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+---- Thread: 40 Ounces to Freedom (/showthread.php?tid=3720)
40 Ounces to Freedom - Tony Santos - 06-15-2013
The scene opens with Tony and Jeremy taking a late night stroll down a mismanaged, congested Houston street. The pavement is littered with weeds between the cracks in the sidewalks. People who could charitably be seen as "undesirables" fill the sidewalks, panhandling, dealing drugs, and catcalling women and prostitutes walking by. Meant initially as a simple Friday night walk to talk and head off some steam before Saturday night's big TV Title match (as well as grab a McChicken with extra mayo at the McDonald's not far down the road, of course), this took a turn for the bottle as soon as Tony noticed a dive bar around the corner.
Santos: Catbirds, huh. Looks like a little dive to me just from the sign. Let's check it out.
Jeremy: Sir, I'm 19. I don't think they'll let me in. Plus, I don't drink.
Santos: This is Texas, kid. If any state loves freedom to do whatever you want, it's this place. Don't worry, they'll let you in. Just follow my lead.
Jeremy: But, sir, I'm not really interested...
Jeremy's plea goes unnoticed, as Tony is already pushing his way past the junkies flowing from the doorways of the closed shops next door, making a beeline for Catbirds. There's no line, so Tony makes his way directly to the door, immediately greeted by a not so friendly door man. At 6'5" and around 300 pounds, this man is in no way intimidated by the likes of Tony Santos.
Door man: ID, sir.
Santos: Of course, here you go.
The man looks at the card that Tony has handed to him and immediately presses it in to Tony's sternum.
Door man: You think this is a joke? You just gave me a blood donor card.
Santos: Shit, sorry dude. I'm an O-Positive, so I'm always flashing this baby around at Red Cross events when there are hotties around. Chicks love blood donors.
The door man, not amused, gives Tony a "gimme" hand motion for his ID.
Tony fumbles through his wallet. Subway gift card, $42 in cash, painkiller prescriptions that he forged but never used, some coins, but... no ID.
Jeremy, sprinting to elude the people who just tried to steal his camera, runs into Tony. He fubmles around in his pant pocket and pulls out Tony's Massachusetts ID.
Jeremy: Sir, meant to give this to you. I had to pull it from a woman's cleavage at the airport after you tried to give her your business card, but since you don't have any business cards, you just gave her your ID.
Tony, instead of being even somewhat grateful, snatches the ID from Jeremy and hands it to the door man.
Santos: Did you at least remember to give her my number???
Jeremy: Sir, we were late for our flight because you were flirting with her. I took it and chased after you since you left me high and dry.
Santos: Well, shit, Jeremy. Now the next time I'm in OKC I have to start over. The "I'm a wrestler" spiel doesn't work often, you know. God damn it. Now I'm stuck banging the lady at the front desk next time I come back.
Jeremy: Sir, she was like 60 years old...
Santos: And your point is? You take what you can get, Jeremy. You can't be choosy when you're in a place like Oklahoma.
The door man, after scrutinizing Tony's ID thoroughly, hands it back to Tony. He has a puzzled look on his face, and looks like he's going to simply bite his tongue, but he has to ask...
Door man: Wait, so you're a wrestler and a blood donor? Don't they ban you people from giving blood because of hepatitis or whatever else you guys have?
Santos: Well, I never actually give blood. The card is more of my inroad to flirting and a free t-shirt. Plus, no matter which event I go to, they always have Famous Amos cookies. Seriously, that stuff is god damn amazing! It's a gold mine, my friend.
The door man, shaking his head in disappointment and bewilderment, motions Tony to walk in. Jeremy, trying to follow Tony, gets a stiff hand to the chest.
Door man: Hey! ID, please.
Tony comes to a halt.
Santos: Don't worry, man, he's with me. He's doing some journalistic work for my wrestling career over the next few months.
The door man looks up and down at Tony, then to Jeremy.
Door man: You're stuck with this guy? That's punishment enough. Go on in.
Santos: See, J! Works every time!
Jeremy: I hate this job.
Inside, Tony and Jeremy are hit with a scene of low lighting, paintings of celebrities and famous musicians from past decades, and a mellow vibe of music. However, when reaching the bar, they're hit with a bunch of surly bartenders, one male and two females, and a clientele that doesn't exactly scream "inviting."
Tony and Jeremy grab two open seats at the corner of the bar. After an awkward few minutes of not being acknowledged, Tony speaks up to the nearest bartender, a woman.
Santos: Hey! Honey! Looking to grab some drinks here!
The woman, not too elated with his tone, turns to him.
Female Bartender: What'd you call me?
Santos: Did I misspeak? I called you... honey. HONEY. As in, honey, stop fucking around and give me some damn attention!
Unfortunately for Tony, that didn't exactly elicit the response that he had expected.
Female Bartender: Oh, I can give you some damn attention if you'd like! I can sic my bouncers on you and get you dropped out of here on your ass if you'd like! Hell, I can have them shove their dicks down your windpipe for good measure, if you want. That what you want, honey?
Jeremy, accustomed to breaking up these minor quarrels through his brief time with Tony, sighs and puts his hands up, ready for the usual song and dance.
Jeremy: Sorry, ma'am. My boss here didn't mean to act so surly to you for any reasons you might have caused. He tends to act like an idiot, and for that, I apologize.
Santos: Whoa, whoa, whoa, who are you calling an idiot...
Jeremy, in an uncharacteristic showing of spine, puts his hand in Tony's face.
Jeremy: Sir, quit talking before you get us both kicked out of here.
