The scene opens beneath the Atlantic Ocean, just off the coast of Maine. A school of mackerel pass by the shot, making their way to their eventual death at the hands (er, mouth) of a predator. The water gurgles and bubbles at their passing, then becomes still, with your regular currents passing through. A fishing boat passes overhead, the motor buzzing as it takes off, looking for a solid catch to close out a tough season.

The camera pans downward, and... wait, the "camera" is actually the vision of Tony Santos. His mind racing, Tony frantically looks left, then right, before looking down at his feet. His ankles, chained to cinder blocks, leave him sitting at the bottom of the ocean. Quickly running out of his oxygen reserve, Tony bends downward and reaches for his right ankle, then his left. Tugging at the chains, he attempts to break them with basic human strength. Realizing that this is a failed endeavor, Tony releases his grasp, looks up at the sun through the water, and considers his other option. Straightening his body, Tony begins to flap his arms from his sides, hoping to lift the blocks and reach air. His abs clench and subsequently expand as he attempts, in vain, to avoid his own death. The water once again gurgles and bubbles as Tony paddles frantically, only to be stuck in the exact same position as he found himself initially. His hair flails up and down and his eyelashes flutter, but his body goes nowhere, the weight of the cinder blocks holding him down with the weight of the earth's core. Gasping for breath, Tony opens his mouth, only to inhale a mouthful of water. Immediately attempting to spit it out, he only inhales more, as his body curls and twists in agony. Looking back toward his ankles, Tony once again attempts to release the hold of the chains, only to realize that he has no oxygen to propel his muscles. Tony grasps the chains and lets his body curl in to a ball. He tucks his head in to his arms, bracing for the sweet release of death, when all of a sudden...

Waitress: Sir?

A plate lands on the table, the sizzle of bacon resonating from it. This is followed by the clanking of a fork and knife coming together as they lay nicely on the bed of a napkin beneath them.

Waitress: Sir, your food is ready. Sir...

Tony feels his right arm being shaken, his hoodie tugged by a set of skinny fingers. Tony rises from the Atlantic Ocean and opens his eyes, finding himself inside an IHOP just down the road from where his journey began in Fort Lauderdale. Typical of the IHOP chain, Tony's quickly woken from his daze by the bright white walls of IHOP and its employees' blue aprons. Blinking a few times as he takes in the scenery, Tony brushes his hair back, rubs his eyes, and looks down at the plate in front of him. It was his IHOP favorite: country fried steak smothered in gravy, with home fries and bacon on the side, all to be washed down with a modest glass of cranberry juice. Tony, unable to crack a smile, instead turns toward the window, noticing that it's pitch black outside. He looks up at his waitress.

Santos: What... what time is it?

The waitress, a tall, slender woman in her early 20s, smiles, both out of feeling bad for her customer, as well as out of sheer exasperation, previously worrying that she'd gotten one of "those" customers. You know, the type that stumble in at two in the morning, looking for some late night breakfast food, who eventually either pass out from alcohol poisoning, resulting in a late night visit from the cops, or the type that spend more time playing with their food and ruining the experience for other customers than actually eating it. Tony had passed the first test, so the second was still waiting on a verdict.

Waitress: Haha, it's 2:30 in the morning, sir. You went to sleep quite fast! How are you feeling?

Tony's eyes widen, wondering where the day has gone.

Santos: Uh, fine. Beat up some kids earlier. Almost got hit by a car. Laptop's broken. Just...

Tony smiles and leans back in his seat.

Santos: ...fine

The waitress gives him a nod as she walks away. Tony grabs his fork and slowly reaches for his home fries. Tony picks at his food, twirling his home fries around his fork, making sure that they wrap around his silverware like a coil before jabbing said fork in to his steak. The juices from the steak flow like a river, the gravy covering the entire mass. He plants the fork in to his food, lifts it toward his mouth, and latches on before yanking it from his fork's grasp. Tony, who is still leaning back in his chair, clearly forgetting the meaning of proper table manners, smiles as he savors each and every chew. His jaw locks, then releases, locks, then releases.

He reaches for his cranberry juice, only to aim incorrectly, poking it with his middle finger and knocking it to the ground. The glass shatters as a few bleary-eyed customers jump. The waitress can be seen off in the distance, waiting for food from one of her customers, before hurriedly moving toward the closet, grabbing a dustpan and brush, and making her way toward Tony. Tony stumbles to the floor, attempting to pick up the shards of glass with his bare hands.

