Big Lou: Tony! Hey! Santos!

The scene opens at Castlebar, in Brighton, Massachusetts, only a few blocks from Tony's apartment. Big Lou, who you may remember from some sage advice that he gave Tony at the start of his career in the XWF just a mere month or so ago...

(05-30-2013, 07:48 PM)Tony Santos Said: Big Lou: ...don't be an idiot.

Now, this same man of knowledge and wisdom had grabbed a bar rag and was slowly making his way over to a quiet, almost numb Tony, who was sitting at the corner of the bar, by himself, without a care in the world except the drink in front of him. This was bliss for your typical alcoholic; an experience that, while cherished, was also completely common and expected. Hell, put an alcoholic into a bar filled wall to wall with people, loud music, and, well, less-than-desirable behavior happening all around him, and as long as he has that drink. That glorious, sweet drink, he's in his own world, whether he's standing, sitting, hanging from the ceiling, etc., it doesn't matter.

Not Tony, though.

Tony, while at times an aggressive alcoholic and one who can be prone to fits, is usually the life of the party (or at least the one that gets it going). Tony's managed to hold conversations with war vets, soccer moms (yes, those managed to stay cordial and non-sexual, except for a nice middle-aged woman by the name of Stacy... that story's for another time), former circus clowns, and even the snooty types at cocktail bars (cocktail bars!). Tony Santos, to say the least, was not a quiet young man, and Big Lou, a man who has known Tony since he was a young kid splitting time between his home in Dedham and his faux-grandparents' home in Somerville, Massachusetts (faux-grandparents due to the fact that they were an old, Italian couple that Tony happened to fall in love with as a kid and claimed as his own), was going to get Tony to act like himself.

*WHACK* Lou gave Tony a nice smack across his right ear with the bar rag. Tony jumps in his stool, startled and ear now ringing.

Santos: Ah, what the hell, Lou???

Big Lou: I had to get you off of your mopey a**. This isn't the Tony Santos that I know or want to see, even in tough times. Sorry 'bout your dad, kid. He was a good man. A very good man.

Tony, not exactly sharing Lou's sentiments, shrugs and stares back down at his beer, the usual Harpoon IPA, and brushes his long, brown hair back. Sore and cut up from his loss to Mr. Satellite just two days ago, his bruises on the inside only added to the pain and frustration building up inside of him.

Big Lou: Didn't see you at the wake yesterday, kid. Tough getting back from LA?

No response from Tony.

Big Lou: Hundreds of people showed up, Tone. Hundreds. Enough people to pack this bar for a good week. It was an impressive showing. Great crowd, all taking the time to really appreciate your dad.

I saw Patti and Colleen. They both looked fantastic and really handled it all well, considering the circumstances. Strong women. I'm tellin' ya, there's nothing more powerful or intimidating than a woman with conviction and strength. Those two always had both and then some. That's why your mother was a damn good mother, and your sister's gonna be a damn huge success and fantastic mother down the road...

Tony looks up from his beer, which he still, by the way, hasn't touched in a good five minutes. Wiping sweat from his brow, thanks to the faulty air conditioner in the bar, he wipes the sweat on the sleeve of his t-shirt. An odd t-shirt, it's black with simply the phrase "My Friend Sam is 50" on the front. Why? Tony's never told anyone why. He was certainly too young to have any 50-year-old friends, with the exception of Big Lou, and it just never made much sense to anyone. Oddly ominous and mysterious of Tony, but, given his personality, there was certainly nothing deep behind it. Just an odd shirt that he probably pocketed from a used t-shirt rack in Southie for five bucks.

Santos: Lou, with all due respect, you really didn't know my parents that well. Sure, you were a trusted friend of theirs, but you didn't know what life was like inside our household. I was treated like dirt. Never understood. Then thrown out on the street to fend for myself. I wasn't given a damn chance, Lou. Not one damn chance.

So spare me if I don't feel a ton of sympathy for you, those in my family who are still living, or my dad. He basically told me to p*ss off when I mentioned that I was shooting for my dreams.

Lou, hands on his hips, looks up at the ceiling in bewilderment. Oddly enough, Big Lou, who was certainly big enough to earn the name "Big Lou," wasn't sweating in the slightest. Just taking the summer day in like it was nothing. As he makes his way over to another patron to pour him another beer, he mentions loudly down the bar...

Big Lou: There's the foolish, blame-everyone-except-myself, Tone that I've come to love over the years. You're just as damn stupid as you always have been

Lou puts his left hand up, with the other holding a glass that is being filled with a cool glass of Guinness.

Big Lou: No offense, of course. I just can't resist calling you a c*nt when you deserve to be called a c*nt, and hell, you never prove me wrong after the fact.

Here you go, sir. $5.00.

The man hands Lou a crisp ten dollar bill, and Lou heads to the register for change.

Big Lou: If every time you lied or made some absurd proclamation I could take a dollar from everyone in this bar, I would've shut this place down years ago and moved to Tahiti. See this register? It'd be chock full of ones with your stupidity and immaturity oozing out of the mouths and eyes of each George Washington.

By the way, I thought you were going to "take the XWF by storm" or whatever else you ridiculously claimed you were gonna do. I don't see you flaunting any gold here tonight, so, I'm assuming you've been less than successful thus far?

