06-08-2014, 05:51 PM
We find ourselves back at the Flat Black Coffee Company in the Financial District of Boston, Massachusetts, which we had last visited two weeks ago prior to Tony's match with Brodie Tyler. It's a quiet Sunday morning in an area whose only activity comes from the homeless bums that happen to be patrolling the streets for change, but even they realize the lack of opportunity here on a weekend. Most Bostonians find themselves suiting up for a run along the Charles River, walking their dogs in the Boston Common, or just enjoying a nice day outside outside of the Prudential Center. However, they sure as hell weren't spending their time in the concrete, investment banking jungle that is the Financial District.
The camera, currently positioned outside of the coffee shop, focuses on someone who is clearly Tony Santos. He once again finds his ragged jeans planted on the seat directly next to the door to the coffee shop. While difficult to picture his exact expression, it's clear that he's exasperated and a bit confused. He's wearing a dark hoodie in low-60s weather to accompany pants. Having his sleeves rolled up doesn't seem to be making much of a difference, based off of the fact that he looks to be uncomfortably rubbing his forehead.
Just then, a woman approaches the table, looking none too pleased.
Mary: What the hell were you doing on Tuesday?! I invite you to our local AA meeting and you act like a jackoff?
Tony only slightly looks up at her, his eyes peering over his index and middle fingers as he rubs his face in discomfort and exhaustion. His expression doesn't change from one of apathy as he looks her up and down her face. He looks down at his empty table, cups his hands as if he were holding a cup of coffee, and then sips the air pocket in front of him.
Santos: Ah, delicious. Sorry, I couldn't hear you over the goodness that's ringing through my ears. You know, the goodness of becoming sober.
Mary looks down at Tony and frowns. She grabs the chair in front of her, spins it around, and takes a seat, her front leaning against the chair's back.
Mary: Sullivam, huh? Sullivan?? I invite you to my AA group, and you make a mockery out of the people involved?! How dare you... Thomas?
Tony smiles as he takes another sip of the fake cup of coffee in front of him. He savors the aroma while letting the warmth of the fake liquid trickle down his throat. Tony smiles at Mary.
Santos: So warm... so soothing. Damn, Mary, you folks make a damn good cup of coffee. I can barely remember the fact that I downed two twelve-packs last night while chain smoking another five. I feel, almost... normal. My ch'i is A-OK... my equilibrium intact. I should cut alcohol out of my diet, shouldn't I? Maybe take a few counseling sessions so my mind is fucked around well enough that the next time I have a sip of beer, it'll taste like baby diarrhea, eh? Just to, you know, get myself on the path to success. The path to enlightenment. And the path to Jesus Christ. You motherfuckers love Jesus, don't you? That's the whole reason for the group's existence, right? To promote a wholly different... holy agenda?
Mary: You're in trouble, Thomas. Real big trouble. I can see it in your eyes. I can see it in your face. I can see it in your complexion.
Santos: Heh. Shows how well you know me, right? Thomas? You know me about as well as those fucks who think my name is Sullivan. You're a stranger to me. A flap of skin that's not even good for a solid fucking. You're good for...
Mary winds up and almost smacks Tony in the left cheek, only to remember that he's still the customer, and she's the one serving... erm, attempting to serve... him. Tony smiles.
Santos: Don't you love it? I'm the one with the "problem," yet I'm the one who holds all of the power. You sit here, trying to fix me. Me! A man you just met two weeks ago! Trying to fix me, but the moment you want to hit me, you realize that you can't. Why? Because, for all of the faults that I'm sure you place on me, I am the stronger one. I'm the one who you need to please. I'm the one who you need to pretend to like. While you tack on another day in the win column of sobriety, I tack on another bottle. While you cherish another sober, waking breath in the morning, I smile at the sweet, sweet buzz of my brain after another night out.
While you pat yourself on the back for the good you've done, I pat myself on the back for the good that I don't have to do.
That's power, my friend. That's success. I sit here, holding a nonexistent cup of coffee, wearing Fall clothes in the middle of June, looking more successful as a homeless rip-off than you do as a working stiff. You're making money, while I'm making imaginary friends.
Tony stands up and pushes the table forward with his thighs. Brushing his short, dark brown hair back, he sneaks through an opening between the table and the wall and makes his way towards the door. He pushes the door open as the bell rings.
