The scene opens, in darkness...

A light flickers on from the ceiling, a lonely light bulb, its copper wire pulsating as it tries to hold on to the electrical current. It illuminates further, before...



...going out. Rummaging can be heard from below, the sound of glass crunching under what sounds like a shoe. A scratch here and there from the friction of an elbow against a very cheap, and very old, rug. A sniffle, then a cough.

The room stays dark; you can't see a thing. You're sitting, watching through the lens of an equally dark void of a camera lens, and through a similarly dark void of a television or laptop screen. You're just sitting here, waiting. Waiting for any sign of life, any hint that this is more than your mind playing games with you. A signal to your subconscious that you're not, in fact, going insane. A way for you to distract yourself from the madness that you have so carefully bottled up in a corner of your own head.

Now you know what it's like to be Tony Santos. Fighting back demons: Interpersonal demons, and internal character flaws.

Just then, the light flickers back on, brighter and stronger than before.



We're in the Savoy Hotel in Limerick, Ireland. It's a fairly upscale hotel in the heart of the city, although you wouldn't know that from the quality of lighting coming from above. The room is littered with cigarette butts, mustard and ketchup stains in portions of the rug, and some... sticky?... substance smeared on the mirror. Also on the floor, beside a discombobulated, but well-dressed (for once) Tony Santos, is the aforementioned broken glass.

Tony sits beside the glass, iced tea coating his pant leg, in a tuxedo. See, Tony was supposed to be at a meet and greet that some XWF handlers set up for him with the fans. Sort of a... coming out party for the 3+ month Hart champion. Tony had gained enough of the confidence of XWF management that they wanted to flaunt him in front of the fans for some easy marketing. No more concerns of Tony bailing on the company on the drop of a dime, no more worries about him losing the belt seemingly weeks after winning it, and the newly sober Tony was no longer a risk of showing up to events drunk, and likely assaulting one of said fans.

Nope! This was a new and improved Tony Santos. The event?

He was supposed to be there two hours ago.

Sunday, August 18th: 4:30pm IST

Tony stands in front of the mirror, straightening his bow tie. He smiles his toothy grin, impressed with his ability to clean himself up for once. He shakes his head, his hair flipping from left to right over his slightly sweaty forehead. He'd worry about that later.

Tony tilts his head down and grabs a glass of iced tea with a big hunk of lemon wedged inside. He lifts it to his face, latches on to the straw, and takes a large gulp. He's proud of himself... two weeks without a single drink. Not one drop of booze, and while the first few days were incredibly difficult, he'd pushed through. He'd pushed through the initial withdrawal shakes, as well as the surprisingly difficult break of a habit of simply getting a beer after a workout, or while in front of the TV, or when eating out.

And here he was. Tony's lost a solid ten pounds of junk weight, simply from cutting the excessive amount of carbs and calories in your average beer, let alone the six or more he'd easily down on a given night. No more 1am texts to random women he'd met on the road, no more outbursts online to critical fans, and most importantly, no more head splitting hangovers the next morning.

Like, do you know what it feels like to have your brain ripped in half? Just take down a handle of vodka and you'll find out, assuming you don't die.

Tony walks toward the window, and he steps outside. It's a beautiful evening in Limerick, and Tony has a front row seat to all of the action happening downtown. He lets out that huge grin again, and looks down at the happy young Irishmen and women taking in a few pints on a Sunday afternoon.

They are Irish, after all.

A young lad fixes his gaze on Tony, and gives him a quick wave. Tony waves back.

Santos: Havin' a good night, eh?

The man smiles, a pretty young girl by his side. Based on their age, it's almost certain they go to school at the University of Limerick, which, for one of the oldest cities in all of Ireland, is actually a really, really young university.

You're god damn right, lad!

Tony smiles, before looking into the distance, the river flowing peacefully in the distance. Tony is suddenly in awe of the activity taking place along the water, with people walking, running, and biking, just enjoying a beautiful and not too cloudy day in an otherwise gloomy country. The sky is showing the likelihood of impending rain, but for now, everyone is relishing the chance to hold on to the last semblance of the weekend.

Santos: Hey dude, that's a beautiful fucking body of water. What's it called?

Shannon! The River Shannon!

The man's voice trails off, he and his lady heading to the next bar, laughing and stumbling down the sidewalk.

Shannon. Tony's ex-lover. The mother of his child, and the very dead woman he left in Boston years ago.

Shannon.

Tony's hands detach from the deck railing as if it was made of fire. He stumbles backwards and into the window. Tony's hands begin to shake; is it simply alcohol withdrawal coming back, or...

Shannon.

Tony makes his way back inside, and leans against the table by the mirror. He reaches for the glass of iced tea, and dumps half of it on his head, slamming the glass back down. His hands shake more, and more, his heart rate steadily rising. Tony turns to his bed, and sitting there is...

Shannon.

Tony shakes his head, and she disappears. Tony stumbles to the left, thanks to a quick attempt to pivot directions, and rolls his ankle, falling into the table, and the mirror. Tony lets out a loud...

Santos: FUCKKKKKK!!!!!

...before punching the wall. He stares into the mirror, the small beads of sweat turning into an all out Niagara Falls. He watches himself suddenly panting, and he can practically see his heart pounding through his shirt. Then, to the left of his face...

Shannon.

Tony roars with anger, punching the wall until it's busted. He grabs a jar of Vaseline, which he'd used the night before to spruce up that dry skin of his before his big day, and chucks it against the wall. Broken pieces of the glass jar fly across the room, hitting, and loosening, the flimsy ceiling light bulb in the process.

