Charley Bradbury’s Public Statement

There have been rumors going around.

Apparently, somebody has taken it upon themselves to inform the world that my manliness is nothing but a pathetic ruse. Well, that’s fucking bollox. I’m here to set the record straight, once and for all, and you bloody cuntoxes better listen good. There is hardly anybody in this side of town who is tougher than yours truly. And I can prove it.

I suspect that the main offender is Adrian Donahue. The fucking wanker is known for being unable to speak anything but bold-faced lies. And yeah, Adrian, you’re not one to talk. You’re about as tough as an army of impotent bunnies. Furthermore, you’re built like a pole and your muscle mass runs in the negatives. Oh, and the next time you have the urge to break out the boxcutters, remember this piece of advice, my friend: it’s down the road, not across the fucking street. Wanker.

Look, I am a very tough person. I run my own karaoke bar. There’s the occasional confrontation with a drunkenly enraged customer, but I simply back down. Would it be good business ethics to punch a customer in the face just because he threatened me with a pocket-knife? No, mate. Creating a scene wouldn’t be good for business. Besides, I’d ruin my bartender’s outfit and I paid good money for that shite.

But just because I run a professional establishment doesn’t mean I’m a pansy. I never hesitate to call the police, who are far better equipped to handle enraged drunkards than I am.

I don’t know how anyone could ever suggest that I’m a pushover. Maybe it was that time we held the arm-wrestling matches in the bar, and I lost to John Bradshaw. I’m telling you, the man works out. He spends all day lifting cakes into his gaping yap, so I’m not surprised he’s built up on his arms. And not many people know this, but John used to play a lot of Rugby, so he’s quite tough although not as tough as me. Also, he sucked horribly at sports and was probably the worst player in the history of everythingRugby related. I AM TOUGHER THAN JOHN. AND BETTER AT RUGBY, AS WELL.

Okay. Some of you may be aware of my part-time modeling gig. Well, that doesn’t make me any less tough. Surely, the people at Prada would agree. Look, mate—modeling is hard work. It’s rather difficult to stand still for so long. And faking a vapid, uninterested look isn’t as easy as you’d think. It’s hard work. Certainly not for the weak of heart.

There is so much evidence that clearly proves my toughness factor. I know how to fix mechanical objects at least fifty percent of the time. I smoke regularly and have done a plethora of illegal substances. I curse like a tipsy sailor. Also, I just happen to date Gwyn, who is probably the faggiest person to ever roam the earth. I’m not sure if this makes me tough or an utter masochist, but it does go to show you just how much I’m up against. You don’t know hell unless you’ve been subjected to several nights in a row of Gwyn running around your apartment, wearing a tutu, and singing Queen’s Bohemian Rhapsody in a bizarrely off-key manner.

Oh, what’s that, you say? The kittens in my apartment? Don’t be stupid, wanker! Those things aren’t mine, they belong to Gwyn. And I eat them for breakfast.

Breakfast, mate.

Don’t believe the rumors. I’m about as tough as they come. And don’t you forget it. Yeah, so fucking what if my nickname is Chewy, and it sounds “cute” and “harmless”. I’m not a bloody Star Wars wookie or whatever the fuck they’re called, and if you people keep scandalizing my name, I’ll start charging double price for drinks. Let’s see how you like that. And I’ll unplug that blasted karaoke machine, too. You’re all going to suffer if you don’t start taking my toughness factor seriously.

Welcome to Tumulty’s, wankers.

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A/N: Quick one-shot. Heh, Chewy will say anything to convince everyone how manly he is.