05-24-2014, 08:30 AM
Santos: Heh, all hail Jon Plex.
The scene opens in Tony Santos's makeshift apartment, which is the basement/storage room for the Brighton, Massachusetts watering hole, The Castlebar. Tony sits in a metal folding chair in the corner of the room, a desk lamp providing just enough light to make visible the list that Tony has scrawled on a piece of paper...
![[Image: QPDmxUp.jpg]](http://i.imgur.com/QPDmxUp.jpg)
Santos: Crossing someone off of a list has never felt this damn good. 0-3 against real competition. All hail Jon Plex as he rides off down the highway of mediocrity.
Tony pulls the last cigarette out of his pack of Marlboro Black 100s. He places the cigarette in his mouth, lights up, and inhales deeply. He looks down at his empty pack and brushes it off of the table. However, Tony pauses, looks down at the pile of empty cigarette packs on the floor, does a quick count, then stops. Looking up at the area where the roof and wooden wall converge, Tony bobs his head a few times, then...
Santos: Oh shit! That's only pack two! I have thirteen packs to complete by the end of the day or my incredible nicotine addiction will simply overwhelm my body, forcing convulsions, potentially a stroke, diabetes, liver cancer, testicular cancer, stomach cancer, all other sorts of fucking cancer, and my quick, yet unbelievably painful death! To 7-11!
Tony hops up, kicks his chair backwards, and makes a beeline for his bed, all while shoving the little piece of paper in to his sock. He jumps on to his bed, then proceeds to roll over the sheetless mattress and over to the end table. His hands fumble around the table as he picks up a stray dollar bill here, a five dollar bill there, and some coins to eventually make up the $9.30 necessary for a pack of cigarettes. Tony crushes the money in to a ball in his hand, then stuffs it in the pocket of his blue basketball shorts. Tony turns toward the stairs, and in doing so, nicks a collection of empty Yuengling bottles, causing them to scatter with loud clanks as Tony juts forward. Tony regains his balance against the wall, puts out his cigarette, then slowly takes one step after another upwards. Reaching the door, he's greeted with a handwritten note, stating...
Tony, remember not to leave your clothes at the bar. Surprisingly, our customers don't appreciate dirty laundry that's not theirs sitting on bar stools and on Big Buck Hunter. You can find your pants in the dumpster in the alley.
Lou
Tony stops, gazes blankly through the wooden door, then yells as he flings the door open.
Santos: Lou! You son of a bitch! Isn't today...
Big Lou: Trash day? By god, I think you're right!
Tony glares at Lou, then checks the clock. 11:02 AM.
Santos: By god, if my pants are...
Just then, a loud set of beeps can be heard coming from a truck across the street. Is it... yes it is.
Santos: Fuck!
Tony sprints toward the door, but realizes it's far too late. The hideous, foul-smelling blue garbage truck had already circled Oak Square, and it was picking up the scraps from the rest of the neighborhood. Tony's pants were likely bathing in a stew of coffee grinds, dirty diapers, and other pleasantries. Tony eyes the line of empty trash cans to the left and right of the Castlebar entrance, and realizes the dumpster behind the bar was surely taken care of.
Tony lightly whacks the window that he's leaning against with his fist, then makes his way to the bar. Tony lets his body fall on to a stool, then proceeds to drop his arms and the weight of his entire upper body on to the bar.
Santos: Fucking hell, Lou. Get me a beer.
Big Lou: Tony, you know we don't open up officially until 11:30...
Santos: You threw a good pair of my pants in the god damn trash, you asshole! The least you can do is give me a beer when I ask for one!
Lou smiles. From their earliest days together, where Lou would routinely watch Tony when Tony was living in Dedham, there were few things Lou enjoyed more than seeing Tony upset. From the time when Tony Santos was still Tony Sullivan, Tony always managed to give lip to anyone in a position of authority, and Lou was no exception. His quick wit and street smarts typically ensured he came out on the top of any verbal or physical altercation, and he was particularly tough to outsmart (or convince in instances where he was wrong, given how unbearably stubborn he could be). When Lou had the opportunity to point out a flaw in Tony's argument, or simply get one over on the punk ass, he took it... and not only that, but he reveled in it.. This was one of those moments where even someone as stubborn as Tony had to accept that he was the one who screwed up.
