The scene opens over the foot of a beaten up, red recliner. The camera begins to pan upward, a bare, human foot appearing, purple and red toes pointing at the ceiling. The camera continues to move up, catching some cigarette burn marks, a brownish stain on the armrest, and a clump of what looks like cat hair bunched up at the base of the chair. As the camera continues its ascent, a long, pale arm with clear bruising emerges. The hand attached clenches a ball of gauze... then releases... then clenches... then releases.

The camera veers to the right. Tony's disheveled hair sits over his right eye, his left eye covered by a frozen bag of mini-onions that are well expired and likely frostbitten. You do what you have to do when you have a busted left eye and nose from a pre-pin forearm at the last week's Warfare in New Zealand.

Tony had just gotten out of Christchurch before the horrific shooting at two mosques in the city. He'd been celebrating his comeback victory when a white supremacist laid waste to dozens of innocent Muslims, simply at their place of prayer on what seemed to be another quiet day in an otherwise quiet part of New Zealand. It really made Tony rethink his problems.

How big was his return to wrestling? How big was a win over Peter Gilmour? How big was his internal reconciliation and attempt at a new start, when dozens of human beings lost their lives just a stone's throw away? Tony had gotten back on that plane to Oakland, California. He had 15 hours to really sit and think through whether a swollen, black eye was that big of a problem. Whether his struggles in a ring, struggles he fully signed up for, really mattered in the grand scheme of things.

When Tony touched down at San Francisco International Airport, he took one off-kilter step after another, his vision still slightly blurred, his body in incredible pain. He grabbed his bag from the baggage carousel, yanked hard at the janky roller handle, and made his way to his taxi. It'd been a long flight... all in all, a good flight with little turbulence, but a long flight. That's what happens when your computer runs out of juice and the flight's power supply is down. So Tony sat in his seat for 15 straight hours, a beer here and there to help pass the time and put him in place for a catnap.

That nap lasted 10 minutes here, 20 minutes there.

For the rest of the flight, Tony spent his time reading the airport magazine. He read an article on the finer points of sous vide cooking.

Santos: Nice. Tender, juicy steak with little work involved.

He read an interview with Barbra Streisand. Specifically, she talked about the underground mall she had built in her mansion, specifically so she could house her awards, creations, and collections in "stores" for people to peruse. You could also order ice cream and have the loneliest employee ever hand deliver it to you! It better be good, since the store had one customer seemingly every month.

Ah, an article on the upgraded Cathay Pacific lounge. If Tony had flown more than four times in the past three years, maybe he'd be able to... no, let's be real, he'd never be able to enjoy airport lounge perks. He's sitting in a beat up recliner that he took from the parking garage dumpster, for Christ's sake! No no, Tony could only flip past the many amenities a fancy flier could enjoy. Free drinks, free lunch or dinner, access to featured pilots during their "rest time" between flights, access to gorgeous airline employees who had no choice than to be nice to the many deep-pocketed, but empty-hearted, men who walked through that lounge.

Ah, the good life. Make some money, and you too can spend your time bragging about your airline rewards while downplaying how much time you spend with your actual family. The good life.

Tony's reflection had shown through a page of that magazine, it being basically laminated and with the bright headlight above shining over it, and Tony was once again brought back to earth, the shiner on the left side of his face pulsating between the image of two beautiful people enjoying a cocktail in a place Tony would never be, or would never want to be.

Back to the recliner. Back to Oakland. Back to... reality.

Tony lowers the frozen bag from his face. The camera scans his swollen eye and nose. It's gone down since that long, cross-continental flight, but it's still looking ghastly. This was a face that was used to being beaten and bruised, but it's been a while. Tony has lost many a job and many a friends, while still getting into far too many bar fights, but it's been a long time since he faced professional competition.

Tony brings his left thumb to his eye, its thumbnail having lost a chunk during a post-fight celebration. See, even in victory, Tony had this habit of punching objects in the locker room, the Gorilla position, the hallway, the parking lot... you get the picture... Tony liked to hit things in victory and defeat.

Tony brings his thumb to his eye to do a quick status check, and he winces upon contact. His brow furrows, little skin folks collecting on his forehead, highways of sweat forming. Tony pounds his hand against the arm rest, swiveling his chair to the right. In doing so, clumps of hair and dirt blast from beneath the recliner. However, a bright white corner appears underneath the recliner.

Tony looks down, his swollen left eye barely able to see through the balloons enveloping his eyeball from the top and bottom. He reaches for the corner and winces again as his thumb throbs in pain where his thumbnail used to be. He reaches for the picture again, manages to collect it, and brings it to his face.

Tony lightly dusts the photo with his other hand, and stares closely. It's a picture of his former partner, Shannon, and their son, both of whom had been killed in a tragic car accident in Boston. The picture was of Shannon, her long, purple and black hair flowing down her red turtleneck, holding their son. This photo was sent to Tony years ago, long before their son could walk, but not long after Tony had abandoned them for a life in California. Shannon would send these to Tony every three to six months, just to update him on how they were doing, even though he never repaid the favor, and even though he saw their existence as a financial nuisance, rather than the family that they were.

Tony's eyes scan the picture. This must've been just months after he left, he thinks. He has no way of knowing, since he never responded to Shannon's letters, and never catalogued them, to boot. Blink after painful blink, Tony reviews the photo. Every blinks provides an opportunity for his brain to shoot a quick flashback to his days in Boston. Each blink...

- Shannon and Tony on their first date, a small house party with some very brief friends
- Shannon smiling as Tony presents her with a very fake, but very beautiful, diamond necklace
- Shannon's voice as she tells Tony, over the phone, that she just found out she's pregnant
- The look of joy and relief as Shannon holds their son

- Shannon's first scream, Tony having spent a night out drinking until 2am
- Shannon's first tear, Tony calling her a "bitch" during an argument
- The car door slamming as Shannon walks out on Tony to stay with her parents, as she waits for him to "cool down" after another fight
- The look of confusion on his baby son's face when Tony holds him, as his son wonders who the man in front of him is

What's not pictured, is his son's first step. His first word. Even a laugh, or hell, even his first poop.

Tony's head shakes suddenly, removing itself from this trance. The photo slips out of his hand and to the dirty floor. Tony looks straight ahead at the black, slightly cracked TV screen. The reflection in the TV is exactly what he saw in that in-flight magazine. Except, instead of rosy pictures of stock photo actors sharing in the fruits of capitalism, he sees just a swollen eye and a broken recliner. No glory, no fame, just pain.

Tony lets out a sigh.

Santos: Nothing left to lose.

The scene fades to black.

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