We're inside the Veritable Quandary, a bar located just outside of the heart of Portland, Oregon. A classy little establishment, it prides itself on giving you a "truly authentic Portland experience." For your typical tourist, that might mean a nice night by the luxurious, open windows, soaking in the quaint streetlights and active, but not overly bustling, streets, while enjoying one of Oregon's many famous craft beers or a fine glass of California wine, while tasting the succulent flavor of an Oregon Chinook Salmon. If you wanted to find a spot in the city to impress a lady, this was it...



However, on this night, they'd be getting the Tony Santos-induced version of Portland.

Santos: Waiter! Waiter! Maitre d'?! Somebody! Beer!

An agitated waitress in her late 20s walks up to Tony. She's adorned in black pants and a white shirt, her long brown hair pulled in to a tight ball on top of her head, her spotless appearance giving off the stern, in control vibe that would likely slap down Tony at the first opportunity.

Waitress: Yes, sir, how can I help you?

Tony sits at his table, a food bib stuffed lazily in to the collar of his white button down shirt, fork in his right hand, knife in the left, ready for his feast.

Santos: I need a beer and food, ma'am. I've been here for close to an hour with no service, and I won't stand for it! What do you have on tap? Hair of the Dog? Widmer Brothers? Rogue? Please, dear god, tell me you have some good ol' Dead Guy Ale here! Please!

The waitress holds a very tight-lipped smile.

Waitress: Um, yes, sir, we do have beer from each of those breweries on tap. Would you like a... Wait, an hour? Sir, we sat you down five minutes ago.

Tony snaps his finger at the waitress, then points to the bar.

Santos: Dead Guy Ale, motherfucker. And, um...

Tony looks at the specials menu to his right.

Santos: A fucking ribeye.

Waitress: How would you like it cooked?

Santos: However you usually cook a god damn ribeye. I don't care.

Waitress: Sir, we need to know your specific preference. Medium rare, medium, well done...

Santos: Rare!

Waitress: Sir, that's not an option...

Tony glares up at his waitress, becoming increasingly peeved, not by the back and forth questioning, but by the lack of liquid beverage at his table.

Santos: Then make mine medium rare, and remove the medium! Figure it out!

Waitress: Sir...

Santos: Beer!

Two Hours Later...

Waitress: Sir, get down from those tables, now!

A loud crash can be heard, followed by another, and another, and another.

Waitress: Oh my goodness! You're paying for that china!

Tony Santos can be seen prancing across tables in true Gene Kelly fashion, knocking over fine china glasses and plates, all while spraying silverware from his feet like a firehose. The diners have long since gathered outside, watching the scene from the window, while the employees attempt to contain him on the inside as a little, squirrely man, who just so happens to be the owner, cowers in the corner of the bar area, on the phone with 911.

For all of his theatrics and seemingly gleeful behavior, Tony is still quite intimidating. Standing at 6'2" and a little over 200 pounds of lean muscle, Tony's fists could break bones, while his legs, his true weapons, could easily tear ligaments and shatter ribs. The fact that he was almost always inebriated certainly helped him in the scary department...

Come to think of it, there is never truly a time when Tony Santos would be considered welcoming or in any way friendly. He always has an ulterior motive; always something to gain. In this instance? He simply wanted to inject a minor dose of chaos into an otherwise peaceful, civilized establishment.

Santos: Shut up and watch! Watch!

Tony does a quick twirl in the middle of a table meant for four, slipping slightly on the tablecloth, but just managing to keep his balance by taking a quick grab of a hanging lamp on the wall next to him. Tony straightens himself, takes a deep breath, and exhales. Jumping off of the table, he scurries to the end of the table and grabs the tablecloth.

Santos: I'm gonna... um, pull the tablecloth while... well, the fucking glasses will, utensils, up straight.

Tony burps as the employees brace themselves for a failed attempt at the old, remove the tablecloth while keeping everything on the table in tact trick. Tony grips the tablecloth tightly, clenches his abs and curls his eyelids, and pulls backwards with all of his might as the employees watch in horror.

3...


2...


1...

Tony yanks the tablecloth as the glasses, plates, and utensils... stay exactly where they were. Tony opens his eyes and looks at the table in disbelief. A stunned, young busboy can't help but utter...

Bus boy: Holy shit.

Tony looks out the window at the employees, then back at the table, then to the tablecloth in his hands.

Santos: Holy shi...

Tony collapses face first on to, and subsequently off of, the table, falling directly on top of a glass, cutting his cheek. The remaining items on the table land directly on top of him.

One Hour Later...

Bro, get up! Bro! Your ass crack is showing, dude.

Santos: Hmph? Umph...

Tony comes to, his face laying flat in a puddle of what was hopefully rain. Tony feels raindrops hit the back of his head, so yeah, likely rain.