Santos: Hear that? That's the sound of another recovering alcoholic kicking the bucket after a violent bender. Will that be you? It sure as hell won't be me. Why? Because I have the power that you can't possibly replicate. See you next Tuesday.
The scene fades to black.
The camera, currently positioned outside of the coffee shop, focuses on someone who is clearly Tony Santos. He once again finds his ragged jeans planted on the seat directly next to the door to the coffee shop. While difficult to picture his exact expression, it's clear that he's exasperated and a bit confused. He's wearing a dark hoodie in low-60s weather to accompany pants. Having his sleeves rolled up doesn't seem to be making much of a difference, based off of the fact that he looks to be uncomfortably rubbing his forehead.
Just then, a woman approaches the table, looking none too pleased.
Mary: What the hell were you doing on Tuesday?! I invite you to our local AA meeting and you act like a jackoff?
Tony only slightly looks up at her, his eyes peering over his index and middle fingers as he rubs his face in discomfort and exhaustion. His expression doesn't change from one of apathy as he looks her up and down her face. He looks down at his empty table, cups his hands as if he were holding a cup of coffee, and then sips the air pocket in front of him.
Santos: Ah, delicious. Sorry, I couldn't hear you over the goodness that's ringing through my ears. You know, the goodness of becoming sober.
Mary looks down at Tony and frowns. She grabs the chair in front of her, spins it around, and takes a seat, her front leaning against the chair's back.
Mary: Sullivam, huh? Sullivan?? I invite you to my AA group, and you make a mockery out of the people involved?! How dare you... Thomas?
Tony smiles as he takes another sip of the fake cup of coffee in front of him. He savors the aroma while letting the warmth of the fake liquid trickle down his throat. Tony smiles at Mary.
Santos: So warm... so soothing. Damn, Mary, you folks make a damn good cup of coffee. I can barely remember the fact that I downed two twelve-packs last night while chain smoking another five. I feel, almost... normal. My ch'i is A-OK... my equilibrium intact. I should cut alcohol out of my diet, shouldn't I? Maybe take a few counseling sessions so my mind is fucked around well enough that the next time I have a sip of beer, it'll taste like baby diarrhea, eh? Just to, you know, get myself on the path to success. The path to enlightenment. And the path to Jesus Christ. You motherfuckers love Jesus, don't you? That's the whole reason for the group's existence, right? To promote a wholly different... holy agenda?
Mary: You're in trouble, Thomas. Real big trouble. I can see it in your eyes. I can see it in your face. I can see it in your complexion.
Santos: Heh. Shows how well you know me, right? Thomas? You know me about as well as those fucks who think my name is Sullivan. You're a stranger to me. A flap of skin that's not even good for a solid fucking. You're good for...
Mary winds up and almost smacks Tony in the left cheek, only to remember that he's still the customer, and she's the one serving... erm, attempting to serve... him. Tony smiles.
Santos: Don't you love it? I'm the one with the "problem," yet I'm the one who holds all of the power. You sit here, trying to fix me. Me! A man you just met two weeks ago! Trying to fix me, but the moment you want to hit me, you realize that you can't. Why? Because, for all of the faults that I'm sure you place on me, I am the stronger one. I'm the one who you need to please. I'm the one who you need to pretend to like. While you tack on another day in the win column of sobriety, I tack on another bottle. While you cherish another sober, waking breath in the morning, I smile at the sweet, sweet buzz of my brain after another night out.
While you pat yourself on the back for the good you've done, I pat myself on the back for the good that I don't have to do.
That's power, my friend. That's success. I sit here, holding a nonexistent cup of coffee, wearing Fall clothes in the middle of June, looking more successful as a homeless rip-off than you do as a working stiff. You're making money, while I'm making imaginary friends.
Tony stands up and pushes the table forward with his thighs. Brushing his short, dark brown hair back, he sneaks through an opening between the table and the wall and makes his way towards the door. He pushes the door open as the bell rings.
Santos: Hear that? That's the sound of another recovering alcoholic kicking the bucket after a violent bender. Will that be you? It sure as hell won't be me. Why? Because I have the power that you can't possibly replicate. See you next Tuesday.
The scene fades to black.