11-01-2014, 10:49 PM
Santos: Ah, that fucking burns.
The scene opens back on Baker Beach in San Francisco, California. Tony Santos is seen inside the characteristic blue Porta-Potty (Division of Enviro-Clean©) that is scattered across construction sites around the globe. He sits on the seat, the smell of human excrement surrounding him. It's the morning following his encounter with his old intern, Jeremy. Tony sits on the seat, his hair, half green half black, still disheveled and oily. Dried blood is smeared over his right eye, a product of wiping his face with a hand that was cut by a broken beer bottle.
Tony, not one for patience, is taking turns pouring a bottle of rubbing alcohol on to his hands, one by one, over and over. After a few turns (and subsequent waves of stinging pain), Tony reaches to his right, grabs some toilet paper, and begins wrapping it around his left hand. After a few turns spinning the toilet paper roll and taking it to his hand, he looks to his left, grabbing a roll of masking tape that he pilfered from the truck bed of a car in the Baker Beach parking lot. The toilet paper, which Tony uses as gauze for his cut up hand, already begins to break as Tony tries to wrap tape around it to keep it in place. After a hasty few attempts, Tony gets the toilet paper to stay in place.
Tony looks to his right hand, which has developed a tendency to shake. His right thumb twitches, the cut at its base slowly oozing an almost transparent puss. He takes the same approach: toilet paper followed by masking tape.
After he sufficiently tightens up the gauze on his hands, Tony clenches his fists a few times to best it out. He grimaces slightly, a cut on his lip opening slightly as his lip curls in slight pain. However, Tony seems pleased by his work. He clenches his fists a few more times, smiles, then slams his hands against their respective sides of the Porta-Potty, simultaneously kicking the door open with his size 13, right black boot.
The door jolts open, the bit of plastic that locks the door snapping off to the right of the camera view. Tony stands up from his seat, sitting in the same torn up jeans and hoodless sweatshirt as the night before. Tony confidently walks out of the Porta-Potty, albeit with a slight limp. His hair flails to his left the moment he reaches open air, the breeze of the beach hitting him straight in the face. Tony smiles his typical toothy smile, displaying his "Dog Knows" tattoo that covers his knuckles. His tongue sticks through the gap in his front teeth, his left eye still twitching slightly from its episode the night before. Beachgoers can be seen beside him, but none near him. Surprisingly, a Porta-Potty is not a popular destination to lay down a towel and enjoy the surprisingly infrequent San Francisco sun.
Santos: Well, ain't it a god damn pleasure to be back in the XWF? Certainly feels about right that they'd welcome back a vagrant who's slowly bleeding money and sanity to fight in a tournament devoid of any serious talent. I guess that's what you have to do when you're a company who can't seem to keep its biggest championship on the waist of one wrestler longer than it takes for Nicki Minaj to add another inch in diameter to her poop shoot. When you look at the "talent" that encompasses this tournament, I'm in no way surprised that a washed up has-been such as myself is still being legitimately feared by the participants in this match, to the point where they can't stop mentioning my name, or talking about the fact, and trust me, it's a fact, that I'm going to run through this group of idiots whose mothers couldn't give them proper names. Sure, Frodo's still got his lips properly perched on my babymaker like he has since he first tickled Shane's belly button to get in to this company, but it's great to see that a bunch of fucktards with moronic names for finishing moves, and storied pasts that exist solely in their own fantasies, won't hesitate to lavish praise on me, seeing me as the legitimate threat that I am.
But here's the thing. In a company such as this, lasting more than three months makes you a crusty vet. With that in mind, I've been here, what? One and a half years? Shit! That makes me the male Mae Young... and yes, folks, that's a god damn compliment. I'm the MS-DOS to a bunch of Windows Vistas. And yes, I chose Vista for a reason. See, and please allow me to bring out my brief love for all things tech, but I'm the old, albeit functional OS with a solid backbone. My competitors, however, present themselves as glossy up and comers, high performance, with the ability to completely obliterate their old companions...
...And then they crash at start-up. Let's begin. I'll start with the easy ones... since, we have to talk about our opponents, right? And there are, like, 20 of them? Well, I'll run through them as quick as I can:
El Tiburón and Ezekiel Carter Williams V: The former is best known for having a cousin named Chuey and showing up less than me for contests he's booked in, while the latter is simply known for having a long ass name that screams of prestige (hence him being the 5th of some sort of lineage), but in reality, is as revered as a cow in a slaughterhouse. These are my laughers of first round opponents, and until they show up to even prove that they're still alive, let alone able to compete, I won't waste any more of my protracted, cigarette-coated breath on them.
