Jack Drummond vs James Mcduffy

[Weonna]

James Mcduffy

James stands near the backstage ramp, his eyes fixed on the entrance to the arena as he nurses a bottle of beer. The echoes of his recent defeats—especially that brutal match against Polaris Mask—still sting like a fresh cut. Tonight, though, he's determined to shake off the past and claim his comeback.

The door opens and a cheerful, looking man by the name of Jack comes in. It's the first time James has laid eyes on his new opponent. For a split second, James's hardened expression falters at the sight of Jack’s easy smile and confident, upbeat demeanor. But then he regains his composure, his Boston grit kicking in.

"Ah, you must be Jack,"

James grumbles, stepping forward with a challenging glare. His voice carries a rough edge, laced with equal parts skepticism and raw determination.

"I don't know what kind of fairytale you're livin' in back in London, but in my ring, it's all about grit and scars. And tonight, I'm fixin' to add a few more to mine."

He takes a long swig from his bottle, his eyes never leaving Jack's face.

"I've been down, and I've been beat, but that ain't gonna stop me any longer. This ain't no charity match—I’m here to show every last one of these fans that a Boston brawler never stays down for long. So, what do you say, Jack? Ready to step into the ring and see if you can handle a real pro?"

[Hexbreaker]

Jack Drummond

Jack is positively brimming with energy as he paces back and forth in front of the mirror in his dressing room. Match two of his hopefully long and illustrious L.A.W. career was happening tonight, this time against quite the large American from what he'd gleaned from the league's roster bios. Should be an interesting match up, or at least he hoped to deliver an entertaining performance. Jack exits the dressing room and heads to the staging area just behind the entrance ramp. He's flagged down by a muscled man sipping a beer who he expects ought to be this James he was scheduled to fight.

"Mmm yea, that's me -- there something I can help ya with?" he confirms and asks as he steps closer for the purposes of their conversation. He stands at attention with hands casually on his hips and takes the opportunity to size up this beefy lad before him. Some cheeky trash talk gets shared his way that makes Jack's smile grow bigger and brighter.

"Is that right mate? Well, in that case I suppose you colonial boys are due a right thrashing then, on account of all that wasted tea in the harbor all those years ago eh?" he jokes with a friendly laugh that shows he's just playing around. He extends a hand and holds it out as an offering. "I'm more than ready to take ya on, bring on your best and I'll do the very same!" He gestures with his extended hand again, insistent on getting a firm handshake out of the man.

[Weonna]

James narrows his eyes at Jack's cheerful banter, his smirk twisting into a sneer as he drops the friendly facade. In a gruff, dismissive tone, he retorts:

"Ah, spare me your colonial quips, Jack. You prattle on about wasted tea like it's some grand insult, but let me set you straight—down in Boston, we didn't just toss tea overboard, we sent your entire British ego adrift. You lot in the old country can keep your stiff upper lip and your royal tea parties. Out here, we're all about real grit, not your prim little traditions."

He steps closer, his voice low and venomous as he continues:

"Tonight, I'm not just fighting for a win—I'm here to show you that your hifalutin' heritage means nothing in this ring. Get ready to learn that history is written by the winners, and tonight, the only crown you'll be seeing is the one I'll be knocking right off your head."

With that, James throws a final contemptuous glance at Jack before turning toward the entrance ramp, every step a promise of ruthless, uncompromising vengeance.

-------

Spoiler

The first raucous chords of "For Boston" by Dropkick Murphys blast over the arena speakers, electrifying the air. James Mcduffy steps out from behind the curtain, his eyes narrowed and his jaw set in a grimace of determination. The roaring crowd blends with the driving beat, fueling every step he takes along the ramp.

James struts down the ramp as the image of a bygone era of rebellion flickers in his mind. With each beat of the music, his presence in the arena becomes undeniable—a storm of Boston pride incarnate.

As James steps into the ring, the roar of the crowd swells into a deafening climax, and the sound of "For Boston" pounds through the arena like a battle cry. Every muscle is primed, every scar a reminder of past defeats—and every beat of the song a promise of the retribution he’s about to deliver.