The scene opens in a dark room at night in New York City, where the only light that can be seen is that of a streetlight shining through the one large window. The camera is zoomed in on a hand playing with a cigarette, moving it between its lean, white fingers. Frank Sinatra's "I Should Care" can be heard playing from the coin-op jukebox in the corner of the room, but there's no one around to have chosen it except for the bartender, who looks like he was thrown straight from a 50s-esque greaser movie.

Slicked hairdo and all, he fit the mold of this place, which was dark, dingy, and very old-fashioned. Smoking, which has been banned as an activity in all public and private establishments in New York City for a good few years, is welcomed here as a big old eff you to the man, and, in particular, Mayor Michael Bloomberg.

The person playing with the cigarette pulls out his Zippo lighter, flicks it, and lights his cigarette. A man of little change, especially from things that he enjoys, he's smoking Marlboro Blacks, 100s of course, and savoring the feeling that comes from blatantly defying a city ordinance.

The camera zooms up this man, passing over his lime green buttoned-down shirt, with sleeves rolled up to just below his elbows, long hair resting on his shoulders and chest, with the rest hanging wistfully behind him, and a slight, satisfied grin on his face. Over his shoulder is the Xtreme Championship, which he won by defeating Stevie Tyler, Agent Orange, and Alex Shawn. Yes, Tony Santos had taken a few days to enjoy New York City after a hard-fought victory filled with gruesome action and a disgusting level of gore. He took this opportunity to get away from his family, friends, and the kid, Jeremy, and here he was, sitting in a dark, cruddy place listening to Frank Sinatra and talking to no one. No one to bask in his victory with. No one to tell overly exaggerated stories about this match with.

Santos: Can I get another Harpoon, bud?

Bartender: Pal, I told you already that we don't have Harpoon here. You didn't even have one in the first place. You want another Stella Artois?

Tony looks down at his empty glass in disgust, ashing his cigarette in the empty glass as some sort of silent protest at what he just drank.

Santos: Shit, is that what I've been drinking. God damn, alright, another one. Do you guys have any craft brews on tap?

The bartender, walking toward the freezer in the corner of the bar to pull out a chilled glass, shakes his head.

Bartender: Nope. Just the basics here.

Santos: You know, when I was in San Francisco a while back, they had an awesome, awesome beer selection. Seriously, every tap was some different awesome brew from the West Coast. None of that macrobrew bullshit. Just the good stuff...

The bartender, beginning to fill up Tony's glass, looks agitated.

Bartender: Not to be rude, but I really don't care.

Tony, taken aback by that remark, takes the final drag of his cigarette and puts it on the floor. Another bit of silent protesting from Mr. Passive Aggressive himself. He gets up from his chair, belt still over his shoulder, and walks over to the bar to grab his drink. The bartender slides Tony's beer down the bar, where Tony manages to... miss it completely. The beer clips the corner of the bar and plummets to the floor.

The bartender sighs.

Bartender: Seriously, dude? I was like four feet away from you. You still owe me five bucks.

Tony, growing increasingly frustrated with the aloof and off-putting behavior of this bartender, slams his belt on to the bar, staring straight into the eyes of this greaser flunky.

Santos: Do you know who I am, asshat?

Tony points sternly at the championship belt laying on the table.

Santos: I'm the god damn Xtreme Champion of the XWF. I earned this belt by turning some professionals into helpless little children. I beat them into submission. Do you know what I could do to you? More importantly, do you wish to find out, jackoff?

The bartender, not backing down, stares Tony straight in the eyes. He's sweating a bit on his forehead, but it seems to be less from the situation at hand and instead due to the weak air conditioning unit keeping the place below scorching.

Bartender: Yeah, I know who you are, jackass, and frankly, I don't give a damn. This tough guy bullshit may work the people in that wrestling organization you're with, and maybe even with the family and friends that you love to disappoint, but that shit doesn't work with me. Hell no, I've seen much, much tougher folks walk through that door, and I've been happy to knock them on their asses in a heartbeat. You wanna try me? Feel free to give it a shot. But here's the thing, Santos... I know your deal. You got family issues? So don't we all. You got a girlfriend that loves you more than you think you love her? Big fucking deal. Man up and work it out or dump her. Don't string her along for the ride while you go bar hopping from town to town, meeting random floozies...

Yes, he just used the term "floozies"...

Bartender: along the way. Man up and quit pushing your problems on to other people. No one cares, and frankly, no one deserves your shit.

Santos: How'd you know all of that?

Bartender: I watch TV, moron, just the like most of this godforsaken country. And hell, you're entertaining TV. You've got more issues than your typical guido on Jersey Shore, and we get to see it all out in the open, with fancy little camera tricks and a grand finale every week of you getting your head beaten in close to mental by some roided-up, mentally unstable lunatic. It's fantastic television, Santos.

Plus, haha, plus...

Santos: Stop talking.

Bartender: Oh, not yet, Santos. It's not often that I get provoked in my own damn bar by some circus freak who seems himself as a serious performer. Someone who can't comprehend how much of a joke he is...

Santos: I'm serious. Shut your mouth, now or I'll burn a hole through your damn cheek with one of my Marlboros.

Bartender: But Tony, you've got those cute little daddy problems, now don't you? Keeping you up at night, giving you scary little nightmares. Making you conjure up thoughts that you never thought you'd have to deal with again? And what do you do? You go back to the family that you've neglected for so long, tried to make amends and do the right thing, and for what? So you could break them down again too?

You're the bane of everyone's existence. From what I've seen of you in only two months is that you love stomping in all loud and proud, full of piss and vinegar, and acting like some hot shot, like everyone should admire you. Now you come in to my bar and act like I should give a damn that Tony Santos has graced my pale ass with his presence? Get real.

*WHACK*

Tony, having had enough, hits the bartender with a stiff backhand, knocking him out cold. Upon getting socked in the face, the bartender whacks his head hard off of the bar and lands hard on the ground. Tony stares at the back of his hand for a moment, already turning red from the impact. He makes a fist, clenches, relaxes, and repeats. Then he... smiles. This form of abuse, outside of the ring, outside of the confines of a schoolyard, felt, well, good. The spontaneity of it all made it that much more enjoyable, and Tony took a minute to let it sink in. Now he understood why his father did what he did. This was a quick fix, a way to erase anger and pain in an instant. It was... euphoric.

With the place still empty, no one could have possibly seen the assault go down. Tony, finally coming to and snapping himself out of his altered mental state, whips out his wallet, throws down a ten dollar bill, grabs his belt, and heads for the door. He reaches the door, puts a hand up to the glass, and shoves the door hard, missing the sign above him, which reads:

"Before you begin on the journey of revenge, dig two graves."

The scene fades to black.

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