The scene opens in front of a cracked wooden table. The room is dark, with the only light coming from an old desk lamp... you know, the kind that every old guy from the 1950s to the 1980s owned, with the green... oh let me just show you:



Anyways, the only light over this desk is from said old man lamp. Dust particles fly around the light like moths, and you can practically feel the heat contained within the glass shade. The light only covers a small portion in the middle of table, but just enough to capture the cracked, and now bandaged, fingers of Tony Santos. His left fingers tap the table one by one, cascading across the wooden table like a small child rolling her fingers across piano keys. His fingers look purple and slightly swollen. A few of his fingernails emanate with purple, crusty blood living underneath.

The last we saw Tony, he'd passed out at the airport in New York, having been haunted by the sight of Azrael Erebus... or the Azreal Erebus Tony remembers so vividly. See, Tony sees future Azrael... Mr. Satellite, a man who he... faced in the past? Yeah, it's confusing, but that's what has haunted him. A man who is bigger to Tony than any championship. A man who has had Tony's number from Day One.

When Tony passed out, he was carried away by medical personnel. However, Tony's hallucinations quickly passed and consciousness returned, which led Tony into a drunken struggle with the men who thought they were saving a man's life. They didn't know Tony Santos. They didn't know that this was so commonplace that any viewer of Tony's saga on this very screen, anyone who's followed Tony's past six years... wouldn't bat an eyelash.

Tony struggled to get off the stretcher, then to get out of the makeshift emergency room in the bowels of the airport. Tony's not exactly a muscular specimen like BigD, or a giant like the Boston Bruiser, but he's a strong dude. A man who can hold his own in the ring, and can easily overpower common folk with his large enough build and bulky arms. In the ensuing scuffle, Tony was knocked around by four security guards, an air marshal, and two EMTs. He was detained for questioning, but was let go in time for his flight, simply by telling the FBI agents interrogating him that he was former Secret Service, and was on an undercover terrorism mission in Fiji, where his championship belt was actually a farce, bugged to catch criminals in the ensuing sting.

This is what happens when you cut funding, people.

Back to the closet...

Tony sits in a crooked metal chair, one leg shorter than the rest, forcing him to wobble left and right. The Hart Title is draped over Tony's right shoulder, his bruised right hand clutching on to the title for dear life, his knuckles white. Tony stares straight into the camera, a slight scowl causing his mouth to lean slightly down and to the left.

Tony snaps his fingers, and a song plays from some speakers above.



Tony smiles.

Santos: Azrael Erebus. Mr. Satellite. Spaceman. We meet again, and it feels like just yesterday that we were battling for the TV Title. The match that I lost. Oh so close!... but I simply didn't get it done. I came in, oozing with confidence, ready to take on you, the champion, and I fell oh... so... short.

OOZING with confidence. A young kid from Boston, thinking he was hot shit. I guess that's what any Boston douchebag, no matter his age, does. But man, was I a pompous shit. You were just an obstacle in what I think was a tour de force across the XWF. Just some freak who talked about being from the stars, who would float to the ring solely off of your mystical powers, which would realistically just be you enveloped by a goofy cape covered in glitter and a caricature of the solar system.

Just some overrated, self-important loser who I would cripple with my immensely good looks, charisma, and a few punches, kicks, and a fancy flip that I named after myself. That was it!

And then I lost.

And lost.

And lost again.

Three times, and now I'm hallucinating over you?! Damn, Az, you've really gotten into my head! I came back to the XWF and easily disposed of "Suck My Dick" Peter Gilmour, took down a homophobic lobotomy patient in Bearded War Pig, defeated a scared champion in Dolly Waters, and wiped my hands clean with the supposed "legend," Centurion. Even in near defeat, against the fucking tough Noah Jackson, I managed to knock myself unconscious long enough to simply hold on to my belt in a beautiful act of self-preservation.

Each and every one of them, disposed of without a second thought. The bottle always lurks overhead, sure, but none of the unlucky contestants mentioned have been more than a blip in my addled head.

Until you. You're the man I can't quite take down. The puzzle I can't seem to solve. Whenever I've felt I've had you dead to rites, you've figured out a way to get it done. Cutting insults, cat-like reflexes, and a knack for putting those do-goody super powers to use at the right time to take care of me the way you targeted those creepy Times Square cowboys, or the bile-spewing... green horse?... that you took to task along with your loving star.

You know how to get it done, Az. You can even time travel! It's incredible!

So, I thought to myself... How can I compete with Azrael Erebus?

The SPACEMAN

Am I even up to the task? What will make this ANY different from our past encounters? I'm six years older, but realistically, I'm, relatively speaking, 20 or 30 years older, thanks to... you know...

My...



...habit.

Tony leans his butt upwards, shoves his left hand into his butt pocket, and pulls out a folded piece of paper. He opens the paper, scans the contents, smiles, and smacks the paper on the desk.

