Fort Lauderdale, Florida. It's the middle of the day on a Monday here in sunny Southeastern Florida, the temperature in the low-to-mid 80s, as the camera sits by the beach. Looking out in to the horizon, some stray winter vacationers can be seen frolicking along the shore; children playing frisbee or throwing a football around with their larger, male counterparts, while others spend time crafting their medieval sand castles, which would soon crumble once high tide rolled through. However, this crowd was mainly filled with your standard winter fare of retirees escaping the harsh realities of the Northern United States for a few months, their 401ks and investments having set them for comfortable retirements mixed between Spring and Summer in their actual homes, while Fall and Winter took place in their little home away from home as they traversed the Atlantic. A man in his late 60s can be seen laying in a nearby beach chair, soaking in the fairly mild sun while stereotypically holding a reflector at an angle, spots of sunscreen dotted on his nose and cheeks. His wife can be seen sitting upright beside him, watching Steel Magnolias on her new-fangled iPad as she tries to figure out why in the hell there is such a glare coming from the screen.

The camera pans to its left, observing some other vacationers and retirees engaged in similar activities, when it comes upon a group of teenaged boys who look more like regular Fort Lauderdale residents than some kids that were broken up from their parents. They can be seen making a circle as they kick dirt toward the middle of the circle, passing around a large object like a hot potato. Visibly creating a scene, the camera focuses in on the ruckus.

Come on, pretty boy! You gonna let some kids take your bag from you? Is your hair in your eyes? Come on!

A stirring Tony Santos can be seen twisting and twirling in awkward half circles, his hair flailing from side to side, his black Bruins hoodie littered with grains of sand, while his black Nike basketball sneakers are themselves quickly turning in to containers of human flesh and sand, thanks to the teenagers flailing sand at his feet while his khaki shorts provide absolutely no protection.

Tony, having recently gotten off of his plane back to Florida, had drunkenly instructed his cab driver to drive him north of the airport, toward the beach, rather than south to Miami.

See, Tony had spent the cross-country flight from San Diego not only working off of a slight morning buzz, but also pounding down a seemingly endless array of free first class booze. So as to not draw attention to himself and get cut off mid-flight, Tony had kept surprisingly quiet and to himself for most of the flight, with the occasional (read: ten) trip to the bathroom and the threat of physical harm to the passenger behind him, who despite having leg room to make a 6'6" man comfortable, had managed to turn Tony's seatback in to his own personal kickboxing bag.

Now, after almost coming to blows over a fare with a portly Indian cab driver that Tony had no intention of paying, Tony found himself stumbling and trudging through the sand, which felt like wet concrete to the drunk Santos's feet. Roller bag in tow (read: sloppily carried over his shoulder by the increasingly weak handle), Tony was just trying to find his way to an IHOP that, based on his phone, was only about 12 or 13 blocks... the complete opposite way of the water. After a few faceplants, the local teens, ten strong and just happening to have the day off for Veterans Day, had found their mark. It was time to cause some trouble for a disoriented drunk with no obvious idea where he was, hence the hoodie/shorts combination.

What you gonna do, tough guy? You gonna take a shot at your bag, or ya gonna get up close with the sand again? Huh, what's it gonna be?

This boy, standing at a little under six feet tall, was clearly of Latin American origin. A high school senior at the ripe age of 17, his soft facial features and lack of any muscle tone, contrasted by his siren of a mouth, made it clear that he was all talk and no action... at least outside of a group.

Tony turns toward the kid, the bag leaning against his right leg, and Tony hurls his body forward, looking to take the kid out by the legs. However, Tony fails to propel himself with enough force to actually reach his legs, so, he gets reacquainted with the moist Fort Lauderdale soil. The kids break out in a roar of laughter.

HA! That's all you got, pumpkin? Wait, is he?

