It's a beautiful day in Pratt, Kansas. A frigid 21 degrees with a wind chill bringing the temperature down to a solid 10 degrees. In this small town of just about 7,000, the streets are sparse and the open land is aplenty. The people congregate around the town square, and it's not uncommon to see cars drive past one another and actually wave out their windows in greeting, as practically everyone knows one another in this little, Midwestern town. Hell, even in this weather, folks still take the time to greet one another. It's the model for small town, rural hospitality.

Enter Tony Santos...

Santos: Woo, mothafuckas! We're not in Kansas anymore! Woo hoo hoo!

Well, I guess we are in Kansas...

Tony can be seen roaring down South Main Street in a red convertible, and yes, the top is down. Tony's hair waves in the cold air, a childish grin on his face as his eyes are covered by some sunglasses that he stole from a passenger on his flight to Topeka. Now, here he was, free from a close to four hour drive and on his way to, of all places, a barren (there's a joke in here) theater in some podunk town in the middle of nowhere. Why? Shannon, Tony's lovely girlfriend, was wondering the same thing.

Shannon: Why in the hell did you drag me out to this part of Kansas?! And why is the top down on this convertible? It's like 5 degrees outside, Tone!

Tony looks over to Shannon on his right, smiles and stares back at the road ahead. Speeding down the road, he'd had no trouble catching the eyes of townsfolk, not used to some wannabe hotshot injecting his own sense of flavor and energy in to a town that liked the typical Sunday routine of heading to church, grabbing some post-worship coffee and a newspaper, and conversing with others about the weather while playing Parcheesi. To Shannon, this signaled either a man who was giving a blatant "fuck you" to her and her wishes, who someone who was simply losing his mind, the drink having finally begun to kill off the portions of his noggin necessary for sound decision making.

But to Tony, this was an opportunity. An opportunity to...

Santos: Get educated, babe! I have a surprise in store! Oh, here it is!

Tony turns sharply to his right, parking in front of the Barron Theater (there's the joke) in Pratt. Having served the fine people of this town with quality (if only slightly delayed in their release time compared to the rest of the country) films for a quarter of a century, the owners were short on cash and high on reasons to sell the joint. The profit margins were low, and upgrading the business to provide digital-quality motion pictures just didn't make sense from a business perspective; not in a town so small and with no real opportunity for growth.

However, there were no takers for the theater, for the same reasons that the owners had no incentive to upgrade. However, in need of cash, Tony came calling, while he was still in Boston, with the prospect of renting out the venue for a few hours for a cool few thousand dollars. The owners, giddy at the opportunity to make in a few hours what would generally take them weeks, immediately obliged. Tony just had a few requests...

Santos: Come on, sweet cheeks. Let's head inside. We have some real work to do.

Shannon: In a movie theater?

Shannon, bundled up in a bulky winter coat, jeans, and those obnoxiously large winter boots that women buy in droves, quickly runs to the door. Blowing on her hands to defrost them following 15 minutes of Tony driving with the top down in the middle of November, she bobs back and forth, trying to keep the blood flowing. Tony, taking his time, soaking in his favorite time of year, smiles, hands in his coat pockets, as he plays with a stray rock at his foot, kicking his left and right, all the way to the door.

Shannon: Tony, let's go! It's freezing out here!

Tony, not picking up the pace even slightly, finally reaches the door. He grabs both handles and pulls them outward, motioning with his head for Shannon to go underneath his right arm.

Santos: You could've just opened the door, you know.

Shannon: Fuck you.

Santos: Those aren't the kind of words that I want to hear from my future bride to be!

Shannon stops in front of Tony, slowly craning her head back toward Tony, a look of hesitation on her face. She has that anxious yet giddy look on her face that all women ready for marriage do at the moment that they expect their man to propose. This had been something she wanted dearly. Not with Tony, necessarily, but he was the key to a better life, as it currently seemed. She would marry this man and quickly become acquainted with her new life of luxury. No more part-time shifts at the local coffee shop! No more worries about barely being able to pay bills on time! Just nice cars, nice jewelry, and the satisfaction that comes with being able to patronize those that are worse off than you.

Ah, heaven. It was so, so close. She would soon be resting on Cloud Nine.

Shannon: Uh, oh my, wait. Tone? Tony?? Are you serious?! Is this...

Santos: Hahaha, Christ no. I don't plan on going through any of that wedding bullshit with you. Now get your silly little ass inside.

Shannon: Go to hell, asshole.

Tony laughs heartily as he shakes his head, guiding Shannon with her back against the palm of his hand, in to the theater.

Tony and Shannon make their way in to the theater, which, considering its size and the town in which it's located, is one big ol' room. This place has the feel of a location that, while decades old, feels like it was trying to intimidate a much older, 1903s-esque cinema, but without the charm. Drab, maroon curtains line the screen, while the old wooden seats have an unfinished look that looks to have been purposely done after the process of actually making said seats. The theater seats approximately 50 people, but, based on the level of dust lining the outer and front seats, it's never come close to capacity.

However, Tony had a special treat in store for his significant other. As they walk down the right aisle, they're greeted by two employees. Melville and Theodore, looking exactly how you'd expect two men with those names to look (picture it for yourself) guide Tony and Shannon down the aisle, toward a table, which is lavished with a variety of food and beverages. Playing on the screen? Currently, this...



Santos: Ain't this great, babe?! Come on, take a look!

Shannon looks at the screen, then the table, then at Tony, all with an express of disbelief. Was Tony...

Santos: I'm getting myself caught up on Europe before my match with Luca and Sweet Cheapshots! I can't be a European champion without truly understanding what Europe's all about!

Babe, I have a table here of the finest wines from France! Cheeses from Italy! Beer from England and Germany! Chocolates from Belgium, potatoes from Ireland, and even baklava! Hell, I managed to snag a picture of a homeless man in Estonia! There are so many fantastic culinary representations of European countries here, so eat up!

Above me, I have clips from famous moments in European history playing on this here movie screen. Right now, you're watching our fearless leader, Ronald "Reaganomics" Reagan, urging Mikhail Gorbachev to tear down that fucking Berlin Wall. Babe, I'm soaking this all in right now. I'm gonna be a fucking fountain of knowledge by the time Luca, Sweet Cheapshots, and I step in to that ring. Do you know what national animal of Scotland is?

Shannon shrugs.

Santos: The unicorn! A god damn unicorn!

See, Shannon, this is what I'm bringing to the table at Lethal Lottery. This is what I'll bring to that championship. No longer will the people of the XWF have to put up with some punk that picks on priests and does a perverted version of the 450 Splash. What in the hell is a 450 Spalsh anyway? I've never seen him pull it off, but I don't like his bastardization of this profession that I love so much, I can tell you that.

No longer do we have to put up with a champion that doesn't respect the culture and history of the fine continent where that belt came from! The Polish craftsmen that, through countless hours of blood, sweat, and lost fingers, created a belt that is not only dignified enough for the XWF, but that properly represents the people of the UK, Germany, Italy, and even those god damn French. No, no, they'll be getting their own, proper czar. A man who will protect and defend that belt with honor, while stomping down unworthy challengers with the force of Josef Stalin.

Consider me your Stalin, and consider Luca your Franz Ferdinand. Except, I won't take him down with bullets. I'm no savage, after all. No, no, I'll do it with the dignity fit for a man of nobility, while wiping him off the map like the inferior breed of wrestler that he is.

I'm countin' down the days, babe. Just countin' down the days. Now let's eat up and absorb everything that I'll soon epitomize.

The scene fades to black, just like the outdated screen of the Barron Theater.

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