Frodo Smackins, or Fordo Swagkins, or... something: A man who, as I mentioned earlier, has been all over my dick since he came across me as an opponent. In the months that I've been gone, I get a little prick in the back of my brain every time he mentions me in a promo of his. This man, who isn't competent enough to beat Peter Gilmour in a game of 5th Grade Brain Quest, still talks about how close he think he came to beating me for the TV Title. Well, sir Frodo, I hate to break any sort of news to you that doesn't involve me calling you a good boy and giving you a cookie for good behavior, but your minor attempt at glory slipped off of a ledge faster than the toaster that someone should've dropped in to your bathtub. You gave it a good go, but you lost... and you lost months ago. Get on your way and challenge raYne for that Ark title that he hid away in Nowhere, Oklahoma. It's just where we need you.
Lucius and Lucifer: Fucking idiotic names fitting for people who in no way live up to what their names tend to suggest they have for attributes. I hope their match opens with the esteemed doctah performing botched lobotomies on those two.
Wrestler82: A name fitting for a garbage video game create-a-character or a, well, jobber. This is a man who really loves the phrase "kissing ass," while going on and on on brilliant soliloquies about ass kickings turning to boot fetishes, admitting that his talent "isn't so awesome," and talking down on "rookies" as though he's done anything except be a perennial rookie his entire time in this company. It's kind of like when you approach the counter of a KFC. You see a kid in his late teens, working to make minimum wage during his time off of college, just scrapping together the basic, very juvenile skills he's acquired in his lead-up to getting this job. Are you proud of him? Not incredibly, but you appreciate his willingness to do what he needs to do to make it at such an early stage in his life. He's building up some major life skills, and he'll turn those in to a solid career of corporate politics and an unhappy marriage. The 60ish-year-old woman next to him? His boss? The one who's been moving from job to job since she was plucked out of high school, whether it be willingly or unwillingly? Do you feel pity for her? Absolutely not. She's spent her decades of worthlessness spitting on helpless teenagers for their apparent inadequacies, without realizing that they, and everyone who lays eyes on her, are laughing at her. Sort of like a clown in a high school gymnasium.
Sounds like we've found the true "El Niño Perdido."
Justin Sane: Justin Sane. I've heard good things about you! Really impressive stuff that you apparently did at War Games! Oh wait, you don't have any gold around your waist? Damn. See, Justin, I've see your type come through here far too many times. It really does show my age! Some self-proclaimed next big thing whose worth is measured much greater by himself than it truly is by those around him. This is best seen by the "debut of inSANE TV!" A must see show that the XWF apparently couldn't wait to get running. The fans wanted Justin Sane. They needed Justin Sane... and they needed him now...
...said absolutely no one. A man whose name is a play on two words in the English language is immediately relegated to the bottom of the Porta-Potty behind me. Please, Mr. in...SANE! Please stick around longer than, say, Jon Plex, do something that matters, and come back when people actually care to say your name in a way that doesn't invoke laughter and ridicule. Then we'll talk. Until then, I'm just disappointed that I won't have the ability to drop you with a Final Destination. Really god damn disappointed.
Maverick: He skipped over me! He knows nothing about me, so he decided to hurt my feelings and just disregard me entirely! How dare you, sir? How DARE you! I may just take it upon myself to seek out a riptide in the water beside me, just to put an end to my shame.
Well, Maverick. I haven't decided to skip over you. The "Avatar of Perfection." Where the hell am I? In a tournament with people who model their names after fallen angels, portmanteaus, and WCW jobbers circa 1990s. Now I have to deal with you? Someone who woke up one day, his mirror perched in front of his bed, and before you had a moment to revel in your incredible level of mediocrity, hit your head on your dreamcatcher, and then, all googly-eyed and concussed, came up with "The Avatar of Perfection" as your moniker? That's what defines you? As with Justin Sane, I am sorry that I too will not have the opportunity to drop you with a Final Destination, or just straight up cut you with a rusty nail. You skipped over me as if I was some throwaway like Caliban, and now you've caused mental anguish for me just by thinking about how frustrating it is to have you in existence, let alone in this company, or this tournament. And to think, an "Avatar of Perfection" is only able to combat some verbal abuse by saying he's "unimpressed" by their verbal jabs and shenanigans. Not such an impressive comeback...
...and hence why you lost. You poor thing.
Tony bites in to the tape on his right hand for what appears to be no real reason. As his teeth grip the tape and toilet paper covering his cuts, he smiles.
Santos: It appears I've missed out on some of my fellow competitors. Don't you worry. I won't be as unkind as Maverick as to skip over you. We'll talk tomorrow, lovelies. Until then, smile for me.
