question. Tokyo’s chaos suited him perfectly. And when Zui Fang turned her focus to professional wrestling, Callum was one of the first to sign on. To him, wrestling was a dream come true: a stage to fight, a paycheck at the end of the night, and locker rooms filled with women. For Callum, discipline, legacy, and tradition meant nothing. The fight and the chase meant everything.
