11-01-2014, 08:00 AM
San Francisco, California. It's a typically cool evening out on Baker Beach in the Presidio section of San Francisco. The beach is closed for the evening, with the only sounds making up the night being the surprisingly aggressive waves coming from the beach, as well as the foghorns of the Golden Gate. The night's a peaceful one, with the wind whipping across the beach, specks of sand rattling across the surface. The chill in the air is tame compared to what's being faced on the East Coast, but has enough of a bite to force the weaker West Coasters to retreat to their beachside apartments, reveling in the warmth of their bongs and joints, so nicely (and legally) prescribed to them by their newly christened 4/20 doctors. Yes, this is California.
However, there is one man on the beach. One man who isn't a fan of the herb of the west. One man who isn't a fan of...
Santos: This god damn sand. Why is there so much fucking sand on this fucking ground?
Jeremy: Sir, this is a beach. Beaches are in a big way sand, sir...
Tony looks up a hovering Jeremy, his left eye practically bulging out of his face. His hair, half fluorescent green, half black, is covered with grains of sand. It's a greasy looking mess that stretches about halfway down his neck. A boombox to his right... yes, a boombox, with some pesky thing called a "compact disc" inside of it... plays, on a loop, an electronicore album called New Demons by I See Stars. Tony didn't seem to realize this, but he'd been sitting on this portion of beach for a solid week, his boombox connected to the electric outlet inserted in to a wooden post at the end of the beach.
Tony fiddles with something in his hands, his left eye still looking like it's trying to make its grand escape from Tony's skull, completely focused on Jeremy.
Jeremy: Sir, sir!
Tony makes an odd grunting noise that has a tinge of discomfort in it. He grits his teeth, his tongue trapped in the gap where one of his front teeth used to lay. Tony doesn't yet notice the sand is beginning to take on a slight red color, Tony's hands stabbing the earth with shards of glass. The dark brown piece in his right hand has a tan label on it, with text faintly visible, reading...
Alc. by Vol. 6.2%
The piece in his left hand has no label on it, but it's a lopped off piece of glass from the top of a bottle, the same color as the one in his right hand. Tony's hands crack and slice, blood dripping from his palms and in to the sand, which he mixes like a painter playing with his pallet. Tony begins to stab the ground harder until Jeremy, the slender kid in his 20s above him, grabs his arms, yanking him by his scarred, muscular forearms, and kicking him in the chest, knocking him backwards. Jeremy smacks the bottle top out of Tony's left hand, with the piece in Tony's right hand having already falling out.
Jeremy: Sir, I want to say that I expected our first encounter in over a year to be a peaceful reunion, but I'm honestly in no way surprised by how things are currently going. Why are you sitting here?
For those who don't know, Jeremy was the "intern," very loose term, for Tony Santos when his run with the XWF began in the late-Spring of 2013. A kid trying to make his way through his photojournalism major at Northeastern University in Boston, he desperately needed some, any, experience. Whether that were to be grabbing water and doing bum work while on the set of an ad agency, helping them shoot commercials, or if it took the form of traveling the road with a semi-famous actor or athlete, documenting his or her adventures on the road for a video package/documentary of some sort, Jeremy was more than happy to do it. Instead of getting an assignment with even a modicum of respect, he got... Tony Santos. He became Tony's babysitter of sorts, in charge of making sure Tony didn't drink himself in to a car accident or accidentally fall off of the Zakim Bridge.
He succeeded...
Santos: Why? Because, kid, I'm... at peace out here. A cool breeze, free food from picnics, and I get to hang out with foxes at night. Better than what I have going up the road. And kid, that view...
![[Image: 9164.jpg]](http://www.bestourism.com/img/items/big/7106/9164.jpg)
Tony smiles, his toothy grin dotted with traces of food and a simple lack of hygiene. He looks up at Jeremy, scanning the kid from head to toe. Jeremy stands in black flip flops, jeans, and a light jacket, covering his green polo underneath.
Santos: Damn, kid. You've always cleaned up nice, haven't you. Must be that future lawyer in you, eh? Since you quit that aspiring film career of yours to take on the life of a middling attorney, drowning in papers, while papers don't exactly fill up your bank account in the process. Looking mighty proper, though, so I'll give you that. Funny how things have gone, don't you think? You, the kid who was my intern, now stands over me, a successful, albeit poor, member of society. I, in contrast, am a self-aware alcoholic with a penchant for, well, anything except the right thing.
