The scene opens in chilly, damp London, United Kingdom. The camera pans Western Avenue, cars whizzing by, their tires creating a layer of mist three feet (excuse me, .91 meters) off the ground from the remnants of sky tears from the morning. It's early afternoon, but London is no less buzzing, with Brits far and wide making their way in town for Wednesday Night Warfare's UK stop on its world tour. And that was no more evident than by the hotel that Tony Santos was staying in...

...The Premier Inn.

Situated off of said busy Western Avenue, the Premier Inn was what you'd expect of a hotel with such a name: high on bed bugs and low on anything resembling "premier." Right off of the Perivale tube stop, it was a perfect spot for travelers on a budget, but not for international superstars.

But Tony Santos was no superstar... not in 2016.

Fresh off of an 11 hour red eye from San Francisco International Airport to London's Heathrow, Tony found himself, torn black Nike bag by his side, having just touched down at his "premier" hotel, following two hours of tube delays and various bits of commotion. He sits in the lobby, his butt resting on a half oval, plush couch, a small, circular coffee table in front of him. His back slowly slides down the back of the couch, as he turns his head to survey the room...

Just as expected; a hotel with an identity crisis. Photos of UK landmarks on the walls, a bar adorned with fake marble and tall wooden chairs that just so happen to have uneven legs, and an ATM with a clearly fake "Out of Order" sign posted on it, a broken lock into the cash compartment.

Tony looks back down at the coffee table, adorned with a Brick Peckham Pils, a light beer with no foam to be found, and no taste either. Tony reaches for the glass, practically forcing his left arm out of his socket so as to not have to bend forward. His fingers wiggle towards the glass, his middle fingernail tapping it and making a slight "clink," and, after a few attempts, Tony has the glass in his grasp. He pulls it towards his chest, taps the bottom of the glass into his chest with some clear hesitance for drinking, then lifts it to his mouth. He takes a sift, the pale, almost translucent liquid flowing through his lips, sliding down into a body in no way unfamiliar with such fluids.

Santos: Oh, fucking god!

Tony pushes the glass forward, almost as if he's fighting with the air in front of him. He looks at the glass, twirling its contents around like a fine red wine, then grimaces. The front tooth gap shows as a portion of his upper lip curls upward. Tony plops the glass on the table, finished with the lackluster beverage, a beverage he only intended to use as a sleep assistant, anyways.

Tony looks up, scratches his disheveled hair, then looks at the camera. He... smiles.

Santos: Well, what... a... surprise! A camera, in front of me the day before my, well, not so anticipated return to the XWF? This is shocking and was in no way planned by me! Well, god dammit, since you're here, sit down camera man, and let's talk.

Tony claps his hands together twice, then points both index fingers to a seat to his left.

Santos: I must say, it's been a hoot being back, and I've only been sober enough to pay attention, well, NOW! You know, I've faced some of the greats. Let me name them for you:

- John Madison
- Egyptian Snow Pharaoh
- Luca Arzegotti
- Eli James
- Mystica
- Tri Bute
- Theo Pryce

And the list goes on, and on, and on. Some true battles have been fought in XWF rings across the country. I've won titles, fought for the highest of belts, and forced the world to sit through some god awful segments, mainly of me drunk texting on sidewalks and, well, being drunk, I guess. It's been a ride, and I've really seen it all. Feces matches, semen matches, men beheaded, men dying only to be resurrected, power struggles, Peter Gilmour say words that aren't "dick," "suck," "penis," or "gay."

It's been a journey, and an honor to be considered one of the competitors wrestlers simply don't want to face. Not only that, but I've actually had pre-match jabs with opponents where they've apologized for even attempting to insult me.

No, seriously, that's really happened, I promise!

But in this entire, exciting run, having won Superstar of the Month, finalist in the Lethal Lottery, multiple-time contender for King of the XWF, TV Title Champ, X-Treme Champ, I've never faced anything as fearsome, as cunning, and as mystifying as the...

...Scull...

...Meister...

Tony looks down, then back at the camera, and once again, smiles.

Santos: A tried and true Brit. Guys, did you know that he... knows English slang?!? He likes to use it, too! A lot! It really distinguishes him from the pack... that and his love for everything Union Jack. Well, good for him! Sure, he might only succeed in competition alongside others, but that's fine.

