The scene opens on E Las Olas Blvd in Fort Lauderdale, Florida. Palm trees envelop the road on both sides as speed boats cruise parallel to the passing vehicles. A mild, low-80s day is growing progressively cooler as the sun makes its way further and further to the west.

The camera turns to a lightpost off to the right, where none other than Tony Santos can be seen, his limp body pressing against an equally lifeless, inanimate object. Tony stands off to the side, his ratty, wet hair dangling over his face while beads of sweat drip from his forehead, slowly crawling over the grains of sand that cover every portion of his worn face. Tony's black Bruins hoodie still covers his upper body, and, considering the temperature and Tony's complete aversion to anything above cool, is soaking in sweat. His beige, khaki shorts hang on to his waist like a rock climber without a harness or the ability to find a decent spot to grab on to, as Tony's bony, deteriorating waist attempts to provide a modicum of support so as not to expose his jewels to the world.

Cars roar up and down E Las Olas Blvd, honking at what seems like a lost, homeless man, trying to edge him out of the wealthy part of Fort Lauderdale. Hell, Tony wouldn't be surprised if they were honking, not in any sort of hopes that he were feeling okay or showing a pulse, but to propel him from their wealthy enclave and in to the water surrounding them, plunging Tony to his untimely death. As the honking becomes more fluid and continuous, Tony becomes agitated. He slowly lifts his right arm, placing his right palm on the lightpost. After taking in a deep breath, Tony pushes against the pole, making himself upright as he balances on his blistered, now bare feet. He lifts his left leg ever so slightly, placing it one foot in front of him. He proceeds to do the same thing with his right leg.

Left, right, left, right.

Tony stumbles down the sidewalk, sometimes managing to stay on the concrete, while other times veering off toward the road before a car horn blares at him, bringing him to attention and, if only for a few moments, getting him back on track and avoiding a severe mangling of his limbs. As Tony looks downward, watching and attempting to crush each insect he passes, he can only wonder how he found himself in this predicament...

Santos: Here I am, in fucking Miami, wait, no, Hialeah? No, I think it's, fuck it's Fort Lauderdale. Fort Lauderdale god damn Florida. Son of a bitch. It's one thing to be a stumbling, incoherent drunk, but it's so much better to do so when you're not SWEATING YOUR ASS OFF! Seriously, this hoodie...

Why am I wearing a hoodie? It's fucking Florida! I thought Shannon threw away those things. Guess not this one... oh, that's right, I pissed on it so she wouldn't touch it. Heh, that worked really fucking well. I should just piss on her and perhaps she'd end her own damn life. Yeah, that'll do it, Heh, heh...

Wait, does my hoodie smell like urine?

Tony stops, and, considering his inebriated state, stumbles forward, then backward, before righting himself with his outstretched hand. Tony grabs his left sleeve and slowly brings it up to his nose. He sniffs his sleeve, wincing in anticipation, but quickly switches to a smile.

Santos: Ah, I smell like the freaking Snuggle bear or something. Fan...tastic.

Tony feels his luggage bag beginning to slip from his grasp, so he curls his fingers around the handle and yanks it upward toward his right ear.

*SNAP*

The handle snaps clean off of the bag, resulting in the bag tumbling to the ground. The flimsy zipper, which was already attempting to pack clothes meant for two months of traveling, let alone a weekend, gives in. Shirts, socks, boxers, training equipment, some unsavory magazines, a laptop, and some other accessories make their way on to the grass, the sidewalk, and the street. Drivers, completely uncaring as to what has just crossed their paths on the warm pavement, take no care to avoid any of Tony's belongings. One such item that happened to be a wit bit more important than the rest, his virus-ridden laptop, is instantly crushed by a red Toyota Corolla as it zips down the street. Tony lets out a groan, before falling to the pavement, his knees crashing against the unforgiving earth like cinder blocks.

Tony stares straight ahead, lost and bewildered, as his laptop continues to crunch and crack as cars roll over it.

Santos: A fucking drunk, that's all I am. Scrapping with and blinding a bunch of teenagers on a beach in a fucking place that I have no damn clue about, for Christ's sake. The Brotherhood is falling apart, I hate my girlfriend, and I'm in a city where more people speak fucking South American bullshit than my native tongue. This is the bed I've made for myself. It's the MO that I've built for myself.

It's the neverending joke that I've perpetuated.

And for what? Attention? So people would notice me? Well, shit, they've noticed me, alright. They've noticed me, and I have one title reign. One motherfucking title reign that went for 12 days. 12 godforsaken days. I beat a guy named after a poison that killed a bunch of gooks, and he disappeared after like five matches, a dude with two first names who ran off crying from sucking so much and never returned, and a stoner with a fixation on vomit. And it was the fucking Xtreme Championship, the least dignified, joke of a belt in this company. Yes, it's below the UFO belt. At least the people holding the UFO belt KNOW how worthless that thing is. People with the Xtreme Championship THINK they may mean something in this fucking place, but they're as low on the proverbial totem pole as Poppa Feder is when he's making his way down Peter Gilmour's erect man pole.

And here I am, not even worthy of being called a flash in the pan. Luca Arzegotti's a borderline worthless addict too, but he's won a belt that fucking matters AND managed to hold on to it. Sure, he had to get down on his knees and kiss the royal feet of John Madison to get there, but he fucking MEANS SOMETHING. Me? I'm watching my pores sweat booze while I hold on to dreams of not killing myself after a bender gone wrong.

I'd say "fuck it, it's time to change," but let's be honest, I'm not changing. Shit's going downhill, and there's no use in trying to climb back to the top when I've got three Peter Gilmour's strapped to each of my ankles. No, no, I'm going the other way. I'm gonna let myself fall until the ride's over. I've chosen a booze-addled lifestyle, and to hell with it if I'm gone by the age of 26. This is me, and I'm sure as hell living up to this piece of shit gimmick that I've chosen. Now, time to lay down.

Tony's head begins to spin as his vision blurs. He reaches for what he thinks is a pillow, only to realize that it's a chunk of plastic from his obliterated laptop. Tony's back buckles as he drops face first on to the curb.

The scene fades to black.

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