Santos: I am okay. Everything is okay. Trust me, everything is fine, just FUCKING FINE. Fine fine fine, good good, I am great, the BEST... I am unstoppable, damn near INVINCIBLE! Damn near perfect

Tony Santos can be seen sitting on a dock in humid Miami, Florida. Tony sits in the same ragged hoodie he wore during his last XWF performance, when he lost his Hart title to Centurion. A hard fought match, where Centurion ripped the Hart championship from Tony for the first time in over five months. Tony received a heroes send-off that night, and he exited with a look of gratitude on his face. Gratitude for the fans for their support of a frankly mean drunk, grateful for the intense competition he'd faced since his sudden return, and fortunate for the opportunity to be a champion for as long as he had.

The same hoodie. Grains of sand are nestled within the dark cotton fibers, holding court in the hood, and draped across his now bare scalp. Smears of dirt line his jeans, and he's missing a shoe. He's wearing glasses... with no lenses.

Tony is hunched over the dock, rocking back and forth... back... and forth. The water beneath him ripples quietly on this early Florida morning. Tony's eyes are fixated on the bottom, the ripples causing that optical illusion anyone who is ever gone boating... particularly at night, has experienced, where it feels like the more you gaze into the fluid abyss, the more it seems like you're sinking.

Sinking.

Santos: Everything is fucking FINE... FUCKING FINE fucking fine. I'm the real champion after all. Sure, maybe that Barbie belt isn't on my shoulder anymore, but who really WANTS that anyway...

Right? Right?!?

Tony continues to bob back and forth, each lurch forward moving him closer and closer to falling in. He seems rather... fidgety... this morning. If you haven't noticed by now, Tony is still in the same town he found himself one month ago, when he walked out of that arena, title-less, and a bit worse for wear. Tony walked his hobbled legs up the ramp, through the curtain, and into the back. When he made it, he found a grand total of zero people willing to thank or encourage him for his work. No Vinnie Lane, no Theo Pryce, and certainly none of the wrestlers in the back.

I guess that's what happens when you burn bridges, thanks to ego, mistakes uttered aloud in a drunken stupor, and just an overall lack of care for the people propping up Tony's self-validation. At some point, the title becomes lesser than you. At some point, you take the words of your opponents as gospel. You become bigger than the game that made you. Greater than the institutions that allow you to thrive.

And then it all comes crashing down. Let's go back in time...




The alarm goes off in Tony's South Beach hotel room. It's yet another sunny morning, the smell of stale daiquiris fill the air. Bars are beginning to open back up after a few hours of downtime, ready to start the all day and night partying that 50 year old men and women from bumfuck New Jersey, leathery, sun damaged skin and all, like to do in a place like South Beach. Tony slowly rises from bed, his knees cracking, clear bags of water, formerly holding ice to contain the pain throughout his joints, flopping to the ground.

Tony lifts his lanky, 6'1" frame, and limps his way to the balcony. He blinks rapidly, both to adjust to the morning sunlight, and also the clear the crust from his eyes. He'd kept his no drinking promise, much to the joy of his AA instructor/former one night stand. He looks down at his wrist, finding his "One Day at a Time" wristband, which he'd been instructed to wear each and every day, as a gentle reminder of the work necessary to stay sober.

Santos: sigh

He looks down and sees a man brushing away garbage from the front of his nightclub, another man a few feet away scrubbing vomit off of the ground, its mix of colors resembling the colorful... palette... of people and particularly cuisines, available in Miami.

Tony looks further down the street, and sees a woman walking home in what is clearly the same dress as the night before.

Santos: Ah, the good ol' walk of shame.

Tony says this with no air of condescension, but rather, a bit of a nod to times past. Times spent stumbling through Boston, and San Francisco, and Oakland. The time he got hit by a car while sliding through the icy winter streets of Cambridge, Massachusetts, or the time he stumbled down the hill from a long night at the Tonga Room... or better yet, after an... animated night at a dive called Cafe Van Kleef, taking down a handful of STRONG greyhounds. Those were the days. No fear of judgment, no promises to keep, just living with reckless abandon.

Tony smiles, his eyes tracing this woman's footsteps. Her dance from left to right, front to back. Her high heels clipping in the cracks of pavement, almost knocking her down, but she continues. Her head leaning forward, then falling backward, her mouth trying to stay tight, but her jaw simply can't keep up. She's hobbled, but she'd be damned if she didn't have a good time in the proce...

And she falls flat on her face, a loud thud calling out her head hitting the pavement. Tony winces, his hands tightening against the steel rail of the balcony. A small pool of blood forms around the center of her face, her nose broken. The two men from earlier rush to her aid, and soon after, an ambulance picks her up. She would be fine, albeit with a very... colorful... and swollen face, but she would be fine.

