The scene opens on Lake Merritt in Oakland, California. The sun is setting, the water lightly sloshing under the sun's faint glow. A few runners stomp along the perimeter, but the only real noise comes from the chatter at Lake Chalet, a small lake-side restaurant. Patrons sit on the dock, under bistro lights, chatting about nothing, relishing in the final few hours before the work week begins.

The camera pans in on a waiter bringing food to a table on said dock. The waiter is a fairly short man, roughly 5'5", with a Macklemore haircut and a trim frame. He walks up to the table, placing a platter of the Seafood Plateau in front of his guest. Crab, oysters, prawns, ceviche, and... deviled eggs? It's quite the plate of marine life, and quite the stench. It's also hefty in price.

The plates land on the table with a series of thuds. The crab legs crack slightly on the metal table. The unopened oysters smile at the sight of their imminent end. The prawns, well, curl up in a ball. The man at the table has a proud, gap-toothed grin on his face. $70 of seafood that he knows he can't pay. Service that he knows he doesn't deserve.

That man is Tony Santos. Tony Santos, a man who has lived on both coasts. He's tasted success, as well as failure. Now, he sits on a creaky deck overlooking a man-made river in one of the most crime-ridden cities in the United States. However, oddly enough, he's also sitting in one of the wealthier pockets of said city, thanks to good ol' gentrification making its way west from San Francisco.

Tony picks at his plate for a frantic minute. He cracks a crab leg with his dirty right hand, his cracked fingers looking far worse than the crab they're digging into. He then moves on to a prawn, stripping the sea bug of its flaky shell, accidentally popping out one of its eyes in the process. He then goes for a lemon wedge, his fingers curled like a carnival claw, and he squeezes the juices all over his plate.

Tony winces while violently throwing the lemon wedge to the ground.

Tony: Fuck, fuck, FUCK! God dammit that stings!

The waiter makes his way to Tony's table.

Waiter: Sir, is there a problem?

Tony tilts his head towards this thin, little man. He clears his throat.

Tony: Get me some FUCKING...

Tony pounds the table, his fingers burning in pain. The lemon juices are flowing through the many cuts on his hands. As he's about to finish his sentence, his waiter turns to another waiter, then back to Tony, tray in hand.

Tony: ...oysters. Ah, there we are.

Tony picks at an oyster. He takes his rusty pocket knife out of his left pocket, flicks it open, and stabs between the shells. Tony stabs a little too hard, breaking the oyster shell. Tony is... visibly annoyed at the less-than-anticipated result.

Tony: Fuck! Fuck, fuck, fuck, FUCK! Stupid fucking sea boogers is what these shits are!

Tony Santos hasn't been seen in the XWF in years, instead spending his time working a handful of odd jobs. Busboy here, bartender there. Tony has been a bouncer for an anti-Trump protest, a bouncer for a pro-Trump rally, and everything in between. He's been a dental assistant (one week), a cook at a hole-in-the-wall burger joint, plasma donor (he has the scars to prove it), T-Mobile salesman (not the in-store kind... no, a street mascot), and a stunt double down in LA.

Tony's been... less than successful in each endeavor. Wrestling was his calling... back in the day. Now? He lives with his cat. His unstable demeanor seemingly vanishes when he's around that cat. Hell, that cat (named Charisma, who he found at his doorstep like a damn movie) is practically the only thing in his life that provides him joy. Charisma sleeps on Tony's stomach every night; probably simply because it's better than sleeping on Tony's beaten down couch. Tony pampers that cat, treating it like his child, as his cold and distrusting heart fills for a brief moment, until he can make the outside world uncomfortable once again.

Back to the dock, Tony spends the next 15 minutes frantically rummaging through his food. Fish water flows down his chin, the tables around him breaking conversation every now and then to witness the spectacle in front of them. Tony doesn't care for them, just like he doesn't care for the exorbitant bill that he won't be paying. Nope, Tony's going to steal the gondola on the lake, riding it to the other side, leaving his waiter tip-less. Tony has never shown pride in his own life, why should be begin showing pride in others?

Just then, his phone buzzes. Tony managed to steal an iPhone 2 from an elderly woman down the hall from him. Norma was taking out the trash, Tony walking behind. Clearly struggling to lift the bag to the chute, Tony volunteered to help. After dropping the bag down the chute, Tony "accidentally" bumped into Norma, knocking her on her back, her phone sliding across the floor and over the 5th floor ledge, tumbling to the ground. Tony coveted that "steal" of a phone (literally) for the fruits of the slimy labor that it was.

Anyways... the phone. Its cracked screen lights up the gloomy evening. Tony awkwardly palms the phone, screen-first.

Sir, we have an offer for you.

Tony smiles, flicking his stray front tooth, a new, strange habit of his.

Tony: Tommy, my boy! It's about god damn time you managed to come through and fulfill the terms of your indentured servitude! What's the deal?

Tommy is Tony's "agent." That's a strong term for what is essentially a 21-year-old college kid who fell into the clutches of Tony. A kid who admired Tony's binge drinking and rough lifestyle.

Tony liked that his name was close to his.

A match made in heaven! Tommy gets to learn about the choices you shouldn't make in your 30s, Tony gets to use someone for professional gain... with little to no pay. More on that later.

Tommy: Tony, it's... the XWF. You have a match, in New Zealand.

Tony grins that wide, gap-toothed grin.

Tony: New Zealand?!? My boy, you did well! This is incredible! But, well, I'm not so sure... it's been a long time, and I'm not exactly at the same level as I was when I was holding the TV and Xtreme straps. My Final Destination is probably a bit rusty. I don't want to break my neck, and I should probably hit the gym... this beer belly won't fix itself...

Ugh, NOT THE POINT. Tommy, I'm not sure if it's the right time and...

Tommy: Tony, you're facing Peter Gilmour.

Tony drops the phone on to the table. He stares ahead, his fellow patrons trying their best to not make it too obvious that they're staring. Tony's lower lip quivers, as he ponders his fate. His left hand starts shaking, his forehead breaking in fear. Then... he drops the act and... smiles. Tony brings the phone back to his ear.

Tony: Mr. Suck My Dick? Peter Gilmour, the tired hack with the same schtick from five years ago? Mr. Gay Joke Extraordinaire? Hell, I'll have to beat him as badly as last...

Tommy: Sir, Peter said he's never faced you before.

Tony smiles a wide smile, a piece of crab swinging from his bottom front teeth.

Tony: Well hot damn, book that shit, Tommy! Peter Gilmour's taken so many hits to the head that he can't even remember me wiping the floor with him. Or at least I think I did. Maybe, or maybe it was just me thinking that literally everyone has used Peter "suck my dick" Gilmour as a verbal and physical punching bag, that it's hard to tell who did it in an actual ring!

I'm on my way to SFO now!

The scene closes with Tony jumping into Lake Merritt, swimming away as an angry waiter throws oyster shells at a fading Santos.

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