Lou walks over to the tap, grabs a fresh beer glass, and pours Tony a Sam Adams Rebel IPA. Lou's hand, which oddly resembles a Christmas ham at the moment, grips the beer, plops it on the bar, and slides it to Tony's favorite corner. Tony catches it while only managing to spill a few drops down the side. Tony immediately raises the glass to his lips, takes a large gulp, and slams the glass down. Tony takes a moment to accept this new beer, which certainly couldn't fail him. It's an IPA, after all. IPAs are a guaranteed rush of hops and a quick buzz!
Santos: Oh god, Lou. What is this?
Big Lou: Rebel IPA... brewed by Sam Adams. What, you don't like it?
Santos: Don't like it? God, that'd be an understatement. No no, I hate... well. Actually, I don't even really hate it. It's just, sort of, meh. I don't know what to think about this, Lou, but it's not making me incredibly happy or incensed.
Big Lou: Therein lies the problem with being a man of extremes, doesn't it? You're higher on the highest of highs or the lowest of lows. When you run in to that rare moment where you, well, sort of like something, but don't really like it, your natural reaction is to piss and moan about how awful it is, since it's not giving you the buzz that your brain increasingly needs upped. You can just say it's OK, Tony. There's nothing wrong with the fact that it's just... OK.
Tony smiles as he pushes his beer away.
Santos: Heh. OK. Yup, everything is fine if it's just OK. Do you understand some of the bullshit that you spew, Lou? You know what mediocrity gets you, Lou? It gets you shit. It gets you a modest paycheck, a pat on the back, and an eventual kick out the door. Lou, the day that I walk in here with a stupid ass grin on my face and tell you about how happy I am with the fact that I've lost another big title match... a match that is so great just for its existence, because it's fun, and because it means I'm pretty good at what I do, is the day that I want you to kick me out that fucking door. Because if I'm ever happy being a step above some of the midcard morons that populate the XWF, or happy just because I'm not at the level of a typical Boston hobo, is the day that I'm no longer just a worthless piece of shit, but a self-aware worthless piece of shit.
Fuck that, Lou. Fuck that suggestion of yours, and fuck your acceptance of that ideal. If I wanted to live a boring life chock full of stability and normalcy, I'd become a god damn paralegal, Lou. But that's not me, god damn it. I'm Tony Motherfucking Santos. I drink too much, I apparently smoke 15 packs of cigarettes a day...
Big Lou: 15 Packs?!?
Tony puts his hand up.
Santos: I'm not even sure, to be honest. I think it's a misinterpretation of a dream as reality, but I do drink a lot, which tends to make me smoke a lot and forget things, so, I don't know... maybe I do! Or maybe Jon Plex is an idiot...
Tony smiles and breaks the fourth wall momentarily.
Santos: Yeah, Jon Plex is an idiot.
Tony turns back to Lou.
Santos: But anyways, I drink too much, smoke too much, and am generally a complete and utter asshole with little to no money or job security, but god damn it, Lou, at least I'm fucking living. I'm experiencing the highs, and I am sure as shit experiencing the lows. But that's life, my man. That's fucking life.
Lou grabs Tony's glass and dumps out the IPA. He shakes his head as he moves back toward the tap, pouring Tony's signature Harpoon IPA.
Big Lou: Jeez, it was just a comment, Sullivan. I didn't expect I'd get your philosophy of life in return!
Santos: That's part of the fun of being interesting. You never know exactly what I'll say or do! I sure as hell won't take the route of some Brodie Tyler motherfucker and live my life like some sort of Friday Night Lights typecast shithead, you can be sure of that! I treat life like the demented cocktail that it is. It just tends to transform itself in to vomit in return. Oh wait!
Tony pulls a piece of paper out of his sock. Slapping it down on the table, he opens it up, grabs a pencil from the Keno case in front of him, and makes an edit.
![[Image: ZXOqlhd.jpg]](http://i.imgur.com/ZXOqlhd.jpg)
Tony smiles as he turns his head to Lou.