Santos: Ah, right! It was because I heard things like... well, let's just play the clips.



No one remembered your tired, lame, lackluster, worn out and wrinkled ass.

Serious question. When was the last time that you didn't get blackout fucking drunk and wake up in a pile of your own puke?

Can you even still get an erection? Or do you suffer from permanent whiskey dick?

Assuming that a woman would ever want to endure the three seconds of sloppy, stinky, sweaty, terribly unsatisfying sex that only an awful wretch like you could produce.

Or a man might desire from you.

Or an animal.

Or a houseplant.

Michael J. Fox doesn't shake as much as you do.

Tony moves his face away from the piece of paper, then stares back at the camera, and smiles that toothy smile once again. He's quickly startled, closing his mouth and letting out a slight gasp.

Santos: Oh, sorry, I don't want to offend you. Everything you've mentioned about me makes me think you only remember that beautiful, silky smooth-haired man who graced the ring with you years and years ago. Seeing me... now, is probably a little startling, right? I don't want to ruin the image you so dearly remember, given that you've traveled back in time and only want to reminisce about ancient accomplishments.

It's all you can wrap your space brain around, you know, with a woman you seemingly don't trust or respect by your side and the threat of mystical battles always looming overhead.

It's gotta be that, because you sure as hell aren't occupying your time honing any semblance of skill you once had, based on the gems I mentioned just now.

Our [i[savior[/i], talking about... wrinkled asses? Whiskey dick? Vomit, sex with animals... sex with inanimate objects... and...

Tony checks the page again.

Santos: Ah, yes! A veiled gay joke! Just like... Bearded War Pig, and Peter Gilmour, and every other hack who realized he couldn't cut it, so he had to play to the lowest common denominator to get a point across... and not even a good one. And you've taught your kin well! Hell, your son, good ol' Donovan Blackwater, talks about all of his opponents being failed abortions, and he's gunning for the Universal Title just a couple matches after us! You must be so proud! So proud to prove to the world that hard work doesn't matter. Fighting through your demons, and your flaws don't matter. No no... you know better, and you've passed the same along to your boys.

Bask in previous accomplishments when you've lost a step or ten, or, if you have no accomplishments, just bask in the accomplishments of your family! Hell, why not just bask in the accomplishments of anyone tangentially connected to you?!

Donovan, are you listening? You're probably pretty busy, checking into your hotel, stretching oh so hard for your match against Main and BigD, but listen for a second. You have a few minutes left to hit Main and BigD with a super sick burn. Tell Main and BigD that...

...well, that they should've been aborted. That's a staple of yours.

But THEN! Just tell Main that he won the title however many months ago that no one can seem to take from him... tell him that you happened to breath the same air as him the night he won, or that you were in the same state as him the night he found the perfect shampoo for his disgustingly wonderful hair, shooting his confidence into overdrive and making him the unstoppable force that he is today!...

...or any other lame ass reason for why you have succeeded based on the work of others. Coast, it's the way of your juvenile father.

Just then, David Bowie's Starman, still playing above, hits it's peak lyrics:

There's a starman waiting in the sky
He'd like to come and meet us
But he thinks he'd blow our minds

Santos: Oh, Satellite. You used to blow our minds. You used to leave us craving more. You used to be interesting. You used to be one worth fearing. Hell, I've spent the past two weeks fretting over you like no one else has made me fret in my time back here. You're the thorn in my god damn side.

But here's the difference.

See, back in the day, you had the desire and drive to be the best, and for a while, you were pretty damn close to the top. You knew how to win, and you knew how to keep winning. But now?

You really are the washed up "has been" you sarcastically admitted to being, but so deeply know you really are. You're everything I hated, and in some sense still hate, about myself. The lust for gold... a lust and desire that made it impossible for me to focus and take down the title. The clinging to past accomplishments, and a need to amplify your perceived greatness.

A need for adoration, and a desire to fill the hole you've dug so deep inside that you had to travel back in time in hopes of reversing the damage. But you can't undo the inevitable aging you're so desperately running away from. You're a hack, and you can't accept that the tables have turned. I, Tony Santos, the man you dominated years ago, is champion. I have what you want materially, as well as immaterially.

And it kills you.

Spaceman, it's been a good ride, but you've shown your hand, and it's time to know when to fold. Tomorrow night, I knock you around so emphatically, I humiliate you so intensely, that maybe, just maybe, you'll realize you're no one's savior. You're just another lowly man, holding on to the past and the very material possessions you pretend to be above. You're no savior, no god, no man of the stars.

You're just a hack past his prime. And it's time for this alcoholic to show you just how far you've fallen, how weak you've become.

Tony leans forward and drops his smile.

Santos: Was that coherent enough for you?

David Bowie plays us out as the scene fades to black...

There's a starman waiting in the sky
He's told us not to blow it
Cause he knows it's all worthwhile

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