Santos: One dollar, two dollar, three dollar, eight dollar, nine dollar, ten dollar, twenty dollar, forty dollar, ninety dollar, one hundred dollar...

The scene opens with Tony Santos laying on a patch of grass outside of Texas Memorial Stadium. To be exact, Tony finds himself laying on a patch of grass sitting in the middle of East 23rd Street, a roundabout street nestled between the F. Loren Winship Drama Building, which houses the Department of Theatre and Dance, and the Laboratory Theatre Building, along with other disciplines of the fine arts. To the west, the famous (and infamous) University of Texas Tower looms, while the rafters of Texas Memorial Stadium quietly watch over Tony from the east.

It's an uncomfortably warm Saturday morning in Austin. The streets are devoid of any human life, and the streets are silent. This is partially due to there being no UT students buzzing from class to class (or to a Saturday football game), but also due to the lack of any breeze to cool down the warm sidewalks and sway the trees. Tony, a man not quite so fond of warm weather, is laying on this patch of grass partially to get away from the dumpy Days Inn and their suspect tenants down the road, but also because he just dropped his body down like a rock and refused to move after realizing how incredibly uncomfortable this city is for a New Englander with a love of winter.

The counting that you see Tony doing involves his flipping of imaginary dollar bills, his left hand holding the "stack" of money while his index finger and thumb gently clasp each bill, flipping them over as they move to the next. His eyes fixated on the imaginary money in front of him, as his new knuckle tattoo glistens against the sunlight. What exactly does it say?

Dog Loves

When his right and left hands are folded in to fists, then brought together, the writing can be seen as clear as day, and yes, it's a play on "God Loves."

As Tony continues to count, he notices the camera floating about five feet from his face. He quickly folds up the imaginary money and jams it in to his pocket.

Santos: Oh! You surprised me, Mr. Cameraman! I was just, um, well, you know. I was, counting my spending money for the, erm, for dinner. It's just a modest sum, you know. Like, well, okay, it's a lot of money... I can't lie. It extends to the hundreds, no, thousands, no, millions, no, billions, no...

Trillions of dollars! I'm a trillionaire, Mr. Cameraman! But don't tell pitiful ol' Billionaire Theo Pryce that. No no, he might get jealous. Just like he's about to be jealous by the even more clever name that I've come up with for him. See, he of the ever expanding wit managed to muster up just enough brainpower to take my initials and call me... Toilet Swirlie! Get it? My name is Tony Santos, and I had my head stuffed in a shit filled toilet by Sid Feder!

Toilet Swirlie! Theo better start printing those fucking t-shirts now before some crafty entrepreneur out in Bangladesh gets his human slaves working on them for 16 hours a day in a sweatshop bound to collapse and kill impoverished mothers, grandmothers, and toddlers already working full-time. Third world countries work on borrowed time and lax regulations, so they take ideas and run with them faster than they run away from an infrastructural tragedy that takes out their entire workforce, who just so happen to make about as much money as a teenager working ten minutes at McDonald's...

...or the equivalent value of a Theo Pryce promo.

Oh, hot damn, Mr. Cameraman, this hot Texas weather is really putting me in the mood to roast that fat, entitled pig in flames hotter than the sands of the Sahara! I wanna shut good ol' Twat Pooper...

See what I did there?? Twat Pooper! Theo Pryce = Twat Pooper! I'm on Billionaire Fuckbag's level now, and it feels good! I already feel worthy of my own shady government contracting business, where I too can become incredibly wealthy selling shady products and depleting the taxpayers of getting any real value for their money, all while covering up my lack of any true, viable business model or actual cash flow by utilizing shady accounting practices, thus upping my stock price and increasing my own net worth!

Tony smiles as he waves his index finger at the cameraman.

Santos: But I still wouldn't be on Theo's level, now would I? No, I most certainly would not. Why, you may ask? Because, Theo's got something that a lot of one-percenters don't like to admit that they've benefited from: luck.