The scene fades to black.
The scene opens back on Baker Beach in San Francisco, California. Tony Santos is seen inside the characteristic blue Porta-Potty (Division of Enviro-Clean©) that is scattered across construction sites around the globe. He sits on the seat, the smell of human excrement surrounding him. It's the morning following his encounter with his old intern, Jeremy. Tony sits on the seat, his hair, half green half black, still disheveled and oily. Dried blood is smeared over his right eye, a product of wiping his face with a hand that was cut by a broken beer bottle.
Tony, not one for patience, is taking turns pouring a bottle of rubbing alcohol on to his hands, one by one, over and over. After a few turns (and subsequent waves of stinging pain), Tony reaches to his right, grabs some toilet paper, and begins wrapping it around his left hand. After a few turns spinning the toilet paper roll and taking it to his hand, he looks to his left, grabbing a roll of masking tape that he pilfered from the truck bed of a car in the Baker Beach parking lot. The toilet paper, which Tony uses as gauze for his cut up hand, already begins to break as Tony tries to wrap tape around it to keep it in place. After a hasty few attempts, Tony gets the toilet paper to stay in place.
Tony looks to his right hand, which has developed a tendency to shake. His right thumb twitches, the cut at its base slowly oozing an almost transparent puss. He takes the same approach: toilet paper followed by masking tape.
After he sufficiently tightens up the gauze on his hands, Tony clenches his fists a few times to best it out. He grimaces slightly, a cut on his lip opening slightly as his lip curls in slight pain. However, Tony seems pleased by his work. He clenches his fists a few more times, smiles, then slams his hands against their respective sides of the Porta-Potty, simultaneously kicking the door open with his size 13, right black boot.
The door jolts open, the bit of plastic that locks the door snapping off to the right of the camera view. Tony stands up from his seat, sitting in the same torn up jeans and hoodless sweatshirt as the night before. Tony confidently walks out of the Porta-Potty, albeit with a slight limp. His hair flails to his left the moment he reaches open air, the breeze of the beach hitting him straight in the face. Tony smiles his typical toothy smile, displaying his "Dog Knows" tattoo that covers his knuckles. His tongue sticks through the gap in his front teeth, his left eye still twitching slightly from its episode the night before. Beachgoers can be seen beside him, but none near him. Surprisingly, a Porta-Potty is not a popular destination to lay down a towel and enjoy the surprisingly infrequent San Francisco sun.
Santos: Well, ain't it a god damn pleasure to be back in the XWF? Certainly feels about right that they'd welcome back a vagrant who's slowly bleeding money and sanity to fight in a tournament devoid of any serious talent. I guess that's what you have to do when you're a company who can't seem to keep its biggest championship on the waist of one wrestler longer than it takes for Nicki Minaj to add another inch in diameter to her poop shoot. When you look at the "talent" that encompasses this tournament, I'm in no way surprised that a washed up has-been such as myself is still being legitimately feared by the participants in this match, to the point where they can't stop mentioning my name, or talking about the fact, and trust me, it's a fact, that I'm going to run through this group of idiots whose mothers couldn't give them proper names. Sure, Frodo's still got his lips properly perched on my babymaker like he has since he first tickled Shane's belly button to get in to this company, but it's great to see that a bunch of fucktards with moronic names for finishing moves, and storied pasts that exist solely in their own fantasies, won't hesitate to lavish praise on me, seeing me as the legitimate threat that I am.
But here's the thing. In a company such as this, lasting more than three months makes you a crusty vet. With that in mind, I've been here, what? One and a half years? Shit! That makes me the male Mae Young... and yes, folks, that's a god damn compliment. I'm the MS-DOS to a bunch of Windows Vistas. And yes, I chose Vista for a reason. See, and please allow me to bring out my brief love for all things tech, but I'm the old, albeit functional OS with a solid backbone. My competitors, however, present themselves as glossy up and comers, high performance, with the ability to completely obliterate their old companions...
...And then they crash at start-up. Let's begin. I'll start with the easy ones... since, we have to talk about our opponents, right? And there are, like, 20 of them? Well, I'll run through them as quick as I can:
El Tiburón and Ezekiel Carter Williams V: The former is best known for having a cousin named Chuey and showing up less than me for contests he's booked in, while the latter is simply known for having a long ass name that screams of prestige (hence him being the 5th of some sort of lineage), but in reality, is as revered as a cow in a slaughterhouse. These are my laughers of first round opponents, and until they show up to even prove that they're still alive, let alone able to compete, I won't waste any more of my protracted, cigarette-coated breath on them.
