The scene opens with a cab pulling up to the curb in Brighton, Massachusetts, on the corner of Washington Street and Oak Square Avenue. The cab's yellow exterior is the perfect reflector for the bright street lights shining at this late hour (roughly 10 in the evening). The cab door doesn't open for an uneasy five minutes, and an argument over the fare can clearly be heard occurring inside. Finally, a loud thud is heard against the rear passenger-side window, and the door jolts open.

Santos: You're telling me that a 15 minute cab ride from Logan Airport costs $40 flat, and then I'm supposed to tip you?? Piss off! Here are two Andrew Johnsons, EVEN!

Santos, being the wealth of knowledge that he is, just mistook President Andrew Jackson, the man whose face adorns the American Twenty Dollar bill, with President Andrew Johnson, the 17th President of the United States. Or, well, to be honest, he probably didn't actually know who Andrew Johnson was either, just heard the name referenced in some offbeat, low budget political movie on late night TV Land.

Following repeated attempts to kick the trunk door open, the cab driver pops the trunk and Santos pulls his luggage bag, awkwardly and aggressively. The cab driver, a man by the name of Blair (born and raised in the Back Bay) watches with a smile as Santos struggles with such a simple task.

Cab Driver: Have a wonderful evening sir! Thank you for your generosity in such a rough economy!

The cab speeds off, startling Santos in the process, forcing him to the ground. As Tony looks up from the sidewalk, he notices something quite reassuring.

Santos: Ah, Castlebar! I'm home!

The Castlebar being Tony's most frequented drinking establishment in all of the Boston area, a rundown little dive bar with a surprisingly rich selection of beers, Goldfish on the tables, and your standard fare of darts and Golden Tee Golf, this is home. Tony dusts himself off and makes his way inside.

Inside, it's the usual scene: dingy little bar to the left with your regulars hanging out, watching the Red Sox (the Sawx, in Boston-speak) after a long day of blue collar work, to the right, young 20-somethings just relaxing after another day in the 9-to-5 machine, drinking some cheap brews and playing darts.

Tony says his hellos to some of his favorites, then plants himself on a stool in the middle of the bar. Big Lou, a bartending staple at Castelbar and a friend of Tony's, is the first to walk over to Tony.

Big Lou: What'll it be, Tone? The usual [Harpoon IPA]?

Santos: You know me too well, Lou. How are things?

Big Lou: Oh you know, the usual sh*t. The wife's still nagging me to not be a lazy oaf, my daughter's calling off her wedding after I've thrown thousands of dollars into her nuptials with that piece of garbage fiance of hers, and I can't find a decent pizza place around this godforsaken area.

Santos: Lou, there are like six pizza places within five blocks of here alone. Pick one out of a hat, get extra cheese and pepperoni, simpler the better, and call it a night. It's the American dream: good food at a cheap price that's made with basically no effort and it still pushes you closer to death

Big Lou: Whatever. I'll grab a sandwich at 7-11 and call it a night tonight. What's going on with you? How was the first match? You just getting back?

Santos: Yup, landed in Logan a little after 9. Grabbed a cab that cost me a whole g*d damn $40, before tip.

Big Lou: How much did you tip on that? Must've been a small fortune.

Santos: Well, I, um, didn't tip him. But that's not the point! Point is, a cab ride from here to Rhode Island shouldn't cost $40, let alone Logan to here. Craziness.

Tony takes a sip of Harpoon, and by sip, it's really close to half the glass, then continues.

Santos: The match went well. I faced some guy who dubs himself the "Hardcore Icon." You'd think it'd take more than some modest turnbuckle moves to finish off a guy who has supposedly won 27 hardcore titles. Hell, I was shaking off the last traces of booze from the night before, albeit, only modest amounts, due to staying in and watching a hockey game with the lady, but still. It was practically child's play out there.

Santos polishes off his beer and slams the empty glass down on the bar, gesturing for another as he continues rambling.

Santos: I'm going to take this place by storm, Lou, you just wait and see. From watching Wednesday Night Warfare from the back, which is what the show's called, to answer your confused glare, I'm seeing a show full of egos and mediocre talent. Most don't stand out, and those that do end up tripping over their own self-importance.

These people need a serious reality check, and I think I can give that to them. I can out-talk, out-wrestle, and out-hustle each of every one of these duds. Most importantly, when we're done wrestling, I'll take them to the local watering hole and drink them under the table. Lou, I'm 25 and already hitting my peak. These folks don't know what's truly about to hit them.

Lou stares at Tony, shakes his head, and goes about serving other customers. He comes back to a Santos who has already switched his attention over to the MegaTouch screen next to him, and he's now playing PhotoHunt and finding the inconsistencies with less than perfect speed.

Big Lou: Tony, you're 25 and stupid. For a kid who's never done much, you've sure as hell got an ego. Every single damn time you get into something, you go in with potential and squander it by sticking your head so far up your a*s that you can't find your way out before suffocating.

Lou impatiently slides a full Harpoon over to Santos along with his check.

Big Lou: Here's my advice. I was a cocky kid once. mid-20s, loving life. Chasing (and getting with) women, worked my way up at a bar, kicking a*s and making a name for myself. I thought I was invincible. I'd be the next big wig in the bar business in the Greater Boston area. Well guess what? I thought that I was hot sh*t and didn't have to adequately prepare and work to reach the pinnacle of success, and guess what it got me? A second-rate gig at a dive bar in an area of town that people head to after they've grown tired of the city for the night. I make pennies, clean up vomit nightly, have a wife and daughter that hate me, and nothing to fall back on. My own hubris kept me from really becoming something, and instead cherishing the things that I didn't need or really want.

Lou let's out a deep sigh, realizing that this 25-year-old kid probably won't remember a word of this rant once he rounds the corner outside of the bar.

Big Lou: Tony, just be smart. You've got potential, and I know that you can do great things, but take it in stride, and don't be an idiot. This is one win, and over someone that you don't seem to be making out as much of a challenge. Get your act together, hit the gym, and get ready for the next one.

Also, finish your beer and get out of here. I'm not watching you get hammered on a Thursday night. I know how you can get, Tone.

Tony finishes his second Harpoon, lifts himself up off the bar stool, and walks toward the door.

Santos: Lou, you gotta get laid.

And with that, Tony walks out the door, bag in tow and a bill left unpaid.

Santos: I wonder if Skinemax is on tonight.

The scene fades to black.