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X-treme Wrestling Federation » Warfare Boards » Warfare RP Board
Too Bright to See, Too Loud to Hear (RP #1)
Author Message
Tony Santos Offline
Santos Glares at You



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#1
05-04-2014, 12:48 PM

The scene opens in almost complete darkness. The only light that shines through the area is a little over a foot wide and five inches tall. The sun, shielded by gray rain clouds, peeks its way in to the room. The pitter patter of a rat walking across the floor can be heard, making its way from the right of the screen, all the way to the left in a matter of seconds. The breeze from the open, unscreened slot makes its way briskly across the room. A lightbulb hanging from the ceiling can be heard swinging with the breeze; sometimes violently enough, depending on the gust, to give the wooden panel wall to its right a love tap; like a wrecking ball hesitant to take down a rundown, city landmark down...

Like a drunk weakly attempting to break down the walls of his own addiction... and ever so failing at that.

The shadow of what looks like a figurine standing at no more than eight inches tall is blocking a portion of the slot. With each gust of wind, the figurine rocks back and forth... back and forth... back and forth. A fruit fly can be seen crawling under the wooden top border of the slot, its legs moving with caution as it feels its way to the inside of this room. Having made it to the other side, it bounces off of the windowsill, floats upward, them lands on the top of this eight inch object. All of a sudden, the jingle of some wind chimes outside go from slight chinks to a full blown crash and bang between one another.

The object makes a beeline for the ground as the fruit fly abandons ship. Its spiral downward, while only one of a second, feels like a slow motion physics show, showcasing the hidden moments of a crash of glass. The object dives headfirst toward the ground, spiraling slightly while it does a 180° flip. A lump can be seen below, elevated two or so feet from the ground. It looks like a distorted, abnormally large potato that was sprouting.

THWAP

The object lands on this lump, then rolls harmlessly to the wall. A snort can be heard, followed by a grunt. A tree limb appears to grow seemingly from the ground. Stretching itself upward, fully erect, it pulls itself as far upwards as possible. The tomato-like figure at its end all of a sudden sprouts small, lanky creatures. These creatures flail themselves around for a moment before compressing themselves back in to a ball. Then, without any forewarning, this thing crashes against the wall.

Santos: What in the god damn shit...

Yes, here is Tony Santos. Where is he exactly? This surely isn't sunny Miami, Florida, or at least not the nice pad that he'd bought himself upon moving out there. Oh, no no, it surely is not.

Tony, having been in a prone, sleeping position, was awoken ever so rudely by... no, not an empty beer bottle, although you wouldn't be expected to assume any differently. No, of all things, it was a wooden Nutcracker figurine. Yes, a figurine dedicated to the world famous, century-old ballet. Wait, Tony Santos, a fan of the dance? Not just a fan of the dance, but a fan of ballet? This is a man who seems to only know how to dance with the assistance of his friend Hop Devil, and not a good dance at that. No no, this wasn't Tony's figurine. This was the property of The Castlebar, a favorite watering hole of Tony's in Brighton, Massachusetts. And this wasn't given to Tony, per say. Nope, it was, more or less, inherited by Tony, but we'll get to that later.

Tony rolls to his left, resting on his scarred and bruised back. Staring at upwards in to the abyss of black nothingness, Tony lets out a deep breath. Lifting his right hand to his head, Tony combs his fingers through his oily, disheveled hair. Stopping at the top of his skull, he clenches his scalp before letting his eyes shoot to his left. Stretching his right arm over to the left side of the bed, Tony grasps the edge of the mattress, pulling himself toward the edge of the bed. Without much light to guide him, Tony feels around the small end table next to his bed. His fingers, like a human spider, crawl around, looking for something, but possibly nothing in particular. His hands knock off some receipts from recent bars that he's frequented, his keys, and uncharged cell phone before reaching his pack of Marlboro Blacks. Tony practically crushes the pack as he grasps it with his fingers.

Resting his hands and the pack on his pillow, Tony opens the lid to the pack, feels around the inside, and notices only two cigarettes remain. Mumbling an expletive to himself, he pulls one out of the pack, then pushes the pack to the floor. He reaches for his lighter, and with a flick, has his cigarette lit. Rolling to the edge of the back, Tony sits up. Each inhalation releases enough dopamine from his brain to send him skipping and twirling for miles. Each exhalation feels like it was all taken away, just like when The Kid, Jeremy, left their internship experiment to go back to school; a rare friendship, gone. Just like when he lost his apartment in Miami, due to his inability to pay his rent, as well as his less than civil tendencies; a rare sense of stability, vanished. Or like when his girlfriend, Shannon, left him shortly thereafter, due to his seeming inability to stop acting like a child and become a "real man;" a rare sense of comfort and status, disappeared.

Tony takes a few more hits, then stands up. Walking around his apartment, bare feet, a torn up white t-shirt, and some generic, plaid boxer shorts, he looks for the light switch. After stumbling past a few empty bottles of beers of various ABV levels, types, and places of origin, Tony makes his way to the other side of the room. Fumbling around the wall, he finds the switch. Tony uppercuts the light switch with his hand and the room illuminates. Tony looks around. The barren mattress with just a comforter to cover him. The bare, stained pillow with no fluff remaining. His crippled laptop, strewn, torn clothes, and a room that just wreaks of lost hope and failure. Scratching his head, he takes a final puff of his cigarette, then just drops it on the concrete floor. Picking up a spare shoe, he stamps the lit cigarette out, its ashes looking like the guts of a crushed ant, which, not so surprisingly, would be a miracle for Tony to be able to stamp out at this point in his professional or personal life.

