The scene opens...



We find ourselves about two hours west of Dublin, Ireland. It's 60ish degrees (Fahrenheit, because we don't use Celsius like barbarians) outside. Clouds cover the sky, as they usually do in Ireland, with a light gust of wind passing through. We're outside of Birr Castle, an old structure dating back to the late 1100s.

Yup... the 1100s.



The wind slowly blows over the castle, its flag commemorating the Rosse family dynasty, a proud seven generations of British and Irishmen and women who have all lived in this very castle, flapping in the gust. Lush green flows from the castle and to the camera, projecting a sheen that only a recent rain shower could manage. Birds chirp in the distance, bees move from flower to beautiful flower, and hummingbirds buzz around the many bushes, making homes throughout the estate, only to leave again once summer is over and head back to continental Europe.

Goodbye Yellow Brick Road continues to play in the background...

You know you can't hold me forever

I didn't sign up with you

The camera moves at a slow pace, in line with the sweet, sweet notes of Elton John. We roll up the concrete walkway, past the same hummingbirds, now buzzing around the camera out of curiosity, and the bees paying you no care, too busy pollinating. A stronger gust of wind hits the camera from its right, jerking it to the left, but it quickly corrects itself and moves forward.

We get closer to the castle... you can see the literal 900 year old cracks in the bricks ahead. You can see a tenuous structure, broken down by father time, but at the same time, made stronger by the bond built between each stone. A structure that somehow stands atop dirt... dirt prone to mudslides in rainy Ireland. A structure that has housed many an insecure royal, propped up solely by the status their last name provided them, and nothing more.

We get closer to the gates. Normally closed off from the public, the castle lays peculiarly empty today. Holiday for the royals?

Maybe.

But it doesn't matter. We get closer to the... less than imposing gates. They're just, well, a couple of big, tall, wooden doors, to be honest. The camera inches closer to the gates, and the cameraman knocks.

Knock knock knock

No answer.

Take two.

Knock knock knock

Nothing but the wind blowing over the young cameraman's wavy brown hair.

One more time.

Knock knock...

Hey... psst, up here!

The camera, which had already jolted down, then up, then down, then up, and... you get it... in order to manage the knocks against the thick, also hundreds-year-old wood, jolted upwards.

No one would blame you for closing your eyes and getting in a few big breaths so you don't hurl from the convulsions on your screen.

The camera continues to lift its gaze upward... and upward... and further upward. A blip can be seen in the distance, smack dab in the middle of the castle roof, but still little more than an ant-sized annoyance.

Higher! You've gotta get up higher.

All of a sudden, a rope drops from the top of the castle, smacking the brick with a loud whack. At the end of the rope is the white and pink Hart Title, just grazing the ground. You can't exactly see this, but the cameraman looks to the rope, with a championship belt attached to it, then up to the top of the castle, and isn't exactly sure what to do.

Is he supposed to climb this? Will his weight even hold on this not so thick rope? Is he supposed to grab the rope by the strange gold-encrusted "belt" that is nothing more than a status symbol in a very niche line of work?

Before he can consider much further, he hears word from above.

Seriously, grab hold! I can't wait much longer, you know! You're so far away, I have so much to say, and it's going to rain! Get up here! It'll hold, I promise!

The camera drops slightly down and to the left, tracking with the reduced diaphragm that has just helped force out the largest, and nervous, exhale in the history of exhales. You sense an up and down force shaking the camera, and you'd be surprised to find out that it's the quickly rising heart rate of the man holding you upright.

The young cameraman, a kid no older than 23, who hasn't gone further than his hometown of Scottsdale, Arizona for a six-pack, let alone a quest up a fucking castle in Ireland. He'd taken this gig for two weeks, following Tony Santos across Ireland in preparation for Warfare, to pay some bills for his sister who has leukemia. It was a good gig, and it definitely paid well, but in his mind, he signed up to work potentially 18 hour days following a lonely alcoholic in every part of his day, whether they be coffee shops, trips through downtown, or... strip clubs... to find an interesting shot, or a promo that was both worthy of sending to the XWF for airing and good for his artistic portfolio...

...he wanted to be a director one day...