Back to the present

The light turns on, and we see Tony in the state we began our adventure in. Throughout the hysteria, Tony managed to knock himself unconscious, mainly due to his body needing to hit the reset button, and partially due to hitting his head through the commotion. Only through some flailing around as he was starting to come to, and in turn knocking the glass of iced tea off of the table, did he fully become aware.

Tony looks up from the filth, turning to see the time. 7pm IST. Tony was supposed to be downtown by 5pm, but he no-showed. His phone had been buzzing for the past hour and a half, concerned staff trying to see where he was, but nobody even thought to ask the hotel to do a welfare check on him, and somehow no one in the hotel reported his behavior. Maybe it's just normal for the Irish to go into fits of drunken rage?

Probably.

Santos: Fucking hell.

Tony looks around, cringing as he surveys the damage in his hotel room. This was a 700€ damage bill, easy. Tony lifts his hand to his face, wipes some sweat from his brow, and closes his eyes, taking in a deep breath. When he reopens them, he sees the camera hovering over his weakened body. Tony rolls away from the broken glass and on to his stomach, and exhales. He rolls back on to his back, and stares up at the cameraman.

Santos: So, I guess I had a little... "episode," huh? Clearly it ain't the first time, so what the hell, why not let the masses know? Well, here I am, now a recovering drunk who can't even manage to make it out the door sober.

I feel a bit ridiculous, but shame isn't really much of a concept to me anymore, and I'm still champion, so what does it fucking matter, am I right? Maybe the sage Brit Scully was right after all. Maybe I'm worthy of joining his "Flock of Tards." I already apparently qualify, thanks to being ugly, since that's a fucking qualifier for reasons unknown, but now we can add "painstaking alcoholism" to the list, so I guess I don't even have to fill out the application.

Tony lets out another deep breath, before lifting himself on to the bed, and immediately feeling his back give way as he lands on the mattress with a thud.

Santos: It's a good thing I'm on the fast track to joining the Flock of Tards, since I'll add a really tasty "gimmick" to the mix. You know, since that's what crippling alcoholism and severe relationship coping issues have been called by some in the past... a gimmick.

And man, Scully, are you in desperate need of some of that flavor. Because lord knows you're nothing more than the butt of a joke you don't get you're telling. You think everyone is laughing with your little schtick, but they're laughing at the comically poor verbal and physical act you bring to the table week in and week out.

So let's bring some sincerity to the conversation, shall we?

Good, now sit back and relax as I tear you apart, you little fucking clown.

Tony raises his arms above his head, letting out a biiiiiig stretch, before continuing.

Santos: Alright, Scully. Well, first of all, congratulations on being handed this title opportunity. An opportunity that you, nor anyone else in this company, expects you to win. You're just here to fill up the card before I face off with Ned, and you and everyone else knows that. You need a little ego boost after disappearing for two months, after losing to Robbie fucking Bourbon, and the guys in the back were more than happy to oblige. They're feeding you to a god damn machine who can't lose, and everyone is setting the table for the impending slaughter.

So again, congrats.

Now, you might be wondering why I'm coming into this event so confident, and sure, everyone hates that asshole who has a huge ego. But I'm so confident, dear Scully, because I've faced you before.

No no, not you individually... even though we did technically face off at War Games, which, by the way, don't toot your own horn too much on winning that match, bud. You were eliminated before I even broke a sweat, and your teammates bailed you out. I took a depleted unit to the brink of victory, fending off all challengers until the final bastard, Lux, took me out. And what were you doing during that time?

Sitting in the back, nursing your wounds, and likely bragging to everyone around you about how incredible your team was. You did nothing but ride the coattails of significantly stronger teammates, and managed to get a nice W on your record, before Robbie dropped you back to earth. See, individually, you only have yourself to rely on, and you showed your true ability...

...by losing.

But, back to my point. I have faced the same version of you over and over and over again in my return. Comedy acts who don't realize they are the god damn joke.

Bearded War Pig: Oink oink

Peter Gilmour: Some sort of demon killer with a footlong penis.

Hanari Carnes: A walking stereotype, by choice. Viva la Mediocrity

And on and on and on. I've faced them all, and every time I have, I've won. Every single time, they come in thinking they can take me down. Thinking they can hit me with some low hanging fruit, calling me ugly, discussing my "flamability"... get it, because I drink a lot of alcohol, and alcohol is flammable?... and every time they think they're ready to hit the stage with their top comedy routine...

...the lights shine just a little too bright.

But man, some of them were at least able to show up in some meaningful way. You? You called me ugly and said I had the perfect disability to join your "Flock of Tards." Your whole getup is that you're spazzy, and quirky, and you just love to...

...make fun of mentally disabled people?

Your followers are the people you look down to. You have pride in the fact that you're superior to people who started 10 steps below you at birth. And why?

Because you know you just can't cut it. You can't cut it in the ring without top notch talent by your side. You can't cut it against competitors that are at, or in most cases above, your talent level, so you mock mentally disabled people to make yourself feel better.

Well, Scully my dear boy, you're not facing one of your "Flock" on Wednesday. You're facing Tony fucking Santos, and this won't be no five star contest... no no no. See, for it to be like that, you need to be on my level, and you simply know you're not. Nope, this is going to be a straight up beating, plain and simple. On Wednesday night, you're going to fill your role as match filler before I face off against the man who actually earned a shot against me by, you know, beating other competitors?

Meanwhile, you'll ride in, get your name called, get to look at the title up close, and then get dropped in record fucking time.

Tony smiles, his eyes searing into the camera.

Santos: And you won't be speaking... anymore.





Lights out.

September 2013 and May 2019 Star of the Month
1x Hart Champion
1x Television Champion
1x Xtreme Champion