Walking up the weak, wooden stairs, Tony lets his right middle finger glide along the handrail. As he makes his way up the small, increasingly uneasy platforms, he stumbles a little bit. First to the right, then backwards (dropping a step), then to the left. This process ensues for a good three minutes as Tony realizes the toll that bad decisions in conjunction with an increasingly erratic diet and sleep pattern can do to a person. However, as Tony reached the door above, it hit him. Not only had this affected him on a physical level; this had affected him on a deep, personal level. As he stared at that dark, mahogany door, he saw many things: runs at numerous XWF championships, which, even in failure, were some high profile, pricey soirees; alliances spurned with the likes of Sid Feder and The Brotherhood, whom, despite both parties' faults, provided Tony with the opportunity to be something more than he had been; a girlfriend whom, despite her many flaws and gold digger tendencies, provided Tony with the closest thing to love that he had ever experienced; and close relationships with the likes of Jeremy ("The Kid"), Big Lou, his family, and his neglected child. Tony's past, lost relationships were not perfect by any stretch of the imagination, but for a broken, mental, drunk 20-something, they were the closest thing to stability and success that he could have ever imagined.

And he managed to even lose those.

Was it time for redemption? Was it time for Tony to get back in the game, and to actually make real, good things happen? Maybe. No one would expect Tony to make this time different than any other, and rightfully so. All anyone knows... if there is anyone who cares to watch the story unfold... is that Tony isn't dead yet. Sometime in the not so distant future? Sure, if you're a betting man, that wouldn't be a bad bet to take. But for now, Tony Santos is still breathing. He's still walking. He's still, well, existing.

Tony turns the doorknob and slowly pushes the door open. Inside, a familiar place. Hell, the closest he has to home.

The Castlebar.

Big Lou can be seen standing at the bar, setting up shop for another long day at the office. It's 11 AM Eastern Time, and the bar's set to open in thirty minutes. Tony Santos, the new resident of the bar's basement, which also houses spare kegs and bar decorations. That Nutcracker figurine? Yup, a cheesy Christmas decoration that's been collecting dust for months. Big Lou, with his old, yet still intimidatingly large frame, turns toward Tony and lifts his arm, which just so happens to be the size of a Christmas ham.

Big Lou: Good morning, Tony. Earlier than normal, eh? I usually don't have the pleasure of seeing your cocky mug until at least three.

Santos: You know how it is. Fucking thirsty, Lou. Get me a Harpoon.

Lou looks at Tony disapprovingly as Tony shuffles his feet toward the bar. Slapping his hands down on the wood, he stares at Tony.

Big Lou: You know I'm not serving you until you put pants and shoes on. While you're at it, a shirt that doesn't look like, who was that wrestler? The one who used to dip and show his teeth proudly on screen?

Santos: Barney Green.

Big Lou: Ah, yes! Barney Green! Well, as I was saying, put on a shirt that doesn't look it was used as Barney Green's personal dip cup. I'd rather you not offend my customers.

Tony smiles, his missing tooth on display.

Santos: Heh, customers? The ones you have can barely see straight sober, let alone after a few beers. For Christ's sake, Lou, your customers are either a bunch of 50-something construction workers who smoke two packs a day, are on constant painkillers for the numerous joint replacements they've had, and are so consistently in a state of booze-addled bliss that they can barely comprehend their surroundings, OR they're kids straight out of college who are bringing a Tinder date here, hoping to impress their winning lady by fingering her in the corner or getting a blowjob in the men's bathroom. You think they give a shit about some loser who's randomly crawling out of a door in the basement like a fucking crippled Harry Potter?

I don't think so, Lou.


Lou just shakes his head. This spiel from Tony, full of sarcasm, odd observations, and expletives, was nothing that he hadn't heard since the early days in which he was caring for a young Tony Sullivan. He'd gotten used to this lost misanthrope spewing off random hatred, and it didn't fazed him.

Big Lou: Just do what I tell you, Tony. Put some clothes on and come back upstairs. Oh, and check the piece of paper on the door before you head down.

Tony turns toward the door. A white piece of paper is plastered on the door's face, looking like a grocery list more than anything else. Tony squints at the top of the paper, noticing the header...

Wednesday Night Warfare
Dunkin' Donuts Center
Providence, Rhode Island


Santos: Shit, XWF's coming to town? Awesome.

Tony scrolls down, taking in the names.

Santos: Luke Crimson? Jason Rider? Sterling Fucking Steal? I've only been gone three months, and they're hiring wrestlers with fucking porn star names? Good god, please tell me some of the regulars are still around and not spouting off some typical, unoriginal, homophobic and racist dribble...

Then Tony sees the next match down on the card. He looks at the name on the top, then on the bottom. He glares at it for a moment. Tony looks off in to space, as if recalling a distant memory. Then, he grins.

Santos: Tony Santos versus Peter Fucking Gilmour, eh? That lobotomized bastard is still stomping his prehistoric boots around this place?? Still telling people to suck his dick, I presume. Heh.

Tony grabs the doorknob and cranks it open. As he takes his first step down the stairs, he slaps the wall to his right, coming only inches away from smashing the thermostat. He veers his head around the corner and grins at Lou. Lou looks uncomfortably at Tony.

Big Lou: The hell's with that smile, Sullivan?

Tony lets his tongue glide across his teeth, with it stopping in the abyss that is his missing front tooth. He slaps the wall one more time.

Santos: Nothing in particular, Lou. I just remembered how great the game of life can be when you're playing against a bunch of apes. Good things to come, Lou! Only good things!

The scene fades to black.

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

[Image: VIh61T5.jpg]
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