...but he didn't see himself putting his life on the line for said promo. Hell, he was entrusting his life with a man who was flagged by XWF security as a risk, both to himself, and to those around him. He even had to sign a waiver to travel internationally with Tony.

So here he is... looking up a fucking stone wall, ready to put my life in this asshole's hands.

It wasn't a choice he could make.

He takes a deep breath, grabs the rope with his left hand, his right still holding the camera, and begins to pull. He struggles at first, his left leg unable to lift over his right, and he starts to slip. He attempts to grab a firmer hold, and makes some progress, even getting one leg over the other...

...before he hits the ground, flat on his back. The back of his gray t-shirt now covered in streaks of green and brown. The man above smiles.

Ugh, I'm sorry! I guess I just expected you knew you could focus the lens and zoom in on me! That's my bad!

The cameraman lets out a less nervous, and much more annoyed, exhale.

You can!

The cameraman refocuses his camera, which had been focusing on the wet blades of grass for the past minute, thanks to his fall, and he focuses his lens up to the top of the castle. He zooms in to find Tony Santos, perched on top of a crenel (those little gaps on the castle roof), his muscular, hairy legs, exposed by the short jean shorts he's wearing, dangling towards the ground. Tony furiously pulls the rope back to the top, unsure what to do without his Hart Title over his shoulder. Tony sits, a black hoodie covering his abdomen, and his shaggy, semi-long hair frizzing outwards from the rain.

Tony grimaces as he leans back, putting all of his weight into pulling the Hart belt back to the top of the castle. Tony speaks as he continues to pull.

Santos: That's... uh, better. Thanks, cameraman! Thank you for making it... uh... all this... ah, way, to the middle of nowhere Ireland. To one of... ah god... 5,000... castles in this country. We could've... hrm... been at a pub, or a...

...a pub...

...but we're at a... argh... castle, to prove a point.

Tony gives the rope one last hearty yank, and the Hart Title is back to the top. Tony falls backwards, but stops himself from falling over, solely by the opportune placement of his right hand. Tony lets out a brief shout, landing on a portion of his hand that he hurt while drunkenly closing his hand on a taxi door. It might be broken, but Tony wasn't getting himself taken out of his Hart Title defense. He'd simply suck it up, get in the ring, and use his elbows and legs to get the job done.

Tony lifts himself back up, looks back down, and smiles at the camera, as he pats his title.

Santos: Much, much better. Now, before we start, please make sure you're playing my song...

The overlay track switches from Elton John to Tony's entrance music:



Santos: No, no, not THAT song!

The cameraman switches the song on his phone to one he heard Tony playing on the flight into Dublin.



Tony smiles that toothy smile.

Santos: Ah, that's the one.

The piano moves into EDM, and soon Tony's shoulders start bumping...

Right, left, right left.

Tony gyrates to the music from his perch. His Hart Title sits over his shoulder, his damp, frizzy hair lifting upwards as if a balloon were overhead. Tony stares straight ahead, eyes squinting that squint you only see from a face contorted from being high... high from drugs, or high from... well, life.

Santos: This is the stuff, am I right? Living the dream on top of a fucking Irish castle. I drove two hours outside of Dublin for you, you know. So I could match your storytelling ability. So I could find a metaphor fitting for the scene you set previously. You may have been in the middle of nowhere Australia, sitting amongst snakes, kangaroos, and other things that could eat you, while I sit thousands of miles away in the land we're going to fight in, with the only predator in my midst being the height of this medieval wall, but, I need to match up to you, Fuzz! You and your...

...status.

An old relic, you are, and what am I? Apparently I'm similarly crusty and weathered, just like this slab of stone I'm sitting upon right now. You and I are about as ancient to the XWF as this castle is to the world we live on. Hell, the average XWF tenure is roughly a month, since a lot of wrestlers bail the moment they get a loss. So, I'm in my early 30s, and I'm fucking done. I'm fucking ancient.

Right?

But then who are you? You want me to "go around the back" and have people validate your own worth for you? Will that fill the gaping void left in your old soul?

Or are you doing this because you don't even know who you fucking are? You have no clue what you want, or if you're even able to attain it.

Tony smiles, the wind passing through his hair, the hair dangling over his bald spot flailing in the back.