Frodo Smackins, or Fordo Swagkins, or... something: A man who, as I mentioned earlier, has been all over my dick since he came across me as an opponent. In the months that I've been gone, I get a little prick in the back of my brain every time he mentions me in a promo of his. This man, who isn't competent enough to beat Peter Gilmour in a game of 5th Grade Brain Quest, still talks about how close he think he came to beating me for the TV Title. Well, sir Frodo, I hate to break any sort of news to you that doesn't involve me calling you a good boy and giving you a cookie for good behavior, but your minor attempt at glory slipped off of a ledge faster than the toaster that someone should've dropped in to your bathtub. You gave it a good go, but you lost... and you lost months ago. Get on your way and challenge raYne for that Ark title that he hid away in Nowhere, Oklahoma. It's just where we need you.
Lucius and Lucifer: Fucking idiotic names fitting for people who in no way live up to what their names tend to suggest they have for attributes. I hope their match opens with the esteemed doctah performing botched lobotomies on those two.
Wrestler82: A name fitting for a garbage video game create-a-character or a, well, jobber. This is a man who really loves the phrase "kissing ass," while going on and on on brilliant soliloquies about ass kickings turning to boot fetishes, admitting that his talent "isn't so awesome," and talking down on "rookies" as though he's done anything except be a perennial rookie his entire time in this company. It's kind of like when you approach the counter of a KFC. You see a kid in his late teens, working to make minimum wage during his time off of college, just scrapping together the basic, very juvenile skills he's acquired in his lead-up to getting this job. Are you proud of him? Not incredibly, but you appreciate his willingness to do what he needs to do to make it at such an early stage in his life. He's building up some major life skills, and he'll turn those in to a solid career of corporate politics and an unhappy marriage. The 60ish-year-old woman next to him? His boss? The one who's been moving from job to job since she was plucked out of high school, whether it be willingly or unwillingly? Do you feel pity for her? Absolutely not. She's spent her decades of worthlessness spitting on helpless teenagers for their apparent inadequacies, without realizing that they, and everyone who lays eyes on her, are laughing at her. Sort of like a clown in a high school gymnasium.
Sounds like we've found the true "El Niño Perdido."
Justin Sane: Justin Sane. I've heard good things about you! Really impressive stuff that you apparently did at War Games! Oh wait, you don't have any gold around your waist? Damn. See, Justin, I've see your type come through here far too many times. It really does show my age! Some self-proclaimed next big thing whose worth is measured much greater by himself than it truly is by those around him. This is best seen by the "debut of inSANE TV!" A must see show that the XWF apparently couldn't wait to get running. The fans wanted Justin Sane. They needed Justin Sane... and they needed him now...
...said absolutely no one. A man whose name is a play on two words in the English language is immediately relegated to the bottom of the Porta-Potty behind me. Please, Mr. in...SANE! Please stick around longer than, say, Jon Plex, do something that matters, and come back when people actually care to say your name in a way that doesn't invoke laughter and ridicule. Then we'll talk. Until then, I'm just disappointed that I won't have the ability to drop you with a Final Destination. Really god damn disappointed.
Maverick: He skipped over me! He knows nothing about me, so he decided to hurt my feelings and just disregard me entirely! How dare you, sir? How DARE you! I may just take it upon myself to seek out a riptide in the water beside me, just to put an end to my shame.
Well, Maverick. I haven't decided to skip over you. The "Avatar of Perfection." Where the hell am I? In a tournament with people who model their names after fallen angels, portmanteaus, and WCW jobbers circa 1990s. Now I have to deal with you? Someone who woke up one day, his mirror perched in front of his bed, and before you had a moment to revel in your incredible level of mediocrity, hit your head on your dreamcatcher, and then, all googly-eyed and concussed, came up with "The Avatar of Perfection" as your moniker? That's what defines you? As with Justin Sane, I am sorry that I too will not have the opportunity to drop you with a Final Destination, or just straight up cut you with a rusty nail. You skipped over me as if I was some throwaway like Caliban, and now you've caused mental anguish for me just by thinking about how frustrating it is to have you in existence, let alone in this company, or this tournament. And to think, an "Avatar of Perfection" is only able to combat some verbal abuse by saying he's "unimpressed" by their verbal jabs and shenanigans. Not such an impressive comeback...
...and hence why you lost. You poor thing.
Tony bites in to the tape on his right hand for what appears to be no real reason. As his teeth grip the tape and toilet paper covering his cuts, he smiles.
Santos: It appears I've missed out on some of my fellow competitors. Don't you worry. I won't be as unkind as Maverick as to skip over you. We'll talk tomorrow, lovelies. Until then, smile for me.
The scene fades to black.