Please Login or Register to get full access to the forums.

Lost Password?
Current time: 03-28-2024, 07:27 AM (time should display as Pacific time zone; please contact Admin if it appears to be wrong)                                                                


X-treme Wrestling Federation »   » Archives » Lethal Lottery 2 Entire Tourney + PPV RP Archive
Know Your Enemy - (European Title - RP #1)
Author Message
Tony Santos Offline
Santos Glares at You



XWF FanBase:
(.Awaiting user update)


#1
11-22-2013, 02:55 PM

The scene opens inside Murray's Tavern, located in Salem, New Hampshire. Tony, having traveled to Monday Night Madness in Boston on Monday, was biding his time in the Northeast until the Lethal Lottery Pay Per View, avoiding the Florida climate that enveloped his new home, and, most importantly, avoiding his headcase of a girlfriend, Shannon. Tony hadn't talked to her in a little over a week, and he was damn well happy with this predicament. Was she cheating on him? Based on her silence, probably. Was she dead?

Tony could only hope so.

Located in a decades-old plaza in this small town in the state known for its nonexistent sales taxes and motto of "Live Free or Die," it was surrounded by a cheap, trashy capitalism that flocked for the lowest common denominator, hoping to squeeze their wallets for every last cent that they had. The amenities of this plaza included your usual necessities, like a tattoo parlor the size of a mini-Wal Mart, a pawn shop parading as a jewelry store, and a nail salon attached to a hair salon, perfect for your aging divorcee before she heads to her local BJs Wholesale Club to pick up a young buck at the deli counter. Murray's Tavern was situated in the corner of this array of shops, its phony colonial exterior the product of an equally phony plaza owner, hoping to inject some old New England flavor in to his air conditioned set of shitholes.

The scene turns to the inside of the bar, and, considering that it's only a little after noontime in this little New Hampshire town, it's barren, with the hard working town folk earning a good day's pay...

Aw, to hell with that facade. The place is currently littered with suburban drunks with never better to do than skip out on work and hit the bottle while watching re-runs of the US Open (golf). The bar is littered with some old looking tables, but, considering their polished finish, as well as the stability of their legs and the chairs that hold said patrons, it was clear that these were in no way antiques, but merely as superficial as the bar's exterior, and the town as a whole. Some patrons, in their mid-to-late 50s, can be seen sitting at the bar, smoking and ranting at the TV as the most recent Patriots game plays, on tape of course, on the bar televisions. The rest of the bar is scattered with folks ranging from their late 20s to early 60s, sitting, in many cases by themselves, at the wooden tables scattered throughout the establishment. Some are chomping down on cheeseburgers, while others sit, quietly reading the paper and drinking their brew of choice (usually just your typical Bud Light).

Sitting in the middle of the establishment? Tony Santos. His long brown hair sits at his shoulders in its typical unkempt, yet surprisingly tame, fashion, a red, New England Patriots hoodie over his back (complete with the old, 70s/80s era Pat Patriot on the front). He stirs the water to his right, since, well, he has no intention of actually drinking it. To his left sits a Kona Pipeline Porter. A delicious, fairly thick brew, Tony was able to get over the fact that it was as much of a craft beer as your run of the mill Peroni, considering its partial ownership by Anheuser-Busch InBev (which itself owns 1/3rd of Kona's owner, Craft Brew Alliance), and was downing rich glass after rich glass. The camera focuses on Tony, staring him in the face. Tony puts down his glass, wipes the foam/saliva combination left from his mouth on the outside of the glass (a pet peeve of his), and looks up at the camera, a slight smirk making its way on to his usually pompous face.

Santos: Ah, hello, ladies and gents. Welcome to New Hampshire! The land of the free and the home of those who hate taxation but love representation! Hence why most people live across the border in northern Massachusetts. These are all just a bunch of tourists, really, A bunch of "fuck the government" types that stick it to The Man at every turn, including hopping over to Salem or Concord, grabbing their alcohol and shopping fix, then drunkenly driving back to Haverhill or Lowell and killing a minivan full of nice Chinese immigrants and their single-digit children in a tragic accident of the DUI quality. That's New Hampshire, folks. A place full of failures... hence the crowd here on a Friday at one in the afternoon... looking for an escape. An escape from reality. An escape from their jobs... from their families... from their worthless lives. A chance to get away, if only for a few hours. The safety of others be damned.

