Santos: How's this coming along, Pablo? It's a fine day and all, but I could use a drink.

Mark: Sir, I've told you, my name is Mark, not Pablo.

Santos: Whatever, you're Pablo to me. That's what I heard the first time you said your name, and I'm sticking with it. Sound good, Pablo?

Mark, a San Franciscan of Hispanic descent, who just happened to be given a very Caucasian name, shrugs as he mumbles under his breathe about the asshole sitting across from him. See, Mark here is a professional caricaturist, working over near the Bay Bridge in San Francisco. A young man in his early 30s, he'd been performing these services for a good ten years following a failed attempt at community college, and a desire to be an artist full time, all while enjoying the beautiful sights of a West Coast city. In his decade of work, Mark had certainly come across his fair share of crazies, yuppies, and downright terrible people, but today, he was dealing with someone who happened to embody all three of those traits. Tony Santos, fresh off of his flight from Boston to San Francisco, was trying to cram in a day of sight-seeing before his tag match in the evening, because, after that, he'd be shuttling himself back to Boston to finalize packing for his big move to Miami. Santos was in no way ready to leave his home, especially not with his increasingly gold-digging girlfriend, Shannon, so he was going to take this mental escape for all it was worth...

All while shooting a promo, obviously.

Tony's sitting in a chair across from his unhappy and insulted caricaturist, a black Boston Bruins hoodie over his back, and his typical tattered jeans covering his legs. It was a cool 59 degrees in the city, and being near the water gave the area an extra chilly feel. Tony was relaxed, content, and very much at ease with this "time off" of sorts.

However, Mark was not drawing a caricature of Tony. No, no, Tony would never allow it. He knew he'd end up concussing Mark upon seeing the final product, so he figured it'd be best to not find any reason to trigger his own, unpredictable and irrational rage. Instead, he was holding a portrait of none other than Andrew Morrison and Christine Nash. Yes, Tony wanted a portrait of two members of The Family done, and Mark was more than happy to oblige, considering that Tony slipped him a $100 bill to incorporate some "special touches" to the painting. Mark had been working on making these special touches for a good thirty minutes, and Tony, not being very understanding of the process involved in not only painting a professional piece of art, but also incorporating elements that were not part of the visual in front of him, was getting snappy.

However, the look of impatience and discomfort (from sitting in a damn wooden chair for a little over a half an hour) was soon wiped away when Tony turned to his right and noticed an XWF cameraman focusing in on him. If there was nothing that Tony liked more, it was the glare of the camera in his face; a pedestal for his excessive rants and ridiculous shenanigans.

Oh, and of course this was in no way planned by Tony. Not at all. This was completely coincidental.

Yeah.

Santos: Well, hello Mr. Cameraman! What a surprise for you to show up! It's like... you know where I'll be at all times, day or night! Actually...

Tony looks down at the ground, as if he's contemplating something incredibly serious. He bites his index finger in concentration, then looks back up at the man with the camera lens.

Santos: Actually, does that mean you know where I am when I sleep? When I drink? When I'm, pooping? Are you watching me? Why are you watching me? Don't you have better things to do? Why can't you be a girl? I'd rather have a cameralady watching me, you know, than some 40-something loser with no family and no real goals in life other than being a glorified paparazzi. Actually, not even a glorified paparazzi. Paparazzo? Paparazzo sends better.

See, you're not even a glorified paparazzo. See, those folks get to watch Justin Bieber meltdowns and stare at Lindsay Lohan's coochie. You? You get to watch Barney Green take a bath in the morning. Ooh boy. How much do you make, by the way? Enough to get a nice studio apartment in some podunk midwestern town in fucking Nebraska? Indiana? Even, dare I say it, Kentucky? Pff, no way. That's too high class for you, my boy. You're probably living in the storage freezer of a local McDonald's, poaching month old Cinnabons and ground up, day old hamburger patties. Good for you, you asshole. I didn't fucking like you anyway, you ass. I hope you hate what you do! I hope you hate the fact that you get paid to watch me demean you, you stupid son of a bitch! I get paid quite well to sit around, go on violent benders, and shit all over ten-cent employees like yourself.

In summation, fuck you.

Tony smiles as he tilts the picture in his right hand upright, realizing that his ranting has forced the picture to tilt downward, and Mark, not wishing to have any of Tony's attention on himself, tilting his head to the side to try to keep focus on the photo while not asking the increasingly impatient Santos to move it back upright.

Santos: But that's not why you're here, is it, Mr. Cameraman? You're here to film me as I have a masterpiece created of our two bumbling, drooling idiots from The Family. See, Mr. Cameraman, I was so enthralled by their little showing at the cemetery, that I felt it only fitting to give them a gift. A gift that I would personally like to give them before our match tonight. A little display of my, appreciation for their hard work... for their willingness to make asses out of themselves on national television. Someone's gotta do it, and thankfully, they stepped their asses up to the plate and saved us all from having to sit on YouTube and replay some Chris Legend promos to cure our humor fix.

See, Mr. Cameraman, those two, they're really trying. They're trying to make names for themselves here in the XWF, and I applaud them for that. Unfortunately, they're taking the kooky and convoluted playbook of The Congregation and bastardizing it further. Seriously, sitting in a cemetery, chanting? Chanting "we shall rise"? Are you fucking kidding me?

See, Morrison and Nash, I've come up with a really good picture of what I'm going to see in that ring tonight just from watching you two Oddity ripoffs open your mouths and act for the camera, and here's what I'm anticipating: You'll both walk down that aisle tonight, boasting for the crowd, making sure everyone knows how important and relevant you are. You'll step through those ropes, Nash doing some little number in the corner and looking all serious, while Morrison shows how angry and roid-ragey he is, trying to strike the fear of God into Hunter and myself.

And then the bell will ring...

That's when we toss you around that ring like the puppets that you are, controlling your every move, determining your fate for you, because that's just what you both are: puppets. Puppets, not for some ignoramus leader like Eli James or John Madison, but puppets for the system. You follow the trends and try to do what you think will get you far in this industry, and make you what you've always failed at becoming: relevant, but, like any good puppet master, the system calls the shots, and the puppets get thrown away like the useless, lifeless, soulless objects that they truly are.

And that will happen to both of you.

Tonight, Hunter and I begin your own little trail of tears. We'll beat the ever-living bejesus out of each of you and leave you lying in your own shame. Then, once I've dropped you with the Final Destination and pinned you 1-2-3, you'll go back, cry some more, and continue yearning for everyone's appreciation, but here's the thing: you'll be seen for the clowns that you really are. And nobody likes a crying clown. Hell, nobody likes a happy clown. I guess you're fucked either why, aren't you?

Yeah, you are.

Tony snaps his finger at Mark and twirls his index finger around, signaling for Mark to turn the caricature to the camera. The picture looks somewhat like this:



Santos: Ah, good work, Pablo my boy.

See, folks, this is what I see when I see Andrew Morrison and Christine Nash on my TV screen. Two jokes with an appreciation problem. But don't worry, because tonight, I'll turn those frowns upside down. Tonight, after I leave you lying on your back, concussed and left utterly useless...

I'll smile for you.

Tony smiles for the camera as the scene fades to black.

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