South Beach, Miami, Florida. It's a pleasant 73 degrees on the night before Wednesday Night Warfare. The camera pans the night sky as it envelopes the Atlantic Ocean below. The little fireballs in the sky burn with gusto, while the buildings off in the distance glow in that fluorescent, multi-colored light that Miami is known for. To Tony, the uncultured Bostonian, this was his own little Miami Vice playground, nothing more, nothing less.

Santos: Ain't this heaven, babe?

Tony twirls around the beach, his arms outstretched and hair flailing as he smiles with a boyish smile. Apparently his dread for moving to the Sunshine State had disappeared just as quickly as does his usual 10-minute morning hangover. Shannon stands off to the side, his companion and the reason for this move, arms crossed as she looks on hesitantly, her left eyebrow arched while her right eye is covered by her dark hair with purple highlights.

Shannon: What's up with you, Tone? You hated this city a good ten minutes ago.

Tony, seemingly immune to his typical bouts of negativity and hatred, lets himself fall backwards in to the sand. Tony lays in the cool Florida sand, smiling at the stars.

Shannon: Are you drunk?

Tony laughs.

Shannon: We just drove here. Did you drive partially intoxicated???

Tony laughs again.

Santos: Heh heh, yeah, babe, I did. I slipped some Captain Morgan in to my Diet Coke and just rolled with it, baby. I just... rolled with it.

Shannon's face instantly becomes a cherry red color, her eyes inflamed. While she knew Tony was a drunk, she didn't see him as a reckless drunk. Well, I guess he could be one, he just never had the chance to do so behind the wheel of a car, considering that he lived in a city with an endless supply of cabs and a landlord that didn't allow him to park one in a driveway on a street with no street parking, so... yeah, that was probably it.

Tony lifts his head and sees Shannon, enraged and murderous, and he lets out a sharp, condescending laugh that sounds more like a yelp.

Santos: Oh Jesus Christ, Shannon! You really think I'd park my ass in that car, with you, hammered? Hell no! If I wanted to crash the car with you in it, I'd wanna do it completely sober so I can experience every damn bit of it!

See, Shannon, that's the problem when it comes to you, and everyone else, in how you idiots perceive me. You think that I do everything with serious intentions. That's clearly the problem that you have with me, that Egyptian Snow Pharaoh has with me...

Shannon: Who?

Santos: One of my lovely opponents tomorrow night on Warfare. She's a true ball of fire, Shannon. One that would put even you to shame. She throws out some serious verbal lashings... ones that would truly put an uptight, elitist, prep school "my parents are paying $60,000 a year for me to study English Literature with a minor in Bob Marley" to shame, that is. She started her time in the wonderful company that I call home by taking on the king, and damn, did she get his attention! She talked about the intricacies of the "fake" side of the wrestling business, and accused my trusty leader and partner of taking that wretched route.

Now? After failing in that endeavor, she finds herself taking me on, specifically my intentions in team captaining, and wondering aloud why I would choose Andrew Morrison and Salman Van Dam as my partners, as if I haven't been emphatic enough about those goals. Shannon, do you know why I do what I do? Really, do you?

Shannon: Not in the slightest.

Santos: And you've already known me for too damn long. See, I'll enlighten you, and hopefully be able to some day enlighten the confused one. I do what I do, because I fucking love keeping things "interesting." Duke was an obvious pick, but I picked Morrison so I could see him beg and grovel for my appreciation, for my respect following the ass kicking I handed him.

I picked Salman Van Dam because I wanted to force that whiny bitch in to a ring with me, on my side, so that I could whip him in to shape and make him my complete and utter slave. I want him to know how much I dislike him and his excuses. He lost to me during my debut because he's fucking horrible. A pile of baby vomit could last longer in the ring with me than Salman.

I also picked them for one, other, greater reason: When those two bastards fall apart, Sebastian Duke and I will be the two that take down four, and The Brotherhood will only look stronger. Also? Morrison and SVD will move on, and we'll get to watch them make a mockery of their names, their families, their entire existences in the process.

In summation, fuck Theo Pryce. Fuck Dr. Zero. I hope Cam Lang accidentally castrates himself in the ring. And I hope Egyptian Snow Pharaoh just... smiles. Smiles wide. I just want to see her happy before I tear her apart and drop her to levels lower than she could have ever dreamed of, only to realize that the only way she'll ever, ever again get the attention of Sebastian Duke or John Madison will be if she tries to blow her way to a dark match in an alley.

Now, babe, let's say we go drown in the Atlantic Ocean together.

The scene fades to black.

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