Ma'am, as I was saying, I apologize. Could you please just get my boss a Budweiser?
Santos: A BUDWEISER?? Are you nuts...
Jeremy: Sir, please, just, um, shut up.
Jeremy successfully quelched Tony's anger with the bartender, but unfortunately for him, he only turned Tony's ire on himself. However, the bartender, having sympathized with Jeremy, comes to his aid.
Female Bartender: Listen up, moron. This sweet kid here just saved your ass from a good beating. Shut up and have a beer.
She looks over to Jeremy...
Female Bartender: You're cute, kid. And you seem smart. How'd you end up working for this jackass?
Tony, visibly stirring in the background, stays quiet.
Jeremy: Well, it's a long story. I'm a soon-to-be Sophomore at Boston University, taking the photojournalism route. I was looking for an internship, and after getting rejected more times than I can count, I ended up traveling the country with this guy. He's a wrestler for the Xtreme Wrestling Federation.
Female Bartender: A wrestler, huh? Good thing, since you don't seem to have much going for brains there, champ.
I have heard of the XWF. Wait, are you guys here for the Shove It show tomorrow night?
Tony and Jeremy nod.
Female Bartender: Hm, I'm surprised they brought you jokers all the way out here. What could be so important that they'd bring you out here?
Santos: My name is Tony Santos. I'm wrestling Mr. Satellite for the TV title in a steel cage match tomorrow night.
Female Bartender: Hm, Tony Santos. Never heard the name. I have heard of Mr. Satellite though. Pretty impressive guy. He's held a bunch of belts. What the hell's he doing facing you?
Santos: He's facing me because I'm the next big god damn thing in this organization, that's why. This is only my fourth match in the XWF and I'm already going for gold. Hell, if that doesn't impress you, nothing will.
Female Bartender: Honey, your surly attitude turned me off from the get-go. If you were the god damn president I wouldn't be impressed by you. Let me get your beer. You want anything, cutie?
Jeremy: No ma'am. I actually don't drink, and, well, I mentioned that I'm only about to be a Sophomore...
Female Bartender: Let's pretend you're an old Sophomore, alright kid? I'll get you a Heineken.
Santos: Oh hell no! If the kid's drinking, let's go big! Miss, I apologize for my behavior. Could you please poor us four tequila shots?
Jeremy reacts with a wide-eyed expression, making a quick turn to Tony.
Jeremy: Four??? I can't have one shot, let alone two!
Santos: Don't worry kid. I'm having three, you'll have two, so I'm hitting it harder than you are. If I can make it, so can you!
Jeremy: Three plus two equals five, sir.
Tony, confused for a second, does a quick finger count.
Santos: Ah hell, you're right.
Excuse me, miss, make that five shots!
Jeremy: How are we going to pay for this?
Santos: I'll take my $42 and you'll take the rest. We'll be fine. Stop asking questions and get ready to have a good time, kid.
The bartender walks over with a tray of five tequila shots for the two gentlemen. This woman, while a bit rough personality-wise, is an absolute babe. About 5'8" with long, flowing brown hair and a killer, curvy body, she looks to be the type who has no problems making tips. She walks over, her hips moving sharply from left to right and breasts bouncing, and notices Tony blatantly gawking at her.
Female Bartender: Quit staring, honey bee. My boyfriend is one of the bouncers here. Trust me, you don't want to see what he does to people who eye me too closely. Plus, don't all ya'll wrestlers take steroids? Your balls are probably smaller than my earrings. That doesn't work for me, cutie pie.
Tony just frowns and accepts the verbal lashing that he just received. Jeremy, looking on, contains his laughter, but just barely.
The bartender hands Tony and Jeremy their shots: three to Tony and two to Jeremy. Without even pausing, Tony lifts up his first shot and downs it in one fell swoop.
Jeremy: Sir, what are you doing? Aren't we supposed to cheers to something?
Santos: To hell with that. Too little time, too much drinking to do. but okay, if you want something to cheers to, I'll give you something. Put down that camera, by the way. Just leave it on the bar here. It'll catch this.
Tony clears his throat, grabs his second tequila shot, and raises it in the air, motioning to Jeremy to do the same.
Santos: Cheers to tomorrow night. Tomorrow, I step in to a steel cage a measly 2-1, tomorrow, I leave TV Champion. Then, I'll stomp a mudhole through Mr. Satellite and his robot, and finish it off with a Final Destination. Once all is said and done, I'll be kicking down the door of John Aus... er... Archie Lawson, and I'll shove that ugly ass title in his face. It's going to be a glorious night, Jeremy. A glorious night.
Tony and Jeremy touch glasses and Tony downs his second shot, a sour look on his face, but a satisfied smile right after. He looks to Jeremy and notices that the kid is sipping his. Tony puts his hand under Jeremy's glass and forces Jeremy to finish it in a matter of seconds.
Jeremy, disgusted by the taste and slightly gagging, manages to make it through his first alcoholic ordeal, albeit with some tears in his eyes and coughing to boot.
Jeremy: That's disgusting! How do people drink this stuff?
Santos: It's not the taste you're after with liquor, kid, it's the feeling you get when you drink it. Give it time, you'll love this stuff for what it is. Now let's go for Round Two!
Tony is already off in la la land, singing along to "Shipping Up to Boston" by the Dropkick Murphys, loud enough for the whole bar to hear, even though, well, the bar is currently playing a low-key R&B song.
Jeremy drops his head. Eerily reminiscent to the scene at the door earlier in the evening, he simply says...
Jeremy: I hate this job.
The scene fades to black, just like this night in the memories of Tony Santos and the kid.