The scene opens with a shaky camera panning the Providence Civic Center. A modest arena seating a little over 12,000 people, there's nothing flashy about this entertainment spot in the middle of a bustling little New England city. Tonight, 6,000 people have filled the seats to see the Providence Wrestling Federation in action. It's a warm Thursday night in early June, which left plenty of New Englanders with a need for a cheap night out before heading to Cape Cod, MA or Newport, RI for the weekend.

Behind the scenes, a young kid by the name of Tony Santos, fresh out of college, was ready to take on the world (well, not college graduation, of course, but rather a loud and very hostile break-up with his parents after he submitted his notice to UMass Dartmouth that he would not be returning for his sophomore year). He was sitting in the locker room in the back with about 20 other wrestlers who would be competing that night, including a broken down 52-year-old wrestler who jobbed in WCW for about a year before being cut and relegated to the minors for the rest of his career, a man in his mid-30s who had aspired to hit the big time, but had yet to make it, and the usual mix of up-and-comers and over-the-hill old timers. Basically, you had your has-beens and your-never-would-bes.

The PWF was a notable enough fed to elicit recognition from the local papers and book solid venues, but also insignificant enough to fail to grab the attention of even regionally recognizable feds, let alone the WWE or TNA. This was where wrestling careers went to die.

Tony, the new kid on the block at the ripe age of 19, was sitting in the back, calm, cool, and collected. He'd been doing this wrestling thing for about a week now, and based on some high school buddies he had been sparring against, it didn't seem all that hard. Hell, throw a few punches, nail a dropkick or two, and then finish them off with a submission hold and that would be the ballgame.

Unfortunately for Tony, his opponent was a hulking mass of a human being by the name of Trent Diesel (yes, real last name). Standing at 6'6", 275 lbs., this 28-year-old specimen had surprisingly not yet made his way through the indies, despite his larger than life stature and mean streak. Rumor had it that his previous felony convictions for assault with a deadly weapon (yes, it happened multiple times) made him a liability to the large promotions. Hence, he was forced to wrestle for peanuts at local gyms and playgrounds.

Trent, also looking to make a name for himself in his debut in the PWF, was hyping himself up and ready to steamroll whomever happened to have the unfortunate luck of facing him in the ring. Like Tony, Trent also had little to no "real" wrestling ability, since, well, you don't really need it when you're a machine of an individual. Standing off to the other end of the locker room from Tony, Trent, veins throbbing from his steroid-fueled muscles, is listening to "Let the Bodies Hit the Floor" from Drowning Pool, his gray body building tank top covered in sweat, and pounding a punching bag to a pulp. This man is pumping himself up at the pace of someone attempting to have a heart attack.

Back on the other end of the locker room, Tony can be seen bragging to a fellow wrestler in true Santos fashion.

Santos: Yup, first match ever here. Just got out of school a week ago.

...

Have I done this before? Well, off and on. I practiced with some of my buddies since I got out of school, and I've played football and the like as a kid. I'm an athlete. I also know how to throw down a mean armbar, so I'm just about guaranteed the win. Guaranteed!

...

Well, honestly, how hard can this stuff really be? You don't need a ton of experience to make this stuff work. Hell, the guy that I'm facing tonight is new too. Have I seen him? Not yet, but, come on. He's 28 and just making it here now? If it took him that long, he's probably not all that special to begin with.

...

Experience? A kid with no experience is probably just as good as someone with years of experience but no real skill or accomplishments, to be honest. I'm green as hell but excited and ready to fight, while this guy has probably been beaten down and demoralized so many times that he has no more confidence in himself to perform anyway. Chalk it up as a W for Santos.

Tony, who had just changed his surname from Sullivan to Santos, couldn't hold back from dropping his last name at any chance he had. He loved the ring the name "Tony Santos" had to it, as well as the immediate distance he felt it provided him from his family, as well as the sordid past that came with it.

Through the walls, a loud, boisterous man can be heard against the backdrop of a rowdy 6,000 people (by the Civic Center's standards).

Promoter: And now, ladies and gentlemen! You've been waiting all night to see this monster, this terror, the man who eats men alive. The man they call Trent Diesel! Well folks, the time has come. The main event of tonight's PWF Thursday Night Showcase! Trent Diesel and... um...

The promoter, a man by the name of Yantsy (yes, Yantsy) Jones, was calling the action all night from the fold out table at ringside, as well as filling in as ring announcer, due to budget issues. Yantsy (who demanded he be called Vance at all times... who knows why) was your stereotypical local wrestling promoter: greased back hair, a cheap, plain colored button-down shirt, and Chinos making up his wardrobe at almost all times, was known to be a bombastic promoter and a back-handed and cheap boss. He'd do anything to make an extra dime, whether it be luring wrestling fans in with absurd sideshow acts, promising big time wrestlers for events that he knew he couldn't afford (and who would thus no-show), or cutting his wrestlers' pay and/or jobs at a moment's notice. He wasn't well-liked in the PWF, but no backstage employee who was worth his salt or had any sensibility would stay in his job for more than six months, and thus, Vance was always the only one with the knowledge of the promotion to keep running it.

Anyways, Vance, who was attempting to announce the participants of that night's main event, struggled in remembering Trent Diesel's challenger. Considering how heavily promoted Trent had been up to that bout, it wasn't completely unreasonable to expect that any other newcomer on that card would be forgotten, especially some young punk with a decent physique and no wrestling ability, but an attitude of a world champion. Vance pulled an index card out of the pocket of his Chinos, squinted, and then read the man's name...