Santos: Much better.
Tony passes out from lack of tobacco as the scene fades to black.
The scene opens in Tony Santos's makeshift apartment, which is the basement/storage room for the Brighton, Massachusetts watering hole, The Castlebar. Tony sits in a metal folding chair in the corner of the room, a desk lamp providing just enough light to make visible the list that Tony has scrawled on a piece of paper...
Santos: Crossing someone off of a list has never felt this damn good. 0-3 against real competition. All hail Jon Plex as he rides off down the highway of mediocrity.
Tony pulls the last cigarette out of his pack of Marlboro Black 100s. He places the cigarette in his mouth, lights up, and inhales deeply. He looks down at his empty pack and brushes it off of the table. However, Tony pauses, looks down at the pile of empty cigarette packs on the floor, does a quick count, then stops. Looking up at the area where the roof and wooden wall converge, Tony bobs his head a few times, then...
Santos: Oh shit! That's only pack two! I have thirteen packs to complete by the end of the day or my incredible nicotine addiction will simply overwhelm my body, forcing convulsions, potentially a stroke, diabetes, liver cancer, testicular cancer, stomach cancer, all other sorts of fucking cancer, and my quick, yet unbelievably painful death! To 7-11!
Tony hops up, kicks his chair backwards, and makes a beeline for his bed, all while shoving the little piece of paper in to his sock. He jumps on to his bed, then proceeds to roll over the sheetless mattress and over to the end table. His hands fumble around the table as he picks up a stray dollar bill here, a five dollar bill there, and some coins to eventually make up the $9.30 necessary for a pack of cigarettes. Tony crushes the money in to a ball in his hand, then stuffs it in the pocket of his blue basketball shorts. Tony turns toward the stairs, and in doing so, nicks a collection of empty Yuengling bottles, causing them to scatter with loud clanks as Tony juts forward. Tony regains his balance against the wall, puts out his cigarette, then slowly takes one step after another upwards. Reaching the door, he's greeted with a handwritten note, stating...
Tony, remember not to leave your clothes at the bar. Surprisingly, our customers don't appreciate dirty laundry that's not theirs sitting on bar stools and on Big Buck Hunter. You can find your pants in the dumpster in the alley.
Lou
Tony stops, gazes blankly through the wooden door, then yells as he flings the door open.
Santos: Lou! You son of a bitch! Isn't today...
Big Lou: Trash day? By god, I think you're right!
Tony glares at Lou, then checks the clock. 11:02 AM.
Santos: By god, if my pants are...
Just then, a loud set of beeps can be heard coming from a truck across the street. Is it... yes it is.
Santos: Fuck!
Tony sprints toward the door, but realizes it's far too late. The hideous, foul-smelling blue garbage truck had already circled Oak Square, and it was picking up the scraps from the rest of the neighborhood. Tony's pants were likely bathing in a stew of coffee grinds, dirty diapers, and other pleasantries. Tony eyes the line of empty trash cans to the left and right of the Castlebar entrance, and realizes the dumpster behind the bar was surely taken care of.
Tony lightly whacks the window that he's leaning against with his fist, then makes his way to the bar. Tony lets his body fall on to a stool, then proceeds to drop his arms and the weight of his entire upper body on to the bar.
Santos: Fucking hell, Lou. Get me a beer.
Big Lou: Tony, you know we don't open up officially until 11:30...
Santos: You threw a good pair of my pants in the god damn trash, you asshole! The least you can do is give me a beer when I ask for one!
Lou smiles. From their earliest days together, where Lou would routinely watch Tony when Tony was living in Dedham, there were few things Lou enjoyed more than seeing Tony upset. From the time when Tony Santos was still Tony Sullivan, Tony always managed to give lip to anyone in a position of authority, and Lou was no exception. His quick wit and street smarts typically ensured he came out on the top of any verbal or physical altercation, and he was particularly tough to outsmart (or convince in instances where he was wrong, given how unbearably stubborn he could be). When Lou had the opportunity to point out a flaw in Tony's argument, or simply get one over on the punk ass, he took it... and not only that, but he reveled in it.. This was one of those moments where even someone as stubborn as Tony had to accept that he was the one who screwed up.