The kid leans down toward Tony, and hesitantly observes Tony from top to bottom. Hovering over the back of Tony's head, the kid snaps at one of the others in the group and motions for him to come over. This boy, a younger Latino lad at what looks like the age of 15, was clearly more of the whipping boy of the group, carrying out uncomfortable and potentially risky tasks that the other, more "senior" members of the group felt they were above.

Check him. Lift his head. Looks like he's out cold.

The boy leans forward, then reaches toward Tony with both of his hands. He looks at the older fellow for guidance.

Grab him by his noodly fucking hair. Just pick his head up!

The boy, an agitated expression crumpling his facial features to the point of pruning, takes a deep breath and drops his hands on to Tony's head. He quickly pulls them back, overwhelmed by the task at hand. The older gentleman is not pleased.

Get your hands back down there and just do it! Look, the punk didn't move when you practically judo chopped him on the back of the head! He's likely out, but I need to see his face!

Do it, Styven. The jackhole aint't doin' shit!

The pressure was on now for our little high school slave. Either do this and gain the momentary approval of a bunch of future drop-outs, or chicken out, be ostracized in the short term, and potentially labeled as a coward for the long term. Hey, he's no damn coward! He's 15 and in HIGH SCHOOL. Fuck you if you think he's not a man. He's a god damn young Javier Bardem, and to hell with you if you think otherwise!

The 15-year-old boy, still lacking in the right to drive a car, but certainly not in lacking in testicular fortitude, drops his hands once more on Tony's head, hesitates for a split second, and lifts. Tony's eyelids are shut, his face covered in sand while the gaps in his teeth are now connected by Mother Nature.

See, Styven, what'd I tell you? Out like the fuckin' hobo that he is. Look at him! He looks like he's got shit between his teeth! Ha!

The older gentleman looks at his smirking compadres for further validation, so they proceed to bust out in incredibly forced laughter at a joke that would make Salman Van Dam cringe. He looks directly in to Tony's face and smiles.

Look, you good for nothin' motherfucka, you just got schooled by some fuckin' kids, and now we're takin' ya stuff. You dig?

Tony, his head still hanging in mid-air like a Mexican cartel victim pre-execution, suddenly opens his eyes and... smiles.

Santos: Surprise, motherfucker.

The younger boy immediately releases his grasp and backs up, letting out a slight yelp. Tony, in a drunken rage, had played possum long enough. Bursting to his feet, Tony kicks the 17-year-old in the gut, propelling the kid five feet backwards and ass first in to the sand. Tony reaches in to his pocket.

Holy shit, he's got a gun!

The kids attempt to flee, but before they can begin to react, Tony pulls out... pepper spray, which he'd stolen from the cab driver on his way to his random destination. Holding it with the steadiness of a light saber held by Luke Skywalker on speed, Tony firmly presses his thumb against the button on the top of the pepper spray bottle and lets out a cloud of face poison, hitting everyone in sight, including all of the kids (with the exception of the oldest) and a few innocent bystanders. Letting out a loud yell, he unleashes fury and chaos in a way that only Tony Santos could.

Santos: Fuckyoumotherfuckasssssssss! This is like fucking NORMANDY!!!!

This was not like Normandy.

Tony quickly hobbles toward his bag, yanks it, and runs toward the street, hoping to catch solid ground. He trudges through the mess of wailing children and retirees when he... stops. Craning his neck back toward the scene, he sees the 17-year-old slowly getting up, dusting himself off as he grunts in discomfort. Tony, for some unknown reason, kicks his feet in a backwards motion... as if he were a god damn bull, and lets some sand fly to show how serious he is. Then, he hops a foot or so in the air, lands with his feet pointed toward our antagonist, and charges at the kid. Raising his bag, he reaches the shocked teenager and, before swinging, utters these words...

Santos: Taste the wheels as they turn, because they sure as hell won't be turning for you!

Tony whacks him across his left temple with the rolling bag, immediately knocking him out cold.

Tony makes haste as the Fort Lauderdale Police Department realizes that they've been hit by a nasty, Stage Five Hurricane Santos.

The scene fades to black.

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