Funny.
Jeremy: Well, sir, it doesn't have to be this way, you know. Come with me. Let me take you back to my place. It's not too far, just a cab ride to the Mission. Can we do that?
Tony looks up at Jeremy, squinting as he scans Jeremy's pupils for sincerity. Tony scratches an itch on his right eyebrow, then wipes the area with his hand, unaware of the blood still leaking out of his skin. A streak of red makes its way across the right side of Tony's face. He tries to crack a smile as he sees a stoic yet slightly worried 20-something looking down at him, but he can't crack it. He looks back down at the earth below him. He digs his bloody right index finger in to the ground, creating a small circle. He then cups his fingers together, then begins to lift the sand from the surface, flinging it to the side.
Tony digs, and digs, the sting from the beach sinking in to the cuts on his hand causes little consternation for him. Jeremy places his hands in his pockets, tightens up, and begins to walk toward the water.
Santos: No. Stay. I want to show you something.
Jeremy sighs, bringing his focus back to Tony. Tony digs and digs until there's a pit in the ground. He brings his left hand to his head, sifts his fingers through the green side of hair, then plucks one out. He drops the strand of hair in to the pit.
Santos: Williams.
Then another, this time a black strand.
Santos: Gator.
Tony continues this, one by one, side by side. Naming off names of his opponents at King of the Ring. He clumps the strands together, in this little sand pit. He sighs, then smiles.
Santos: See, kid? This is where I get my self-worth. This is where my validation comes from. I needed this, kid. I needed to be out here. I'm at peace, a peace that I never felt back in Boston. A peace that only the bottle could bring me to , but even that was just temporary. Now, I'm alone. No estranged family. No Shannon. Just the beach... and the local liquor store. Sure, my head stings a bit now and then. I'll probably be the youngest stroke victim California's ever seen. But no matter, I feel... fantastic. Whole. Ready.
Happy. Happier than I've ever been. I'm hurt, but the hurt's never felt so damn good, kid. Now, why don't you get o your way back to town? We'll talk soon. However, I need to rest. Just me and my friends.
Jeremy looks around, no one to be found on this stretch of the Bay. He looks back at Tony, who takes his scarred right hand, sliding a pile of sand over the pit.
Jeremy: Sir, I think you should...
Tony lifts his left index finger in the air, his right index finger placed over his mouth.
Santos: Shhh, don't ruin it, kid. It's all too fitting.
Tony drops backwards, his body landing with a loud thud as he hits the sand. Just then, this song plays on Tony's looping boombox...
The scene fades to black.
However, there is one man on the beach. One man who isn't a fan of the herb of the west. One man who isn't a fan of...
Santos: This god damn sand. Why is there so much fucking sand on this fucking ground?
Jeremy: Sir, this is a beach. Beaches are in a big way sand, sir...
Tony looks up a hovering Jeremy, his left eye practically bulging out of his face. His hair, half fluorescent green, half black, is covered with grains of sand. It's a greasy looking mess that stretches about halfway down his neck. A boombox to his right... yes, a boombox, with some pesky thing called a "compact disc" inside of it... plays, on a loop, an electronicore album called New Demons by I See Stars. Tony didn't seem to realize this, but he'd been sitting on this portion of beach for a solid week, his boombox connected to the electric outlet inserted in to a wooden post at the end of the beach.
Tony fiddles with something in his hands, his left eye still looking like it's trying to make its grand escape from Tony's skull, completely focused on Jeremy.
Jeremy: Sir, sir!
Tony makes an odd grunting noise that has a tinge of discomfort in it. He grits his teeth, his tongue trapped in the gap where one of his front teeth used to lay. Tony doesn't yet notice the sand is beginning to take on a slight red color, Tony's hands stabbing the earth with shards of glass. The dark brown piece in his right hand has a tan label on it, with text faintly visible, reading...
Alc. by Vol. 6.2%
The piece in his left hand has no label on it, but it's a lopped off piece of glass from the top of a bottle, the same color as the one in his right hand. Tony's hands crack and slice, blood dripping from his palms and in to the sand, which he mixes like a painter playing with his pallet. Tony begins to stab the ground harder until Jeremy, the slender kid in his 20s above him, grabs his arms, yanking him by his scarred, muscular forearms, and kicking him in the chest, knocking him backwards. Jeremy smacks the bottle top out of Tony's left hand, with the piece in Tony's right hand having already falling out.
