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+---- Thread: Quality, Not Quantity. Take a Drink and Feel the Dagger Kiss Your Heart (RP #2) (/showthread.php?tid=4542)
Quality, Not Quantity. Take a Drink and Feel the Dagger Kiss Your Heart (RP #2) - Tony Santos - 07-11-2013
Santos: George Washington! The answer is George Washington!
A semi-audible noise can be heard in the background, accompanied by the bluish glow of the TV screen in front of Tony Santos. Why is Tony yelling George Washington at the screen? He's watching Jeopardy, and is barking out what he believes to be the correct answer. Is he right? Absolutely not. Alex Trebek was asking who the United States President was during the War of 1812. The answer was James Madison.
Not only had Tony been watching this show for four straight hours, he also hadn't apparently soaked in even the tiniest bit of knowledge, since he hadn't once used the correct answer format (which is to answer with a question) during this entire marathon session.
The answer, by the way, was James Madison, not that it mattered.
Tony is sitting practically naked on his girlfriend Shannon's couch in her small East Boston apartment. Shannon has been out for most of this Wednesday afternoon at work in Cambridge, where she bartends and waitresses at an eastern US pizza chain called Bertucci's. Tony's been there a few times, but managed to get himself banned while Shannon was at work for drunkenly hitting on an older woman at the bar and then subsequently skimping on his tab and punching out a patron. Why Shannon was still with this man was all that anyone could ever wonder. Short, black hair with purple highlights, medium height, slender, and a gorgeous body, Shannon was a heart stopper who could manage to kill it every night based off of her looks and smile alone. Her incredible personality and unparalleled work ethic certainly didn't hurt, either.
It'd been a long day at work tonight for Shannon, having to deal with the usual drunken idiot who lived across Route 16, which was an odd mish-mash of wealthy folks and those living in poverty. Tonight was a particularly difficult night, with a man by the name of Lad (yes, his first name is Lad) aggressively hitting on Shannon, sexually harrassing a customer, and then picking a fight with the manager. He left no money and called Shannon and the rest of the staff some unsavory names. A woman who'd heard it all, wasn't surprised or shaken, but simply exhausted. She wanted nothing more than to dive headfirst into her bed and call it a night (or a week). Making her way up the steps to her second story apartment, Shannon goes to put the keys in the lock...
Shannon: Damn it, he's here.
How'd she know? It wasn't some sort of crazy intuition or sixth sense that he was around from their years of love and devotion to one another. Hell no. It was because he left the door cracked open.
Shannon sighs, a bit of her short, black hair blowing upwards in reaction to her irritated exhale. She pushes the door open with her pinky, and sure enough, slouched at the end of her couch is none other than a drunken Tony, still yelling incorrect answers at Alex Trebek.
Shannon: Shouldn't you be on a bus to Pennsylvania?
Tony, not realizing someone had walked in, jumps from his seat.
Santos: Agh! Oh, sweet Jesus, it's you.
Shannon: Good to see you too, babe. Why are you in my apartment, and why the hell did you leave the door cracked open? And... why are you not wearing pants???
Tony looks down, not realizing he'd thrown his pants off in the middle of his drunken stumble in to her apartment. He smiles, then takes a gulp of his beer, a wonderfully delicious Lagunitas Maximus IPA.
Shannon: And why are you drinking my beer?!?!?
Santos: Oh, cut the crap. I bought this stuff and left it here weeks ago. You barely drink beer. You're too busy sneaking wine in to your cup at work.
Shannon: If you had to deal with the assholes that I have to deal with on a daily basis, you'd do the same thing. That's why I didn't wanna see you tonight. I'm about to pass out.
Santos: Oh, babe, you don't think I deal with my share of assholes, hm? The assholes I have to deal with make yours look like bleached, porno asshole. XWF assholes are constantly spewing wild, juicy, watery shit and only managing to make a mess of themselves. Nothing pretty there babe.
I've got Stevie Tyler. Stevie God Damn Tyler...
Santos finishes off his beer, drops it on the ground, then gets up and stumbles over to the fridge for another, all the while flailing his arms to the ups and downs of his tone.
Santos: Stevie Tyler. Our resident "dude." Our cool bro who's on so much other-worldly ish that he apparently hears knocks at his doorbell... oh yeah, knocks at his doorbell... KNOCKS... AT HIS DOORBELL!
Shannon motions to Tony to take it down a notch, but he doesn't listen.
Santos: Anyways, good old Steven "Aerosmith" Tyler as Agent Orange would morph his name, hangs out with his little demon, gets possessed, and does Hulk Hogan impressions.
And did I mention, he hears KNOCKS AT HIS DOORBELL??? The man ain't right, babe. Not right at all.
Tony, unable to find his bottle opener, finds the nearest countertop corner and smashes the bottle cap off of it, chipping off a piece of Shannon's countertop. Shannon considers grabbing the nearest shower wire and strangling him on the spot, but she lets him continue. The scolding and lack of a lay for the night will hurt him enough later.
Santos: Anyways, there's Tyler. Then there's Agent Orange. Oh, good old Agent Orange. Not surprisingly, I haven't heard from him since my dear friend Mr. Satellite and I sat he and Steve Davids down last week, but I can't say that I blame him. I eviscerated him once, and he won't allow his mouth to possibly set him up for another beating, a check that his goofy ass can't cash.