Santos: Well I know who I fucking am, Fuzz. An alcoholic, self-aware enough to admit it. A man who has hurt more than he's helped. A man who has left loved ones to die, and seen loved ones die. A man who has used alcohol, and... other things... as coping mechanisms for the god damn pain.

But you know what I also am, Fuzz?

A fucking champion.

For all of my struggles, for me wanting to "sit around and get drunk all day," I still win belts. I beat Dolly, I Azrael, I beat Noah...

...and I beat Centurion, the relic who took you down at War Games.

And I did it with whatever it took to make it happen. I pulled Centurion apart with an abdominal stretch, I destroyed Bearded War Pig with a shooting star press, and I knocked a man unconscious in Noah to keep my title.

I struggled... and I won.

But I spend my time "middling in the middle," right? Just someone with no aspirations?

Well, talk to me when you've even glanced at a title, let alone held one. Not in the past decade, nor in the last year. Tell me when you've done more than shoot for a title that's "lower than your station," simply because you want to show yourself you're a shred of what you think you used to be.

I won, Fuzz, and I'll continue to win. For every dangling piece of desperation you hold over this company...

I'll be there to pull it from you.

For every high you chase...

I'll be there, sprinting ahead of you.

For every shred of self-worth you're grasping for...

I'll be there to dangle it over your insecure head.

Tony smiles, rotating himself around the crenel, his arms stretched outward. Tony's smile doesn't fade as he leans backward, his back now facing the ground beneath him. He latches his heels on to the less than stable edges of the crenel, holds on, and drops backward, title in hand. The Hart Title hangs toward the grass, shining in the brief bit of sunlight shining through. Tony's frizzy hair points straight, down, left, and right, but his lone front tooth points diagonally up.

Santos: Hit my real song.

We start where we began.



Santos: See, Fuzz, this is as coincidental of a metaphor as the castle. See, I'm dangling over you like the bundle of insecurities you hold. I'm doing so while on a castle as ancient as your time in this federation. All in all, I'm putting together the exact performance you've put together for your unwitting "Afterthought" audience. Just a bunch of people force to sit around as you parade them around a stage to nowhere, just so you can hit them with a catchy pun about your opponent being an "afterthought."

I get it. It's about the show.

Just put on a good one.

Fuzz, I'm hanging in, blood flowing from my legs to my head. If you're smart, you'll take this and find a way to keep me from hitting you with the Tony Award, or the Final Destination. You'll use this to drop me into irrelevance. You'll be as cunning as you say you are in a wrestling ring. As strategic as you seem to think you are.

But you won't, because you know you're not.

I hang here, over the ancient edifice that is your wrestling career, and I know you couldn't hurt me. The myth that you are can climb mountains in seconds, buildings in leaps, but you couldn't catch me in years. Why? Because your legend stops at the championship you pretend you don't want, and the wrestler you pretend you outmatch.

Come get me, Fuzz. Give it everything you have. Because I can sure as hell guarantee you that I'll tear you limb from limb, head to toe. I'm faster than you, stronger than you, and smarter than you. How do I know?

Physically, I've proven my abilities.

Mentally? I'm in your head. An alcoholic who's broken inside, and you can't take it. A man who chases the same highs you do, and has found them.

I'm going to ruin you, Fuzz, and watching your fall will be as sweet as I could ever imagine. Watching you miss the title you see as a stepping stone to the title you deserve?

Beautiful.

Watching you lose to the man who embodies every vice you've ever feared, every inadequacy you've ever felt?

Fucking priceless.

Tony still lays toward the ground, Hart Title dangling overhead. Rain beings to fall. After a few minutes, it glides down the Hart Title, and through Tony's hair. Tony smiles as the camera catches him, upside down, and the camera glitches in the rain...



(pretend it's upside down, fools)

Santos: Bring honor to this belt, Fuzz. Take it from the "child" you see holding it. Show yourself for the antiquated oaf you are. The detached fool who thinks he's "with it."

Take it from me. I'm gonna say the thing that will hurt you the most. The thing that will utterly destroy you...

You can't.

The rain rolls off of Tony's face, thunder overhead, as the scene fades to black.

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