Lou walks over to the tap, grabs a fresh beer glass, and pours Tony a Sam Adams Rebel IPA. Lou's hand, which oddly resembles a Christmas ham at the moment, grips the beer, plops it on the bar, and slides it to Tony's favorite corner. Tony catches it while only managing to spill a few drops down the side. Tony immediately raises the glass to his lips, takes a large gulp, and slams the glass down. Tony takes a moment to accept this new beer, which certainly couldn't fail him. It's an IPA, after all. IPAs are a guaranteed rush of hops and a quick buzz!
Santos: Oh god, Lou. What is this?
Big Lou: Rebel IPA... brewed by Sam Adams. What, you don't like it?
Santos: Don't like it? God, that'd be an understatement. No no, I hate... well. Actually, I don't even really hate it. It's just, sort of, meh. I don't know what to think about this, Lou, but it's not making me incredibly happy or incensed.
Big Lou: Therein lies the problem with being a man of extremes, doesn't it? You're higher on the highest of highs or the lowest of lows. When you run in to that rare moment where you, well, sort of like something, but don't really like it, your natural reaction is to piss and moan about how awful it is, since it's not giving you the buzz that your brain increasingly needs upped. You can just say it's OK, Tony. There's nothing wrong with the fact that it's just... OK.
Tony smiles as he pushes his beer away.
Santos: Heh. OK. Yup, everything is fine if it's just OK. Do you understand some of the bullshit that you spew, Lou? You know what mediocrity gets you, Lou? It gets you shit. It gets you a modest paycheck, a pat on the back, and an eventual kick out the door. Lou, the day that I walk in here with a stupid ass grin on my face and tell you about how happy I am with the fact that I've lost another big title match... a match that is so great just for its existence, because it's fun, and because it means I'm pretty good at what I do, is the day that I want you to kick me out that fucking door. Because if I'm ever happy being a step above some of the midcard morons that populate the XWF, or happy just because I'm not at the level of a typical Boston hobo, is the day that I'm no longer just a worthless piece of shit, but a self-aware worthless piece of shit.
Fuck that, Lou. Fuck that suggestion of yours, and fuck your acceptance of that ideal. If I wanted to live a boring life chock full of stability and normalcy, I'd become a god damn paralegal, Lou. But that's not me, god damn it. I'm Tony Motherfucking Santos. I drink too much, I apparently smoke 15 packs of cigarettes a day...
Big Lou: 15 Packs?!?
Tony puts his hand up.
Santos: I'm not even sure, to be honest. I think it's a misinterpretation of a dream as reality, but I do drink a lot, which tends to make me smoke a lot and forget things, so, I don't know... maybe I do! Or maybe Jon Plex is an idiot...
Tony smiles and breaks the fourth wall momentarily.
Santos: Yeah, Jon Plex is an idiot.
Tony turns back to Lou.
Santos: But anyways, I drink too much, smoke too much, and am generally a complete and utter asshole with little to no money or job security, but god damn it, Lou, at least I'm fucking living. I'm experiencing the highs, and I am sure as shit experiencing the lows. But that's life, my man. That's fucking life.
Lou grabs Tony's glass and dumps out the IPA. He shakes his head as he moves back toward the tap, pouring Tony's signature Harpoon IPA.
Big Lou: Jeez, it was just a comment, Sullivan. I didn't expect I'd get your philosophy of life in return!
Santos: That's part of the fun of being interesting. You never know exactly what I'll say or do! I sure as hell won't take the route of some Brodie Tyler motherfucker and live my life like some sort of Friday Night Lights typecast shithead, you can be sure of that! I treat life like the demented cocktail that it is. It just tends to transform itself in to vomit in return. Oh wait!
Tony pulls a piece of paper out of his sock. Slapping it down on the table, he opens it up, grabs a pencil from the Keno case in front of him, and makes an edit.
Tony smiles as he turns his head to Lou.
Santos: Much better.
Tony passes out from lack of tobacco as the scene fades to black.