Hell, Orange's finisher left me smiling. Smiling, babe. It was probably hearing our trusty announce team yelling out its name that brought on the joy. Orange Crush. Orange... crush.... He named himself after a deadly chemical, and he follows that up by naming his finisher after... a soft drink that turns your tongue orange. Holy hell, Shannon, this man's already cemented his legacy in the mid-card after three matches.
Tony plops down on the couch, sipping his IPA with great joy. However, his aim isn't so fantastic after daylong imbibing. Hence, half of the alcohol in his sips are running down the sides of his cheeks. Shannon's look on her face shows that if this man were not clearly dealing with some tough times at the moment, she'd be gone in a heartbeat.
Santos: Finally... last and certainly least, I've got Alex Shawn. Alex Shawn, whose two first names must've given him enough flack as a kid in school that he's become a self-conscious, paranoid, broken man. This guy has spent more time checking the internal polls of who's going to win our match (news flash, it ain't gonna be you, champ)...
Shannon: Wait, why'd you just do that?
Santos: Do what?
Shannon: Put your hand to your cheek, turn to your left, and whisper something, as if you were talking to that guy directly? He's not here, you know.
Santos: I'm, well, I think the XWF bugs our conversations. I really do. So I might as well talk directly to...
Shannon: Just stop talking before you make yourself sound more absurd.
Santos hears that and immediately diverts the conversation back to his original rant without missing a beat.
Santos: As I was saying, he's spent more time worrying about what the other scholars in our locker room think about him and whether he's gonna win or not, literally keeping tabs on the entire deal minute-by-minute, than he is getting ready for his match. Hell, the guy should have at least not quit the bottle. It'd probably make him less paranoid. A drink or two ain't so bad, you know.
Shannon: You're making a fine case for that right now, hun.
Tony stops and falls off the couch, knocking his empty beer bottles down. They would be clanking together at the moment, but all of his weight fell directly on top of them, and he, well, simply rolled off. Laying on his belly, he refuses to turn over. Out of embarrassment at his situation, naked ass in the air and face planted in to the ground? Nope, he's just too lazy to put in the effort.
Santos: Anyways, this is what I have to put up with every week. You don't know my pain.
Shannon: But I know your anal cavity quite damn well right now, idiot. Turn yourself over and look at me.
Tony groans.
Shannon: Turn yourself over... and look at me.
Tony groans again and attempts to turn over, but to no avail. Shannon grunts, walks over to Tony, hunches down, and attempts to roll him over. Unfortunately, she's not Superwoman, so that wasn't happening. She gives up and lays beside him.
Shannon: Drunko, I need to ask you something...
Santos: Hmph?
Shannon: I need to know what's been going on with you lately. The frantic phone calls in the middle of the night. The strange text messages. The horrifying episode on Tuesday night at your apartment where you clearly had a violent nightmare. What's going on?
Tony rolls himself to his side and brushes his hair back, beer still wet on his lips and face.
Santos: Bad dreams, Shannon. Just some weird stuff.
Shannon: About your dad?
Santos: About stuff.
Shannon: Tony, you do know that I know about the abuse you took as a child, right? You do remember telling me this stuff, don't you?
Santos: Yeah.
Shannon: Tony, it's OK to be open with me. I know most people don't know. Hell, your own mother doesn't know, but you can talk to me. Let me help you. Let me get you counseling. Let me get you to stop drinking, at least until you've got your head on straight. Please hun, let me do what's best for you.
Tony, drunk as a skunk, manages to lift himself up enough to prop himself on the couch, then uses the couch to pull himself to his feet. He looks down at Shannon, the fun drunk gone from his eyes. Just... emotionless. He brushes his hair back and manages to find his pants. He puts them on and walks toward the door. Shannon, not sure what to do, doesn't plead, but just lifts herself up to a sitting position, silent. She has a look of worry and sadness in her eyes. A feeling of fear for Tony that even she had never felt before. A reckless drunk of a man, he'd managed to scare her to death with his stupid antics and blatant hubris. Bar fights, public altercations, the like. But this... this was a broken man. A man who had erased his father from his mind almost entirely. A man who broke every connection to his father, with only a few exceptions.
However, the one connection that he couldn't break was the same person sitting in her apartment at that very moment, trying to help him. Trying to save him from himself. The same woman who broke the news to him that dreary night a few weeks ago at his Brighton apartment. Had it not been for her, he'd have probably never found out, or at least not for a good few years, until he or his family ran into trouble and they collided with one another. Then he'd deal with reality. Then he'd deal with his past. Then, but it wasn't supposed to be now. Then wasn't even considered something that would actually become now, but here it was. And now, he was doing what he did best in times of deep, deep personal trouble. He was running away from them.
Santos: I gotta get home and pack. Got a bus to catch to Pittsburgh tomorrow. I'll call you when I get back..
With that, Tony walks out and, surprisingly, forgets to close the door. Shannon turns to her right and looks down at the empty beer bottles. Ten? Twelve? Twenty? Doesn't matter right now. She was just afraid that would be the last time she'd see Tony Santos alive.
The scene fades to black.