Santos: Ah! I'm sorry. I've got this! Seriously...

Waitress: No, no, sir, I'll take care of this. Please, just sit down. Would you like another glass of juice? A sippy cup, perhaps?

The waitress looks up at Tony and smiles. Tony, in his drunken/tired haze, manages to look like a cross-eyed buffoon. Tony, looking offended due to this facial expression, manages to take the waitress aback.

Waitress: I'm sorry, sir. So, so sorry. I didn't mean to offend you in the slightest. It was a joke, is all.

Santos: Oh, no, no. Just drunk. Don't mind me. You must get this all the damn time.

The waitress smiles and nods, her long, brown locks, which are much better kept than Tony's, by the way, bounce as she moves her head up and down.

Waitress: Every night. You're not the first to break a glass here, but definitely the one to do so with the least bit of style. Come on now, most people manage to throw it across the room in a fit of rage or something. Did you just drop it?

Santos: Sadly, yes. Usually I would be that guy, but not today. Today, I'm just, well, some drunk who can't even pick up a damn glass of juice or eat his fucking meal.

The waitress's eyes widen as she raises a finger to her lips.

Waitress: Sir! There are children here! Please don't curse.

Santos: Oh, fuck them. Do you know what I do for a living, Ms. Waitress Lady? I'm a fucking professional wrestler. I grapple with some of the top dogs, getting my legs twisted, my fingers snapped, and my risking a neck break. You think I give a shit about what some fucking abortion wannabes hear from my unholy mouth? Do you?

Don't answer that. You know where I live? Miami. Where I'm from? Boston. What I do? Oh wait, I answered that. What I'm going to continue to do? Be a reckless, hopeless, motherfuc...

The waitress shakes her head, an innocent pout showing across her face. Tony smiles.

Santos: Ah, I'm sorry, hun. I didn't...

Tony stumbles over in to the shards of glass and mess of cranberry juice that used to be whole, cutting his right hand, which had attempted to brace his fall while staining his beige khakis. The waitress gasps as she attempts to lift Tony, only to have him brush her off, lifting himself to his feet. Tony yanks his wallet from his back pocket, pulls out a twenty dollar bill, and throws it on the table, a bit of blood spattered on Andrew Jackson's face.

Santos: Here you go, ma'am, for your troubles./color]

Tony turns toward the door, his food barely touched. A blank look on his face, he zombie walks toward the door with his luggage bag (the one with the broken handle) under his left arm. Dragging his feet, with a glass shard going along for the ride as it attaches itself to his left shoe, the waitress springs to her feet, making her way toward Tony. She reaches him, using her right hand to yank at his right shoulder, turning him around.

[color=#00BFFF]Waitress: Tony! Here.

The waitress hands Tony a slip of paper.

Waitress: Your receipt, sir.

Tony looks at the slip of paper, frowns, and spins himself back toward the door. Just then, the waitress calls for his attention once more.

Waitress: Sir, please examine your receipt carefully. We wouldn't want you to feel like anything was misrepresented during your time here at IHOP!

Tony, without blinking an eye, continues toward the door without looking at his receipt. The doorbell jingles as he makes his way outside. The wind blows through his hair, but only ever so slightly, as if tell him a secret. He drops his bag and pulls out his phone. After dialing a few numbers, he raises the receiver to his ear.

Santos: Yeah, I need a cab. Where? Miami. Now? Yeah, now. 211 Northeast 2nd Street, Fort Lauderdale...

A half hour? You gotta be fucking...

Okay, okay. 20 minutes it is. Wait... 30? No, you...

Okay, 25 minutes.

Tony presses the "End" button on his iPhone before tucking it in to his pocket. He feels the receipt laying next to it, so he pulls it out, making sure that he wasn't ripped off for what was, well, he had one bite of food, so there's no winning outcome...

Until he turns to the other side.

My name's Patricia: ***-***-****. Call me when you're not intoxicated and breaking fragile objects.

Patty.

P.S.: I saw you steal that fork.

Tony smiles as he pulls the fork from his bag, kissing it on its end.

Santos: Things are gonna turn around. Things are gonna...

Tony falls backward against IHOP in a drunken haze as he waits for the cab.

The scene fades to black.

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