Cab Driver: Where to, chief?

Santos: Buckingham Palace.

Cab Driver: You here to take claim the crown for America or something, chief?

Santos: Sort of.



The scene opens in London, England. We find ourselves leaving Heathrow Airport in a black London cab. It's a cloudy London afternoon, and the taxi pickup area is buzzing with travelers from far and wide, many in town specifically to watch Leap of Faith, while many others couldn't name a single wrestler, let alone care about the show. The camera turns to the back seat of the cab, displaying Tony Santos, legs spread out, his eyes peering through the foggy back seat window to watch the bustling world around him. London is a far different town that Boston, San Francisco, or Oakland. Think of a city with the same amount of people as New York (although much more spread out), with a culture that reveres royalty, and has very little human waste on the street.

Oh, and they drive on the left side of the road and call money "quid." But at least they have the same dental structure as Tony! You gotta take what you can get, I guess.

Tony sits in the back seat, Hart Title wrapped securely around his waist, much more so than the seat belt left unbuckled to his side. Tony's fingers are tightly clenched, his fingers fidgeting, his wrists pulsating. It's like two different bodies attached together, as Tony's face is barely registering any emotion, let alone panic or anxiety. He simply sits... and stares. Tony bits his lips, peeling off excess skin, leaving those divots doctors tell you about when you rip the skin off of your lips. Little dashes of blood line his mouth where skin used to be, and Tony plays with the skin fragments along the roof of his mouth. His tongue rolls the small bits of skin into little balls, then he chews on those bits of skin, before swallowing.

Tony moves his tongue to the corner of his mouth, where he lets out a slight cringe. One of Tony's molars has started to go into decay, thanks to poor dental hygiene. Instead of trying to fix the problem, he simply decided to play with it to feel just how much it hurt, and see if he could miraculously fix it by putting pressure on it.

Spoiler: He can't.

The cab buzzes down the road, leaving Heathrow as nothing more than a blip in the distance. It winds down very tight, and windy, London roads, and a particularly hard left turn kicks gravel into the undercarriage. We zip down an evener narrower road, before we hit a sudden...

Santos: STOP!

The car comes to a screeching halt, with Tony launching into the front divider of the car, hitting his head in the process. Tony lays on the floor of the car for a few seconds, muttering unintelligible words under his breath. He lifts himself up by his large, swollen palms, before slowly plopping his large frame back on to his seat. The cab driver looks over at Tony, a small cut on his forehead, and his face widens.

Cab Driver: Oh bloody shit, chief, are you okay? That fucker came out of nowhere, I'm so sorry!

Tony blinks slow blinks, his vision slightly blurred from the hit to the head. He very likely has a minor concussion, one of many he's suffered, untreated, through his decade or so wrestling career. It wouldn't matter to Tony tonight, just like it hadn't any of the past dozen or so times he's taken a hard knee to the head, or smacked his head against pavement during a rowdy Boston fistfight. Nope, he'd just stop at the closest Aldi, pop some Advil, and down it with a hit... or two, of whiskey, erm...

...water. A strong hit of water, and proclaim himself good to go. Sure, he'll likely end up with a bad case of dementia in his 50s, but that's 20 years away, COME ON NOW, you gotta live your life to the fullest, after all, right?

Tony blinks another slow blink, practically staring through the cab driver's head. In the distance, he sees the person who was the reason for the sudden stop.

An older gentleman stares back at Tony... directly at Tony. He's in his late 50s, maybe early 60s. He's got a walker in hand, a pint of Guinness in the other. He flashes a smile that Tony knows all too well, when suddenly.

Santos (thinking to himself): Is that a Red Sox sweatshirt?

The man winks at Tony.

Brian: You're god damn right it is, bud.

Tony's dad, Brian Sullivan, dead for almost 20 years. Tony shakes his head, simultaneously rubbing his eyes in the process. He focuses on the man in front of him, only to see, this:



Just some random old guy who can't hear or see cars zipping past him on the street. Just some old, oblivious man.

Santos: I'm fine.

He isn't fine. Tony sits against the back seat as the cab driver continues along his route. Tony's head sits against the head rest, the gash on his forehead turning a more crimson hue. As the car rolls along, Tony can't help but crank his head to the right, looking back at the old man.

Why was Tony running into his long dead father so much recently? Why did a hit to the head cause him to see an older, more ravaged version of his father in some random old guy lumbering across the road? Was he going crazy? What was he going crazy from?. Alcohol withdrawal can be a real bitch, but so can a decade of hard hits to the head. More than anything else, a bunch of bottled up anger, depression, and paranoia could make an otherwise stable man start to lose his mind, let alone someone in the mental state of Tony Santos.

Tony's head turns back to the front, then to the camera in front of him. His slightly glazed eyes gaze into the lens. No smile this time. Tony simply rests his hands on his Hart Title, still clinging to his waist. He taps it slightly, never losing his gaze on the camera.

Santos: Sorry, Hanari, I guess you caught me in, yet another, moment of... vulnerability. I guess I just can't present myself with the same level of mastery you can, and that's, too bad? You seem to catch me only at my worst, huh?

Living through a flashback of my dead dad dying, seeing my own mix of grief and... elation, as 12-year-old me sits in a dreary little hospital.

Talking to said dead dad, and getting berated by that pile of noxious gas, before returning from yet another hallucination.

And now, you catch me here, with this cut over my head.