Promoter: Ah, that's right! Tobey Santos!

The crowd goes wild. Not for Santos, but for the Diesel himself. They were ready to see this beast take down a man who wasn't even significant enough to have his name written down correctly on a pre-match index card.

Tony was being led down the backstage hallway to the entrance curtain by two Civic Center staffers.

Santos: Sh*t, they spelled my name wrong. It's Tony! TONY! It's an incredibly common name! The only person with the name Tobey was Spiderman!

The staffers, not caring for Tony's ranting, simply pressed their hands further into his back, moving him along at a quicker pace. Practically shoving him through the curtain, Tony looks up and sees the bright lights glaring at him, directly in the eyes. Wincing, he turns to his left, then to his right, and is a bit overwhelmed by the mass of people standing on the railings surrounding the entrance-way. The fans are your typical house show crowd in New England: young, over-enthusiastic kids with absurdly inappropriate signs for people their age, older men still yearning for the glory days of Hulkamania or Austin 3:16 (with t-shirts to boot), and those fans who just came to heckle some wrestlers and laugh at the sport in front of them.

Tony struts down the aisle full of p*ss and vinegar, mocking the fans with fake high-fives, and then he hops up to the ring apron, purposely taking his time to get through the ropes. It was a show of confidence for a man who expected to be PWF Champion the second he walked in the door, and an obvious sign of what this man was going to bring to the table moving forward.

Climbing the turnbuckle, Tony raises one hand in the air, then promptly plants himself Indian-style on the top turnbuckle, waving his opponent on to the ring. Smile on his face, Tony flings his long, brown hair backwards and soaks in the crowd's jeers. He was even wearing a white t-shirt in which he had scribbled "I'm Santos and you're not, so ya'll can go suck it" in truly clever Santos form. Flinging the shirt into the crowd, Tony punches his knee pads and waits.

Just then, a loud bang is heard, and out comes Diesel. Ripping his tank top off, Diesel wastes no time in getting to the ring, still amped up from his preparations backstage. Tony, with the fear of God now in his eyes, leaps from the turnbuckle to the outside, catching Diesel with a hard right flying elbow. Diesel stumbles backwards a few steps, then glares at Tony with a look of pure hatred. Diesel charges at Tony and nails him with a hard clothesline. Grabbing Tony by the hair, Diesel throws Tony in to the ring.

A few minutes of Irish whips into the corner followed by body charges and hard elbows to the face, some bodyslams, and what was just a solid, one-way beating. Tony, realizing that this wrestling thing might be a little harder than he initially anticipated, tries his hardest to roll out of the ring, but Diesel, who hadn't faced any sort of punishment from Tony after the flying elbow (with the exception of some girlish shoves from Tony in the corner), pulls Tony back to the middle of the ring, and the assault continues.

Left, right, left, right. On and on and on and on. The beating stops for a brief moment as Diesel raises a fist to the crowd, acknowledging their cheers. Tony, looking up at Diesel, the arena lights making this look like a terrible trip to the Emergency Room, starts to lose focus. The scene becomes blurry, and the crowd noise disappears. As Diesel raises his right fist in the air, ready to begin Round 125 or so at this point, since honestly, no one's been counting, his face once again becomes visible. However, his short, black hair has turned a silverish gray. His bloated face is now thin, cheekbones raised. His grunting has become a coherent ramble, and it's oddly familiar to Tony.

Right then and there, he realizes. This wasn't Trent Diesel at all, this was Tony's father, Brian. The setting has morphed into Tony's bedroom in Dedham. The crowd, gone. Tony wishes the crowd were there to stop the madness that was occurring, but there was no one to save him. Tony, now a young adolescent, looks at his father in fear. Fist raised in the air, Brian was about to continue a pounding that Tony was sadly far too familiar with.

His father's voice raised, Tony couldn't make out exactly what he was angry about, but it had something to do with a glib response he had made to his mother at the dinner table. Insulting her a bit too much that night, his father wasn't having any more of it. With Patti out with Colleen at the mall for the night, Tony's dad had his chance to unleash his anger completely. Tony, struggling for air, begins to scream...

Santos: Enough! Enough! Dad, I'm sorry! I'm sorry! Let me go!

His father, unrelenting, showing no fear or restraint, suddenly stops, and... smiles. He smiles at the pain that he's caused his son for the pain that his son has inflicted on his mother, his sister, and his dear old dad. He smiles for the revenge that he has successfully gained. He smiles, out of pleasure.

Just then, his smile turns to a confused frown. He opens his mouth and speaks...

Sir?

Since when had his father ever called him sir?

Sir, wake up. Hey, sir! We gotta go!

Just then, Tony comes to. Opening his eyes, Tony sees himself on the floor of his apartment in Brighton, beer bottles strewn around the apartment. How long had he been out? How much did he drink? He couldn't tell. Jeremy, kneeling over him, nudges him again.

Jeremy: Sir, we must get moving! Our cab is outside and we need to catch out flight to New York in 40 minutes! Get your bag and let's go!

Tony shakes his head, lifts himself up, and sprints to his room, yanking his surprisingly full duffel bag from his closet. Sprinting with Jeremy to the door, they slam it behind them and practically jump into the cab. Jeremy turns to Tony.

Jeremy: Sir, you look terrible. You ok?

Tony blinks a few times, still trying to come to. He brushes his mess of hair back.

Santos: Uh, yeah, kid. Just a bad dream. Cabbie, to Logan Airport.

The scene fades to black.