Jeremy: Sir, I want to say that I expected our first encounter in over a year to be a peaceful reunion, but I'm honestly in no way surprised by how things are currently going. Why are you sitting here?
For those who don't know, Jeremy was the "intern," very loose term, for Tony Santos when his run with the XWF began in the late-Spring of 2013. A kid trying to make his way through his photojournalism major at Northeastern University in Boston, he desperately needed some, any, experience. Whether that were to be grabbing water and doing bum work while on the set of an ad agency, helping them shoot commercials, or if it took the form of traveling the road with a semi-famous actor or athlete, documenting his or her adventures on the road for a video package/documentary of some sort, Jeremy was more than happy to do it. Instead of getting an assignment with even a modicum of respect, he got... Tony Santos. He became Tony's babysitter of sorts, in charge of making sure Tony didn't drink himself in to a car accident or accidentally fall off of the Zakim Bridge.
He succeeded...
Santos: Why? Because, kid, I'm... at peace out here. A cool breeze, free food from picnics, and I get to hang out with foxes at night. Better than what I have going up the road. And kid, that view...
Tony smiles, his toothy grin dotted with traces of food and a simple lack of hygiene. He looks up at Jeremy, scanning the kid from head to toe. Jeremy stands in black flip flops, jeans, and a light jacket, covering his green polo underneath.
Santos: Damn, kid. You've always cleaned up nice, haven't you. Must be that future lawyer in you, eh? Since you quit that aspiring film career of yours to take on the life of a middling attorney, drowning in papers, while papers don't exactly fill up your bank account in the process. Looking mighty proper, though, so I'll give you that. Funny how things have gone, don't you think? You, the kid who was my intern, now stands over me, a successful, albeit poor, member of society. I, in contrast, am a self-aware alcoholic with a penchant for, well, anything except the right thing.
Funny.
Jeremy: Well, sir, it doesn't have to be this way, you know. Come with me. Let me take you back to my place. It's not too far, just a cab ride to the Mission. Can we do that?
Tony looks up at Jeremy, squinting as he scans Jeremy's pupils for sincerity. Tony scratches an itch on his right eyebrow, then wipes the area with his hand, unaware of the blood still leaking out of his skin. A streak of red makes its way across the right side of Tony's face. He tries to crack a smile as he sees a stoic yet slightly worried 20-something looking down at him, but he can't crack it. He looks back down at the earth below him. He digs his bloody right index finger in to the ground, creating a small circle. He then cups his fingers together, then begins to lift the sand from the surface, flinging it to the side.
Tony digs, and digs, the sting from the beach sinking in to the cuts on his hand causes little consternation for him. Jeremy places his hands in his pockets, tightens up, and begins to walk toward the water.
Santos: No. Stay. I want to show you something.
Jeremy sighs, bringing his focus back to Tony. Tony digs and digs until there's a pit in the ground. He brings his left hand to his head, sifts his fingers through the green side of hair, then plucks one out. He drops the strand of hair in to the pit.
Santos: Williams.
Then another, this time a black strand.
Santos: Gator.
Tony continues this, one by one, side by side. Naming off names of his opponents at King of the Ring. He clumps the strands together, in this little sand pit. He sighs, then smiles.
Santos: See, kid? This is where I get my self-worth. This is where my validation comes from. I needed this, kid. I needed to be out here. I'm at peace, a peace that I never felt back in Boston. A peace that only the bottle could bring me to , but even that was just temporary. Now, I'm alone. No estranged family. No Shannon. Just the beach... and the local liquor store. Sure, my head stings a bit now and then. I'll probably be the youngest stroke victim California's ever seen. But no matter, I feel... fantastic. Whole. Ready.
Happy. Happier than I've ever been. I'm hurt, but the hurt's never felt so damn good, kid. Now, why don't you get o your way back to town? We'll talk soon. However, I need to rest. Just me and my friends.
Jeremy looks around, no one to be found on this stretch of the Bay. He looks back at Tony, who takes his scarred right hand, sliding a pile of sand over the pit.
Jeremy: Sir, I think you should...
Tony lifts his left index finger in the air, his right index finger placed over his mouth.
Santos: Shhh, don't ruin it, kid. It's all too fitting.
Tony drops backwards, his body landing with a loud thud as he hits the sand. Just then, this song plays on Tony's looping boombox...
The scene fades to black.