Man, I just haven't presented myself to your liking, Hanari. I guess I just haven't gotten over the demons I so willingly placed throughout this aching body of mine, and I'm so sorry you've had to watch this continued horror play itself out in front of your screen. I'm so sorry I don't live up to your standards, Hanari.

But I guess that's what makes me better than you, doesn't it? Whereas I face the shit in front of me, and so willingly bring it to everything I do, since it's who I am, you aspire to some fantasy of class and sophistication. You look in the mirror every day, flash a smile to convince yourself everything is alright.

That you're not a petulant little narcissist.

That you're not a shameless womanizer.

That you didn't just, you know, tell the world you're happy a woman was MURDERED, you fucking psychopath.

And most importantly, you convince yourself that you're much greater than you truly are.

You brush that slick hair of yours into place, moisturize that charming face, and slap some cologne, all to make you look good to the outside world. You really make sure everyone buys into the grift you're running. But it's just like a coat of paint on those shitty little kit cars you folks have in good ol' "el dominicano." It's all a facade, covering up the mix of half-rate parts, imported from other third world nations, all held together by duct tape and rusty screws.

But I see through you, Hanari, and I can guaran-fucking-tee you most everyone watching you does as well. Because we don't just see a beautiful Dominican specimen in front of us, no no...

...we get to hear you speak.

And when you speak, you show yourself to just be someone who's always trying to catch up. You heap me with praise, then, when I tell you how utterly half-rate you are, you say I'm... not that great?

I make a killer metaphor, that you didn't even acknowledge...

Thanks for that.

But I make a killer metaphor of you, you know, being in a plane and nosediving into a body of water that represents your endless sea of insecurities, and you counter with...

Tony lifts his phone to his face, taps it furiously, then turns the screen to the camera.

Quote:"He was no longer like Tony Santos, who is drowning in his insecurities."

Tony drops his phone to the seat, partially on purpose, partially because he was losing feeling in his hand.

Santos: You copied me in your narration? You couldn't even add it to your talk track? You couldn't even plagiarize me properly?

And then you follow with the incredible boast:

Quote:"He is no longer like Tony Santos, because he was going to be successful at Leap of Faith."

Tony's eyes roll, his head still leaning against the seat.

Santos: Your mediocrity is only matched by the amount of effort you put into portraying a level of grandiose to the outside world.

Hanari, let me give you a little lesson as to why I'm holding this belt, since you seem to think I don't deserve it. But I won't talk about opponents, even though, you know, you clearly didn't do your homework on my other successful defenses. No no, your mediocrity extends into your poor research skills. Let's just say I've taken down an Aussie with Tourette's, two fucking legends, and a spaceman who'd been a thorn in my side since the day I joined this company six years ago.

See, I learned from my past failures. I learned from squandering huge opportunities. King of the XWF? Lost that one hard to John Madison. Two title shots in one pay per view? Yup, squandered those as well. Hell, when I held titles, I lost them in literal days, if not weeks.

But I came back. I looked my "insecurities" in the face, accepted my bullshit, and embraced the good, and the bad, of the man you see laying in this cab. And so I came back, and I won... a lot. Only one loss, Hanari! One!

And so here I sit, champion. But while I'm champion, I will happily admit that I'm one of the most flawed champions you'll come across. I'm not as polished as Main. I'm not as fucking smooth as Lux. And I sure as hell ain't as dominant as Drew and James. But here's what I am:

Incredibly paranoid, pretty fucking angry, and a little crazy.

Too paranoid to let myself lose the one bit of worth attached to this alcoholic frame.

Too angry to let some insurgent challenger with a swollen head take it away with a cloud of hot, Dominican air.

And just crazy enough to tear you apart in a wrestling ring.

And that's why I'm champion.

The cab comes to a screeching halt.

Cab Driver: We're here, chief!

Tony lifts his head, practically falling over inside the cab, before righting himself. He pulls out 50 quid, tossing it at the driver. He turns back to the camera, pointing at the Buckingham Palace grounds in the distance.

Santos: Here we are, Hanari. The spot where you'll get to grab the symbol of success you can't simply buy like everything else you pull over those broad shoulders of yours. Nope, you gotta win this one, my friend.

Quick, grab a mirror in whatever swanky hotel you're staying in in London. Look at yourself in that mirror. Don't smile, don't rehearse the trite garbage you spout to convince yourself of your greatness... just look at yourself.

Really look.

Look deep down, and ask yourself this question: What scares me? What makes me tick? What makes me better than everyone else?

Can you answer those questions? Honestly, Hanari, can you?

I bet you can't. You can't, because you're not willing to admit that you're a fraud. You're not willing to admit that...

You're scared of being outed for the farce of a wrestler, and human being, that you are.

You're scared of realizing that the only thing that makes you tick... that makes you angry, is the realization that the men, and women, you find so inferior to you, can kick your teeth in at a moment's notice.

And you're absolutely fucking frightened to realize that you aren't better than everyone else. You've just told yourself you are.

But that ain't gonna be enough, Hanari. Not tomorrow night. Not against me.

Tony stares on to the grounds. Tourists gleefully take pictures in front of Buckingham Palace, many holding poses as if taking part in their own coronation.

Santos: It's been 66 years since there was a transfer of power here, Hanari. 66 years! Well, I'm sorry to say this, but tomorrow's not gonna break that trend. Not Hanari Carnes. Not against Tony Santos.

Don't cash that check just yet.

The scene fades to black.

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