And so would Tony.




Tony finds himself in "Monty's Raw Bar," a little tiki bar with killer oysters by the water. Tony sits at the bar, hoodie covering his body on a far too warm evening, and sweat glistens down his neck. He's drinking a water with lemon, and has asked the bartender to charge him for the price of a beer for each water, so he doesn't feel guilty for taking up prime alcohol purchasing space, while getting to enjoy the old creature comfort of an alcoholic.

The bartender, a mid-30s gentleman with a golden spray tan and a hell of a beer gut, smiles at Tony, who is currently on his fifth glass of water, thanks to all of the self-inflicted sweating and all. Towel in hand, he is drying out martini glasses from the bar dishwasher, when he turns to Tony.

Bartender: So, if I might ask, why are you paying for water?

Tony, staring down at his glass, playing with the lemon inside, flicks his eyeballs upward, then back down to the glass.

Santos: Fewer calories.

Bartender: Ah yes, the fewer the calories, the more you pay. That sounds about right. Ten bucks per glass of nothing, what a deal!

But seriously, why come here for this? Why not sit on some bench with a gallon of tap water, or even a $3 mega bottle of Fiji? You know you don't need to pay someone for the privilege of serving you water, right?

Tony stares at his drink, still half full (or half empty, as Tony considers it).

Santos: I'll take another.

Bartender: But, your...

Tony glares up at the bartender.

Santos: I'll take another.

The bartender makes his way to the back of the bar, finds an empty glass, and pours yet another glass of water. He slides back over to Tony, places it on the bar, and says...

Bartender: That'll be another $10, I guess.

As Tony slaps a cool $10 bill, with a $1 bill added for a tip, a man at the end of the bar can only smile as he watches Tony in action. The man, in his early 40s, with yet another spray tan and a button-down shirt that is far too tight for his frame, watches Tony fixate on the ice cubes, the rind of the lemon wedge, and tracing the curves of his glass. He is totally sober, and thus, entirely focused, yet somehow adrift at the same time.

He drops a $50 on the table, grabs his drink, and heads Tony's way. The man walks over to Tony, grabbing his shoulder. Tony shrugs it off, never losing focus on his drink. This gets a slight chuckle from the man, who takes a small, Ziploc bag out of his pocket, and drops it in Tony's front hoodie pocket, before walking away, reading to bath by the water with a potent mix of vodka and soda water in his hand.



Good, huh?

Santos: Yeeeeeeeahhhhh.


Tony lays back in a hammock by the water, hands tapping frantically against his thighs. He giggles a bit, his dilated pupils firing like lasers into the sun. Oh god, Tony, don't look at the...

Santos: Sun!

Tony shields his eyes with his hand, getting a speck powder in his right eye, causing him to wince in pain.

You can feel it, huh? Just coursing through your veins, huh? Like a jackhammer is drilling into your chest, right?

Tony nods, eyes twitching.

Do you want... more?

Tony nods, eyes twitching even faster.






Twitch


Twitch


Twitch twitch twiiiiitch Teeth rattling, sweat rolling.


Still feeling alright?

Santos: Better than ever.




Want more?

Tony sifts his shaky hands through his pockets, maneuvering left and right on his belly, making space to check his pockets for more cash. He grabs a wad of 20s.

Santos: More.


Santos: *Sniff sniff*

You know what to do.

Tony lays limp against the back of a pool chair, skin beat red from sitting in the sun for from sun up to sun down. An... odor... emanates from his person, still in the same clothes from weeks ago at the tiki bar.

He sifts through his pockets some more, only to come up empty. Tony looks up at the man, through the musty haze surrounding him, his eyes shaking, his breathing heavy. The man shrugs his shoulders.

Sorry man, I guess that's it.


Tony sits on the dock, rambling to himself, not having showered in an entire month, and having lived on the streets of Miami, dead broke from cocaine use. What started as a quick high devolved as fast as you'd expect it to for someone with an addictive personality, but this was taking that complex to an entirely other level. Tony missed his flight back to Boston, had his belongings trashed by the hotel, and a cell phone that was completely dead.

Tony would occasionally pocket a sandwich from 7-Eleven, load up on water from the nearby water fountain, and did his... business... on the side of the Coral Reef Yacht Club.

Santos: I'm fine, everything is going to be juuuuuust...

Fine.

Everything was not fine. Tony was disintegrating. He was falling apart, his body facing yet another unnecessary obstacle.

Tony continues to rock back and forth... back and forth... back and...

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