Promo that should have gone before the main event

[Toxxic 0]

“Toxxic! Toxxic!”

 

Ben Hardy hurries through the corridors of the Acer Arena with Gus the cameraman in tow. The object of his search is up ahead, and turns around when he hears his name.

 

“Uh…?”

 

“Toxxic, how do you feel after your match?” Hardy gushes, thrusting the microphone underneath the straight-edger’s nose. Toxxic looks down at it with a faintly puzzled expression.

 

“Er… did you watch my match?” he asks. Hardy nods.

 

“Did I win?”

 

Ben Hardy blinks at him.

 

“Yes.”

 

“Right, right,” Toxxic nods vaguely, “that’s good. My brain seems to think I won, but the rest of me is having doubts…”

 

“OK,” Hardy says, looking at his fellow Englishman and starting to realise that perhaps the Axe Bomber is still having residual effects, “has your opinion of Danny Williams changed after that contest?”

 

“Danny?” Toxxic asks, then seems to focus a little. “Danny. Let me tell you something about Danny. I never, ever want to have to fight that fucker ever again.”

 

“Right…” Hardy says, taken off-guard by Toxxic’s unusual honesty, “erm… your opinions on the main event?”

 

“I hope Landon kicks his bloody arse,” Stephens replies, leaning against the wall.

 

“You’d be happy having a tag team partner who is World Champion?” Hardy asks, putting his proverbial finger on the issue that many have quietly wondered about. Toxxic snorts.

 

“I’d be happier if Landon had it than Gabe! See,” he continues, starting to count points off on his fingers, “Landon’s puerile, infantile… other things ending in ‘ile’…”

 

“Virile?” Hardy suggests.

 

“Nah… er, well, he’s those things,” Toxxic rambles, trying to concentrate on his fingers, “plus he’s shallower than… something very shallow, preferably a simile that’s insulting to someone I don’t like. I’ll get back to you on that.”

 

“OK.”

 

“BUT, he’s my tag team partner!” Toxxic continues with slightly more force than the conversation warranted, “and I don’t have to like the guy to trust him in the ring. I don’t like him, much… and he doesn’t like me, much… but we’re both interested in self-preservation enough to want the other one around to watch our respective backs, right? So I want him to win. And also because then Gabe won’t have the title, and that’s a good thing.” He fixes Hardy with another steel-grey stare, although rather less penetrating than usual. “We done?”

 

“Well, one more question,” Hardy says, “what are your plans from now on?”

 

“In the next 48 hours?” Toxxic asks, “die. After that, we’ll see.” He turns and resumes his progress down the hallway, occasionally bouncing lightly off the wall.

 

“Well, those were Toxxic’s comments,” Ben Hardy says, turning to face the camera, “and I think we might have a concussion on our hands here folks. In the meantime, back to Mak Francis and the Suicide King at ringside for the World Title match!”