From Death to Destiny - Printable Version +- X-treme Wrestling Federation (https://xwf99.com) +-- Forum: Warfare Boards (https://xwf99.com/forumdisplay.php?fid=6) +--- Forum: Warfare RP Board (https://xwf99.com/forumdisplay.php?fid=12) +--- Thread: From Death to Destiny (/showthread.php?tid=34378)

From Death to Destiny - Tony Santos - 08-13-2019 Tony Santos, a drunken man with an evil heart Over his shoulder sat the title called Hart Ready to defend it, he was cert But now? He finds himself sitting on a mound of dirt Contemplating the boredom and mania of sobriety Figuring out whether he'd truly fit into the world in front of him, a cruel and unforgiving society The scene opens back in Boston, Massachusetts. We find ourselves outside of Boston Sand and Gravel, near the TD Garden, where the Boston Bruins and Boston Celtics call home, and where countless wrestling events have taken place over the years. See those little points in the background, like tips of a spear? Those are part of the Zakim Bridge, which connects downtown Boston to northern parts of the city, and into the Boston suburbs. It's also the most prominent symbol of city incompetence, as it was part of the "Big Dig," a major construction project that was supposed to take 7 years to complete in the 90s, but ended spanning well into the 2000s. It cost almost three billion dollars, resulted in criminal prosecutions, and hell, someone even died putting this thing together. It was a symbol for unchecked corruption, lack of accountability, and general arrogance in the face of monumental tasks and unfulfilled achievements. Enter Tony Santos. The camera pans the area, landing on Tony Santos. He sits on a mound of sand, the sun beginning to set on another long, humid day in the American Northeast. Tony's chiseled jawline curves down from his left ear, before rapidly jutting up into the air, his head staring towards the sky, readying himself to catch a glimpse of the moon, or any of the many stars blocked out by the light pollution of the city, once the sun rapidly sets into the summer sky. From afar, we can see Tony sniffling constantly, his nose a crimson red, his left eye twitching ever so slightly. Tony sits, his butt sinking well into the sand, dirtying up his usual torn jeans, which are far too hot for this occasion. As the camera pans down, his sneakers can be seen quickly tapping into the sand, left, middle, right, right, middle, left, and so on. The pattern, a product of nerves and discomfort, looks like... Brian: Those fake Easter Bunny paws I used to print into the mud with my shoes for your scavenger hunt! Remember that, bud? Those were good... Tony shakes his head, warding off any more flashbacks of his dead father. Not this time. Not while he sits on the mound of dirt his father dug up for years, before blowing the gig over some drug deals that he got nabbed for while working the office job on medical leave. Tony? Tony. Flash back to Tony's addiction therapist's office, just down the way. Melissa Oliveira Tony lays flat on the couch, his hair back, long enough for it to start creeping into the cracks between the cushions. He snaps his head to the right, coming to. Melissa: Tony, I need you to tell me why you went there. How did it make you feel? Tony smiles. Santos: How did it make me feel? Like absolute fucking shit, doc. Like absolute fucking shit. Melissa: Tony, I'm going to need you to elaborate further. A big sigh comes through the gaping maw in Tony's head, passing through the gap in Tony's front teeth faster than it took to blast through the land for the Ted Williams Tunnel, those Big Dig fucking morons... ...I digress. Santos: Alright, doc. Well, there was a cement mixer sitting beneath me, and I could've sworn it was turning the entire damn time. I kicked little specs of sand down from the top to see if I could make it in the hole the idiots running the place left open in the mixer, hoping to see if I could get them in. The ones that missed would bounce off, just another spec of dirt, lost amongst the rest. But the ones that did hit? Man, those ones, they were the lucky ones. One of the lucky few that made it to their goal, and were now trapped in an area of planned chaos. Sure, being in a moving cement mixer wouldn't be fun, per se, but man, at least they had some semblance of order. Melissa looks on, confused but trying to hide that reaction. Melissa: You do know the mixer wasn't moving, right? Because it wasn't normal operating hours? Santos: Oh of course I know that, doc! But the point is that the point doesn't fucking matter. I was sitting in this sad plot of land, which has churned out the same sad product for over a fucking decade, and realized, right then and there, why my dad felt so trapped. Why he needed an escape or two. Why he hit the bottle as hard as he did, why he tormented my mother with his endless nights out, constant cheating that was the biggest hidden fucking secret since JFK was finding some "executive time" outside of the Oval, and why he was a hopeless sack of shit. Tony pauses. He gulps a wad of spit caught in his throat, and... sniffles. Melissa: Why, Tony? Why was your father as lost as you seem to think he was? Was it becau... Santos: Doc, I was sitting there, and there was an excavator sitting overhead. Just like the mixer, this machine felt... alive. Only, it was descending from above, slowly... slowly... approaching my skull. It would either crush me, or lift me up. And in that moment, man, it felt so damn good to just give in and let that sucker break my skull into pieces. It felt so right to sink into the endless mass of sand, becoming just another grain... without thoughts or cares in the world. Consciousness was no more, and with it... freedom. And you know what, doc? Dr. Oliveira combs through her hair with one long stroke from her right hand, pen still between her fingers. Her brow furrows, the moment of realization hitting her face, the intensity in her eyes oozing with certainty, and with the zeal of a problem solver, and a healer. Melissa: You realized what you've been chasing all along? Santos: ExACTly. The nights alone at the bar, sitting in a corner stool until 2am, never talking to a soul. Just living inside my own head, the suds slowly taking up real estate, filling those little crevices, taking brain cells with them. Day drinking on a street corner, practically begging a cop to run into to me, so I could cause a scene. That high of conflict. Living on the edge by doing the wrong thing, in just a petty enough way that it won't get you killed, and won't get you locked up for more than a night to sober up. The women, however few and far between, just because I felt like I had to. Like it was my obligation as a man to use the dangling unit between my legs with women every so often, just to prove I could still get it done when I needed to, even though I didn't fucking care! I was chasing hook up milestones, but I was really counting down to when I could head back to the bar and down six or seven IPAs and call it a night. Melissa leans in, her tone getting softer. Stern, but a low enough volume to not feel too commanding. Melissa: But Tony, you haven't told me what you've been chasing. Santos: Another fucking high, doc. But it was more than just a way to feel good... it was a way to become... nothing. To remove myself from the struggle, the boredom, the intensity, of life. Sitting in a big pile of sand, collapsing, I realized that my dad's entire life was this very escape, only he took it far enough to ruin every relationship in his... Tony pauses, realizing, at that moment, that he's not that different from his father at all. See, Tony was beginning to pride himself, during this screed, on how he was some sort of ELEVATED drunk. A MORAL drunk of sorts. But then he remembered everyone he left in his wake. Then he remembered the people whose hearts he'd broken... who'd loved him. That harmless high didn't feel so harmless, anymore. Melissa: Tony, you were saying? Santos: I'm him. I'm just not dead yet. Melissa: Except you have still have a choice, don't you? Santos: To accept my fate and get crushed into the ground, just another grain ready for the mixer... Tony pauses for a solid two minutes, parsing out the second option in his head. He knows what it is, just can't seem to bundle the words together TO say it. Melissa: Or... Santos: To lift myself up into that excavator, and watch it take me higher and higher. Let it guide my fate in a new way. Let it... ...drop me like a fucking rock. The scene fades to black.