Hobo: You're sitting in my piss, bro. Get out of my piss. Kinda nasty, son.

Tony lets himself take a quick whiff of what his nose had been bathing in for a good half hour, at least, and by Tony's gagging reaction... yup, this was certainly a man's urine. Tony jolts upwards, his facial wound stinging for the combination of pee, dirt, and likely some feces, making its way in to the cut.

Santos: Holy fucking good god... what the... you motherf...!

Tony looks the man straight in the face. Quickly gauging the man's build, it's obvious that the man in front of him is no fighter. A skinny white man at a modest 5'7", he was Tony in a good decade or two: his body worn from years of alcohol and drug abuse (Tony'd get there at this pace), living on the streets after frequent encounters with the law and absolutely no employable qualities. Tony, even in his drunken stupor, could see this. It was a cute little bit of foreshadowing...

So he took a swing at him... and hit the brick wall a foot to the man's left with his right fist. Tony, not exactly elated by this turn of events, attempts to recover with a swift elbow in the man's left ear. The homeless man falls sideways to avoid the hit, grabs an empty malt liquor 40 oz. bottle, and swings at Tony's leg. However, he loses said bottle and hits Tony with... the tip of his middle finger.

Hobo: Bro! Truce! What's goin' on?! Why you acting all fuckin' crazy and shit?! You're cut up, dude. Let me get that with some newspaper.

Tony, breathing heavily but unable to get up from his side, calms down and relents.

Santos: No... fucking... newspaper. I need... some... gauze and... um... rubbing alcohol.

The homeless man looks to his left, then to his right, and smiles.

Hobo: You do know that you're in an alley in fucking Portland, right? An alley... with rats and shit? You were sucking in piss, bro, and you want some fucking first class hospital shit? A newspaper's the best you're gonna get.

Tony looks around, defeated by his predicament, yet confused as to what the hell he'd done. He had a flight to San Diego the next morning to make it to his tag team match on Warfare, and he'd initially planned on quiet night in this strange little city, soaking in the sights while sucking down a few beers. Instead, he was soaking in urine as he was sucking down, well, urine.

Santos: Screw, man. I'll just walk to a McDonald's or something. Use their...

Hobo: Heh, use their bathroom? They gotta unlock that shit for you first dude, and you look worse than your run of the mill, well, me. They'd treat me like the god damn president compared to you. The moment you walk in anywhere but a hospital around here, everyone's locking themselves in the back while they dial those three trusty numbers: 9, 1, and 1. You're in a no-win situation, dude. Might as well camp out here tonight. What's your name?

Santos: Um...

Tony lets himself think for a moment. He doesn't want to use his real name, after all. He'd need something clever. Something that wouldn't give away his identity.

Santos: Tantos. Sony Tantos.

Hobo: Like a fuckin' Playstation?

Santos: Need for Speed...

Hobo: Um, alright. Why you here, bro? What's your deal?

Tony, now laying on his back, hiccups as he attempts to let out a sentence.

Santos: I'm a... HICCUP professional... HICCUP HICCUP wrestle.

Hobo: A professional wrestle?

Santos: A fucking professional wrestler, you stupid... HICCUP cheap dimebag smoking mother...

Hobo: Alright, bro. Let me give you some advice. The bottle's hit you like a angry ho who you paid a BJ price to for a full package. You gotta quit that shit before you find yourself in an alley with something worse than piss on you. You'll have some fucking bullets inside you. How old...

Santos: Piss sounds worse.

Hobo: Whatever you say, dude. Just think about it. Some day, you won't meet someone as nice as me.

The homeless man stands up, dusts off the ass portion of his jeans, and begins walking away, leaving Tony to fend for himself.

Hobo: Which reminds me... there are some worse people than me just right around the corner.

Three built, white men, all bald with bandanas, make their way around the corner. The man in the middle holds a tire iron, while the two flanking him clench rocks.

Hobo: Don't get up son. You're getting robbed.

Santos: Agh, fuckphm...

Ten Minutes Later...

The street adjacent to the alleyway is quiet. Folks are nestled inside on this cool, rainy evening, spending time with loved ones, staying away from the degenerates and seedy types. Quite the racket could be heard in the alleyway. Either Tony had gotten up and the men had beaten him senseless, or they robbed him and beat him senseless on the ground.

All of a sudden, a man stumbles around the corner, a tattered button down shirt and jeans hanging by a thread, blood spattered on them and the man's face. A large gash adorns the man's face; so grotesque and obvious that it can be seen from a distance in a dimly lit area.

The man brushes himself off, flings his hair back, and stumbles forward. Then, he stops. He wipes his hand across his cheek, then sniffs it. He winces.

Santos: Well, god damn, I smell like piss. Guess I need a beer.

The scene fades to black.

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