Bro: Yo, bro! Bro!

The scene opens outside of The Castlebar in Brighton, Massachusetts. It's one in the morning and the bar has just closed. Against the bar, Tony Santos can be seen, his head pressed against his hands, rotating side to side on the faux-wooden paneling of Castlebar. Forgetting that he lives in the basement of the establishment, Tony make a quick exit upon hearing the bell ring for last call, heading for the streets. 10 Harpoon IPAs, three Guinesses, and four close-out shots later, it's easy to understand Tony's lack of coherence or presence of mind. It's a warmish high 50s outside, and Tony can be found in torn up jean shorts, which were, quite obviously, pants at one point in time. Wearing his favorite "My Friend Sam is 50" black t-shirt and a backwards Red Sox cap, he sways left and right, letting the universe twirl around his little world.

Brighton, Massachusetts, being a quiet neighborhood of Boston, is also surprisingly cheap to live in. With that in mind, while it's relatively safe, it's also filled with unenjoyable college kids and young professionals. While the typical weeknight sees these young 20-somethings hidden away in their little enclaves, a Monday night at The Last Drop across the street makes for a suitable exception. The man yelling "Bro" at Tony from across the street happens to be a fairly muscular guy, and, based off of his slight, broish accent, he's likely either a student at Boston University or Boston College, both of which are practically right around the corner.

Bro: Hey! Can you even hear me, dude?

Tony continues swaying back and forth against The Castlebar. His head now firmly pressed against the wall, his hands dangle lifelessly toward the ground. He can be heard mumbling something to himself, but it's unclear exactly what. The man, having been left by his friends for the night, seemingly has nothing better to do on a random Monday night than poke and prod at some hapless individual of lower fortunes than himself.

Noticing Tony's odd ramblings to himself, he decides to get up close and personal with Tony. He quickly crosses the barren street, his white, Polo Ralph Lauren t-shirt pressed against his body from the breeze hitting him in the opposite direction. Tony, still staring at the ground, hears the crunching of the gravel near his left ear and juts his eyes to his left, but still not in view of anything except the nondescript pavement beneath him.

Bro: Dude. You alright, bro? I could swear I saw you talking to yourself from across the...

Damn, you don't look okay at all. Do you need something? Water? Something to eat? Some change? Nah, I know what you need... just a push to get you moving in the right direction.

Tony feels a jolt on his left rib cage, forcing his head to slide off to the right of the wall. Soon, he realizes that his head is bobbling in the air, and comes to an abrupt halt, thanks to the earth below. Tony lands on his right arm, thanks to the "push" in the right direction from his new college friend. The man chuckles in amusement.

Bro: Heh, you're wasted, dude. What's your name, anyway?

The man crouches down toward the ground and grabs Tony's back pants pocket. He grips on to the pocket tightly, using it to roll Tony over completely on his stomach. Before he can go for Tony's wallet, Tony mutters...

Santos: Tony. Tony Santos. No... no. T...Tony fucking Santos.

Bro: Ha! Tony Santos? Is that even a real name? Like Tony Montana from fucking Scarface? Did you make that shit up? Excuse me for not believing you. I just need to get some confirmation that point...

The man reaches in to Tony's right back pocket and yanks out his wallet. He holds up the tattered, black wallet that Tony picked up off the streets of Miami when he was roaming the area, trying to figure out exactly what to do with his unemployed, lonely life. The man smiles as he notices the similarities between a drunk, possibly homeless man in his equally homeless looking holder of currency. As the man smiles, a scar over the left corner of his lip becomes more pronounced, which could have been from a simple mishap as a child, an accident in school, or a drunken college fight that happened to slice his lip open...

Probably the latter.

Bro: Roaming with style, huh? Let's see what you got in here.

The man immediately goes for Tony's cash. Upon opening up the pocket, he's completely disappointed by what he sees. In the pocket sits the Alcoholics Anonymous card that a woman at the Flat Black Coffee Company had given him two weeks prior, along with a single dollar bill, and a ball of lint. Not a small collection of lint that you'd typically find in an accessory that sits in the pocket of your butt all day, mind you. No, this looks like a purposely constructed lint ball, containing tobacco shavings, a multitude of colors, and even some cat hair.

Bro: Well fuck, man. I figured you'd be poor, but I was hoping you could provide me with something to help get me home. You're not much of a humanitarian, are you... what was your name? Oh yeah, Tony Montana. Not much of a humanitarian at all, my friend.

Tony rolls himself on to his back. Lifting his head slightly, he looks at the man who has so inappropriately interrupted his drunk debate with himself on the sidewalk. He observes the man's scar on his mouth, then up to the man's nicely quaffed, parted black hair, which seems to be held together by a mixture of hair gel and motor oil. He observes the Polo Ralph Lauren shirt, the purposely torn jeans, and red Pumas.

Santos: Looks like you're doing alright for yourself, kid. You don't need my fucking charity.

Bro: He speaks full, coherent sentences! Who said I needed your charity? I just was hoping that a bro could help another bro out, you know? Just two dudes, looking out for each other. You know, we don't look that different age-wise. Sure, the bags under your eyes, which don't look like they're ever going away, certainly age you a bit, and based off of what I assume is an uncomfortably strong drinking habit, you'll likely look like you're going through a horrible mid-life crisis much earlier in your life than you should, but we must be of similar years of birth! How old are you?

Tony lifts his arm and examines his palm and wrist. He lifts his right finger and places it in the grooves in his hand. Sliding his finger through each, he mumbles some incomprehensible nuggets to himself. After moving through the grooves in his palm and wrist, he feels his forearm with his hand, then slaps it a few time, then putting his ear up to it.

Santos: Based off of my readings, I'd say about none of your fucking business. Depending on further studies down the line, I might be able to determine that I'm approximately still not someone who needs to associate with... you... down the l-line.

Bro: Cute. Well, let me take this as a little memento, then. It was a pleasure meeting...

Just then, Tony begins groaning loudly. He holds his side in agony as sharp pains jab at his kidneys, forcing Tony to slowly but steadily make his way closer to the street. As he rolls along the pavement, his short, black hair picks up loose cigarette butts and gravel off of the sidewalk... his head becoming a human ball of lint itself. The man, showing a hint of compassion, moves closer to Tony.

Bro: Hey man, you okay? Do you need like, an ambulance or something.

Tony waves him off.

Bro: Seriously, dude, you sure?

As Tony clutches his side in pain, he turns his head back toward the closed bar. Seeing the bottle of Racer 5 IPA that he smuggled from the bar standing against the wall, he points to it.

Santos: That. Get that for me. It usually cures my... ah! My... pains.

The man hesitates, but soon does exactly what Tony asks. He grabs the bottle and places it in Tony's hand. He drops the wallet on Tony's stomach and turns to leave.

Santos: No! Come back.

The man ponders his options, then decides to show a shred of compassion and do as Tony asks... erm, demands. Tony takes a strong swig of his beer, chugging the rest of the bottle, as beer dribbles down his cheeks. Tony sucks the last bit of air out of the bottle, then releases his mouth from the mouth of the bottle. He smiles in satisfaction, and then motions for the man to come closer. The man slowly makes his way to Tony's face when...

Tony swings the bottle at the man's head and misses by a mile, the bottle clanking against the ground and rolling down the sidewalk. Tony's mouth agape, he watches the bottle so helplessly disappear down the road. He looks at the man, who looks back at Tony and smiles.

Bro: Well that wasn't very...

The scene... and Tony, fade to black.

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