Tony, feeling the sting from that remark (or was that his shoulder?), slowly turns his head to his head, facing the wall of the bar. He downs what was a 3/4 full beer in a few gulps, then motions to Lou for another.

Santos: I've hit some bumps in the road. Nothing I can't handle.

Lou smirks, impressed with the fact that Tony was actually able to admit his failures, but not without throwing a little of that trademark ego of his in there as well. Even when Tony was at his lowest points, he still managed to believe he could take on the world, and that had served him quite well up to this point in his wrestling career. It didn't do a whole lot for school, since "taking on the world" meant causing problems for people who were going places or just generally being a nuisance, but man, when this kid loved what he was doing, he was able to focus that hubris in a positive (yet somewhat foolhardy) direction.

Lou hands Tony another beer, and Tony gladly takes a nice, long sip.

Santos: Had a tough few weeks. Tough opponents, close calls, bad breaks, this and that. I haven't hit a damn Final Destination in weeks, Lou. Hell, if I could even just attempt it and fail, at least I'd get some nice pictures from it.

Lou shakes his head. There's the Tony he knows so well.

Santos: Anyways, two titles shots, but no belts. One loss, one draw. Draw came first, loss second. To whom? This guy, Mr. Satellite. Dude's been the bane of my existence, and now I'm expected to compete with him.

I was whipped and pinned by a guy who actually threw out the "sun rises in the East and sets in the West" cliche. A man who allegedly is about to have some sort of intergalactic, alien baby. Don't get me wrong, he's a hell of a competitor when he's in the ring, and I'm sure he'd be a damn good partner in almost any situation, but Lou, I don't want this win. Not if it has to be with Satellite, hell no.

Lou, here's what I'm hoping for. I want to walk in to Madison Square Garden in two days and hang Satellite out to dry. Problem is...

Santos puts a finger up to let Lou know to hold on, and, just as he's about to take a sip, er, swig, of his beer, a sharp pain stabs its way through Tony's left shoulder (thankfully, on his weak side). Tony pounds the table hard with his right fist, pain searing through his upper body. That nasty spill that he took over the steel stairs on Saturday did nothing for his shoulder, and he was still feeling it two days later. Refusing to see a doctor, Tony was medicating himself by numbing the pain with booze. This was either a sign that that wasn't going to work, or, more likely (at least in the mind of an alcoholic), he hadn't yet had enough to drink.

Composing himself, he looks back up and notices that the six or so other patrons, all older men in their 50s, are staring at him, wondering what's up with the dude in the corner. Either these guys weren't regulars, or Tony's traveling had already turned him into a stranger at his bar.

Santos: As I was saying, problem is, I'm facing a total a** clown in this match. A guy by the name of Agent Orange.

Big Lou: Agent Orange? That's his name?

Santos: Well, I'm going out on a limb and saying that's not his real name, but considering how little faith his parents probably had in him from the moment he came out of the womb, or maybe the abrupt realization that he'd become little more than a poor man's Mr. Kennedy with a the all the machismo of Guy Fieri, caused them to really name their kid after poison.

Lou, I've been fortunate enough to be in some top matches already in my short time here, and, as you damn well know, I've done a lot outside of this federation. For me to have to face this huckster, who doesn't have the brains or wit to hit me with better insults than calling me "Tony Soprano" or "Tony WitnessProtectionProgram" is a joke beyond belief.

This dude can rant and rave all he wants about how slighted he feels by not being in a pay per view after one match, or how brainwashed and stupid fans are, which, don't get me wrong, they are pretty, pretty stupid. He can bash cardboard cutouts and chastise comic book store employees with arms the girth of something else of Agent Orange's...

Tony stops and whispers to the non-existent individual to his left.

Santos: See, Orange, I can make jokes about how effeminate you are too!

Tony looks back at Lou.

Santos: But here's the deal, Lou. Orange can blow smoke out of his own a** all he wants, but he needs to realize this. Have I been on a losing streak? Yeah. Am I banged up? You're damn right I am. But, me at 50% will run circles around this Agent Orangutan...

Tony looks again to the non-existent person to his left.

Santos: I can also do wordplay with people's names! Hell, and I dropped out of college! I'm right there with ya, bud!

Looking back at a smiling Lou.

Santos: I will always and forever run circles around a pompous airbag like Agent Orange, and I damn well look forward to doing so on Wednesday.

Lou puts a hand up, stopping Tony in his tracks.

Big Lou: But, Tone, you have a partner in this match. That means you have a second opponent, right?

Santos: I damn well do. A hulking fellow by the name of Steve Davids. But here's the thing, Lou. As I mentioned earlier, I don't want this win. Not with Satellite. I want Satellite to fall and fall hard. I want Agent Orange to annoy his partner enough that he's scalped before the match even starts.

I want them to tear each other apart. If I win, great. If I don't, I damn well better be in that ring to pick up the scraps afterwards. And, finally hit the Final Destination! I just want to hit that damn move, Lou!

Lou, still smiling, shakes his head.

Santos: Get me another drink. It's gonna be a long night, and you're gonna have to deal with me until I'm ready to go.

Was Santos really feeling better, or was the alcohol doing its intended job and just numbing him from the pain? Probably the latter, but hey, Lou didn't care. Not now. Not after seeing Tony come alive again, even if only for a 15 minute rant. All that he could think to say was...

Big Lou: Now that's the Tony I know.

The scene fades to black.