And why am I here? Why am I not still sitting in San Diego, soaking in that god awful sun, or sitting in Miami, also... soaking in that equally as god awful sun? Because, I'm also looking to escape. I'd be lying if I told you I wasn't. I'm escaping from Miami. Escaping from Shannon. Escaping from... failures.

See, next week, I face off with Luca Arzegotti and Sweet Cheapshots for the European Title. A match against a Black Circle member. You know what my record is against members of The Black Circle? Hm, let me count it for you...


Tony holds up his left hand, spreading all five fingers outwards. He presses his left thumb with his right index finger...

Santos: Mr. Satellite/Supernova, for the TV Title. Loss.

He bends his left thumb in to his palm. He then presses right index finger against his left index finger.

Santos: Mr. Satellite/Supernova, for the US Title. Another loss.

He bends his left index finger in to his palm. He proceeds to his left middle finger.

Santos: John Madison, for the King of the XWF crown. Another god damn loss. Even with that bastard "brother" of mine, Griffin MacAlister.

Tony presses his middle finger against his palm.

Santos: See, it's been quite the rough ride when it comes to matches with The Black Circle. 0-3. The only times I've been able to win with Black Circle members in a match is when I've been teamed up with one of them. Nova and I teamed up in Madison Square Garden on July 3rd and beat the living hell out of Steve Davids and Agent Orange.

Luca and I traveled to Phoenix and beat the sweet Jesus and Mother Mary out of Cam Lang and LJ Havok on September 30th.

2-0 with them in my corner.

0-3 with them on the other side.

A trend's building, and it's as ugly as this fucking town. A trend that needs to end. Not because I give a shit as a member of The Brotherhood. Hell no. I'm not representing that shell of a group in this match. This isn't The Brotherhood vs. The Black Circle. That'd be a fucking embarrassment to this damn company. I won't represent Sebastian Duke, and I sure as hell won't fight for his honor.

No, no. I'm going in to this to take down Luca Arzegotti, ending this fucking losing streak. Cracking that big ol' doughnut in my win column... the one that plenty of folks can't crack when it comes to The Black Circle.


A murmuring can be heard coming from Tony's right. Tony stops, turning his attention to the noise to his side. Having trouble hearing, Tony takes his right hand and brings it to his ear, leaning toward the camera. Tony smiles.

Santos: Heh, Sweet Cheapshots? I barely expect him to make an appearance, let alone put up a fight. Luca's the champ, and he's the one to focus on. Sweet Cheapshots plays the exact same game that his name implies. He's all for inserting himself in to a situation at the most inopportune time, but as a threat? Sweet Cheapshots isn't even a damn threat to Peter Gilmour or "Michael" Radio. He barely remembers to show up, let alone put up a fight.

Tony looks down at his Kona, his eyes widening. He grabs the glass with the ferocity of a bear and downs it with utter intensity. The liquid dribbles down his cheeks, dabbling the collar of his shirt, near his neck veins. Tony looks at the camera, his alcoholic, twitching eyes bouncing around the room. He smiles an oddly toothy grin.

Santos: Luca, tonight is only the beginning. I've been waiting for this, you goofy son of a bitch, and here it is! Right here! Our opportunity to steal the show! Our opportunity to make the European Championship mean something! This is on us, Luca. It's...

On you. Don't lose to me. Don't lose your title. Don't lose any semblance of respect you have in these parts. Don't make yourself irrelevant.


The scene fades to black.

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

[Image: VIh61T5.jpg]
Edit Hate Post Like Post
[-] The following 6 users Like Tony Santos's post:
(11-23-2013), Egyptian Snow Pharaoh (11-22-2013), Great Buzzard Eli James IV (11-23-2013), Jessie-ica Diaz (11-22-2013), Liz Hathaway (11-27-2013), Theo Pryce (11-22-2013)




Users browsing this thread: 1 Guest(s)