The scene opens outside of Mango's Mexican Restaurant in Oklahoma City, Oklahoma. Tony Santos took some time to get away from what had been troubling him over the last few days and weeks, and just, honestly, get a god damn burrito. He'd been dealing with the nagging of his increasingly attached girlfriend, Shannon, and was still trying to make sense of all of the attention that he was suddenly receiving, seemingly wherever he went. It was all becoming unbearable. Hell, on the flight from Boston to Oklahoma City, a nonstop flight of many, many hours, one of the hostesses couldn't help but find reasons to come over to Shannon and Tony and talk it up with them. Shannon loved the attention, but Tony just wanted enough high-priced drinks to pass out and make the flight feel like it was a few mere minutes long.

It's a cool night in Oklahoma, and Tony's wearing his usual tattered jeans and a black, long-sleeved shirt rolled up to his elbows. Tony finds himself sitting at the base of the stairs leading up to the front door of Mango's, which is also right at the foot of a modest-sized parking lot. Not to worry, though. The parking lot rarely had more than a few cars in it at one time, and considering that this was a Sunday night in Oklahoma of all places, it was deserted.

Tony was the only one here at 7pm. Mango's was close to closing up shop for the night, and Tony was practically rushed out of the establishment. After having ordered his burrito and side of nachos, all washed down with, surprisingly, some fruity orange drink, he obliged and politely left the establishment.

Something was off with Santos, clearly.

And here he was, smoking a fresh Marlboro Black, corrupting his lungs before a match that would assuredly require maximum endurance and stamina. But Tony didn't really seem to care. He was happy just... sitting, thinking about nothing, really. There were no pressures from his girlfriend, from his "fans" (the term is used lightly, considering they'd be following the next hot thing in wrestling in a month or so), employers, and his coworkers. Tony was just loving this momentary peace that he was getting in the Midwest.

Shit, maybe this isn't the worst place to live, after all. Sitting out here, I can fit in just nicely with the other Oklahomans who sit and do nothing. Just fucking let my mind wander and do nothing productive. Shit, that's how I've spent most of my life. I'm a god damn pro!

Just then, Tony let's himself fall to his left, landing on a hard area of dirt and dead, unkempt grass. He thumps the back of the his head on the landing, but he doesn't care. Tony is blissfully unaware of anything that could cause pain or frustration. Tony is as happy and careless as he was used to being, and this was with no assistance from the bottle. The man was truly free in mind and body, and it was a clean freedom.

Fuck, maybe this is happiness. Maybe I'll give all of this up and just spend my days laying in a field, fucking happy.

Then he realizes that laying in a field surprisingly brings your income to a cool zero.

Tony stares up at the night sky and can actually see stars for once. Hell, that was a foreign concept in Boston, or really any major city on the East Coast. The stars, bright balls of silver and gold, sit peacefully, some seemingly shimmering, while others look like they can barely stay awake. Tony lets his eyes wander back and forth, left and right, as he makes images out of the random patterns that the stars form overhead. He makes out a simple smiley face, then a dog, and even, a banana?

Santos: Shit, that's the moon.

He digs a bit deeper, looking for anything more complex to fix his gaze on. Just then, he lets his eyes wander to a set of stars that seem like they're galaxies away, so untouchable and unreachable, they can barely be seen. He squints as he notices something... odd. A crown. He can barely make it out, and he has to blink his eyes a few times to clear his brain's cache, just to see if that's really what he's witnessing.

Yup, a crown.

Tony sits up and lifts his right arm toward the sky. He takes his index finger and connects the "dots." Was he seeing things? Was John Madison actually managing to psyche him out before their match tomorrow? No, no. Tony wasn't concerned about that.

In Tony's mind, Madison had attempted the same petty, half-hearted insults that he's become known for. A king who, admittedly so, would find a way to pull his weight, to use the muscle that he's collected in The Black Circle and The Congregation. Hell, and Madison knew he'd have to. His insults showed a king that was desperately attempting to hold on to his crown. A man who has fallen from the depths of greatness. A man who won a damn gauntlet to become king, a man who had the XWF at his beck and call. Now? He was scared. He'd been pitted with two laughable opponents in his last king match, two true gifts in his quest to maintain power:

Peter Gilmour and LJ fucking Havok.

While the former had also fallen from his own former level of greatness: from being a star of the month at the end of last year to being the laughingstock of the company, the latter, LJ Havok, was a fluke. A man who had managed to find a way to pull off an upset to get a shot at the king, and, to Madison's credit, had truly become a throwaway opponent, a mid-card piece of shit whose only form of attack is to verbally admonish people in generic weekly interviews: the absolute low of the low in this business. When you've run out of things to say, have someone ask you some basic questions, so you at least have someone who's paid to pretend that they give a damn about what you're saying.

Madison reveled in the opportunity for a cupcake match, and he took it. Now, Madison had some legitimate opponents, so what does he do?

Out come the threats of outside force. Out come the insults about rankings on some fucking point series. I've played this game before, Johnny, and I've seen high school girls play it better than you. Shit, for a guy who oversees this company, you seem to have missed that I didn't even FIGHT on Madness last week. You think maybe that's why I'm 7th in the rankings? Maybe? Ah, Madison wasn't thinking at all. He was too busy playing with Luca and shining his crown to get up to speed.

Yes, Tony was rambling in his head. The visage of the crown now implanted in his head, Tony closes his eyes. He envisions Monday night. Oh, Monday night...

I'll walk in to the arena, and, surprisingly, no one in the back will say "hi" to me. No one will wish me luck. Why? They don't want to piss off the king. If there's one teet that these idiots blindly suck on in hopes of his admiration, it's fucking John Madison's. But no worries, that's fine. I'll feel like a damn rookie again. The chip will be back on my shoulder, and I'll be free to tear it up.

To hell with The Black Circle. Enough with the mindless automatons of The Congregation. Fuck 'em all. Tonight, I take that crown from a dying king's head. Griffin MacAlister is an afterthought. The Brotherhood? Good fucking luck to them. Let everyone squabble like children while I do the only worthwhile thing that there is to be done that evening. While they look to capture a moment of pride in their seemingly unending struggle with one another, looking to revel in their 24 hours of success, I take the main prize. Tonight, I'm crowned as the rightful King of the XWF. And when I win? These bastards can all bow at my feet... and then receive a swift kick to the teeth.

Long live the new motherfucking king. Long live Tony fucking Santos.

Tony lays in the grass, completely at peace, as the scene fades to black.

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