I'm ready to face off against Mr. Snickers! I want to get... Scullanated! Let me say that again...

Scullanated!

Tony looks at the man holding the camera, and his stiff smile turns into a confused frown, his eyebrows furrowing as his nostrils flare.

Santos: Is that still not resonating? Let me try harder...

Tony brings his back to an upright position, stretches his arms backwards (in turn, opening his chest), takes a deep breath, and bellows...

Scullinnatedddddddddddd

Tony drops his body back, his face showing clear exhaustion from the expulsion of energy. Tony fans himself with both hands, breathing in and out audibly through his mouth.

Santos: I'm... sorry. It's, just... so, powerful! Sir William Shakespeare...

...a fellow Brit, my dear friend Scully...

...once asked: "What's in a name?" Well I'll god damn tell ya, in a name like "Scully," there's, power, as in chugging a plain American lager, with your cameraman, like men, while talking about World Scullination, or candy bars, or pre-pubescent women...

...there's creativity, as in proving to an old timer that you're better, not because of your accolades, not because of your reputation, and not even because of something as vapid as your nationality, but because, you, and this is a direct quote (with wordsmithing to not make it sound like a first grade Liam Gallagher said it after injecting meth in his primary school bathroom):

"Believe you're better you're gonna prove it on WARFARE!!!

...and a name like "Scully" invokes terror, as in, I'm terrified that if we don't lock this man in a room with a nudie magazine and a lock around his jewels, he's gonna become a Level III sex offender before his brain graduates to god damn secondary school.

See... Scully is a man to be feared. I've laid it out for you quite clearly just in the last two minutes. But... if it's any indication, Scully isn't to be feared for any level of ability or competence, but because he lacks the basic ability to see down the horizon, and understand he's not facing two Marvellous Keiths. Scully's facing a former menace in the XWF. A man, who, yes, likes to sleep, but, a man who will just as quickly turn his face into a mini version of the Union Jack as he can mumble "I like to wank it on the loo to pictures of me mum!"

Tony pauses, then lets his head descend downwards. He lets out a brief smirk, the air from his lungs escaping in a spurt as short as his time back in the XWF. He looks straight ahead at the empty bar in front of him, then, back to the ground.

Santos: You see, Scully, I'm truly happy for you. You're a champion after all! But, indicative of a tag team champion, you're only half the man the singles champions... even Peter Gilmour... are, as you can't do it on your own. You're blinded by the success you've had on the shoulders of others. You talk like royalty but perform like a damn peasant.

Your delusion, my friend, is gonna hit you right in the face in the form of a Final Destination. Your pride will drop faster than your beloved Oasis' careers.

But... it'll be good for you. That chip on your shoulder from me not acknowledging you will be gone. Your unearned sense of entitlement will be cut off like your neck when I reverse the vaunted Scullinator. And, most importantly, I'll hit the reset button on that broken brain of yours with a swift kick to the skull, hopefully transporting you to a time when you stopped chasing teenage girls and read a book or twenty.

And Marvellous Keith...

Quick work, eh? You bring that "Marvellous Edge," and I'll show you exactly what it feels like to watch your poorly constructed finisher name prove itself obsolete. You want your Dillinger rematch? Some would say you don't deserve it (nor the XWF fanbase), but that's not important to me. I plan on discarding you as quickly as you should've discarded that god damn, two-word catchphrase.

Tony smiles, looking back up at the camera. He opens his mouth, pointing at the gap where his left front tooth used to sit.

Santos: Take a close, hard look at this, gentlemen. This represents the many errors in my life. Addiction, betrayal, abandonment. The set of circumstance I threw myself into lost me this tooth, my family, my friends, my home in Massachusetts... everything.

But look past that. What do you see?

Nothing?

That's right. It's an empty, black hole, proving that, no matter what your combined experiences...

...accomplishments...

...failures...

...false promises...

At the end of the day, it all means nothing once it's gone. Everything you've done and said means nothing once it's been taken from you.

And on Warfare... I take it all from you.

Goodnight, children.

The scene fades to black.

September 2013 and May 2019 Star of the Month
1x Hart Champion
1x Television Champion
1x Xtreme Champion