Even if, after so many crafty burns constructed with halfwit insults and third grade logic, that success that I talked about? That still would have been my own success. Theo Pryce wasn't even intelligent enough to build this empire that he stands so proudly on top of on his own. No, no, his father made this possible. Theo just happened to be created in the right ballsack. He shot out of his wealthy, corrupt father's dick, conquered the vagina that so many other fully developed humans have likely conquered, and made his way in to the world served on a silver platter.

That is what made Theo Pryce who he is today. Not his own hard work, but that of his father. And Theo knows this. Why do we know that he knows this? Because, despite being wealthier than seemingly the entire African continent, he wrestles. It wasn't enough for him to travel the world as some hotshot, impressing people with his business acumen and ability to recite a mediocre poop joke. No, no... Theo Pryce came to the XWF to make his own name. He felt inadequate... as if he wasn't properly carrying on the Pryce legacy... as if he was the middle man in a shady, generational drug deal, simply passing the briefcase from the buyer to the supplier, all while pocketing his own, undeserved cut.

So, here he is! Theo Pryce, conqueror of the XWF! He's been The King! He's now the Television Champ! He was a proud member of The Black Circle, hanging amongst the likes of John Madison, Shane , Luca Arzegotti, and Mr. Satellite/Supernova/[Insert New Name in Two Months]! He's certainly made his mark here. Certainly more than I, poor Toilet Swirlie, has...

Or has he?

See, Theo won the King's crown by taking it from someone who had helped lead him to the Promised Land in the first place: John Madison. He reached the top by enticing John and Co. with his manufactured "success," and he took the title when ever so easily placed in the main event by the powers that be... the same powers that be that controlled the XWF.

Hey, good for him, but it sure as hell doesn't help him shine in the way he wants us all to believe. His reign as King started as, and was as full of, shit as the grave that he buried John Madison in...

Oh, and I main evented that same event...

Tony pulls out the same imaginary dollar bills that he had been playing with previously. He transfers the dollar bills from his left hand to his right. He grasps the pile tightly, then waves them at the cameraman.

Santos: See these, Theo? These aren't real. They're phony. Completely imaginary. Contrived only in my own, booze-addled mind. They have no real value. I can't walk in to a store, drop down a stack of one trillion dollars, and purchase whatever I want. It doesn't work that way. The clerk would look at me funny and tell me that I need to give real money... things with real value... value recognized by the outside world.

And that's exactly what you're devoid of... any real value. Your existence has been a privileged, glorified sham. A sham created by your father and passed on to you. Just like Enron built their Crooked E empire on the basis of a sham, so have you. There is nothing tangible or real about what you have done. Not what you sell, and not how you came about selling it. You just parade around toys that you've purchased from work that you didn't earn...

Just like you parade around similar toys that you have not earned in the XWF. My legacy in the XWF? Do you want to know what that is? What I've done in my 13 months in this company? I've fought for titles that I, a drunken, idiotic 20-something, earned through the respect that I've garnered in this company. I haven't attached myself to people better than me to get to prime spots against the likes of John Madison, Eli James, Egyptian Snow Pharaoh, and Mr. Spacedouchebag. I got there because when I bark, I ensure that a bite soon follows. And when I bite, I tear through flesh and make sure I leave with a piece of my opponent. I've won Superstar of the Month, main-evented some of the bigger matches that this place has run in the past year, and come this god damn close to taking this company over with my own, cracked and battered hands... only to let the power of the bottle get to me first.

See, Theo, this is who I am. A drunk with a child who doesn't know who I am. A drunk whose father was also an alcoholic. A mother who hates him. A sister who's embarrassed to even associate with him. I travel the country with this company, staying at one-star hotels with cigarette burns in the pillows, shit stains on the toilet seat, and used condoms laying on the television. I've made more bad decisions in a weekend than most people consider making in a year. And I've won one title belt, only to lose it a fucking week-and-a-half later.

But that was mine. The respect I've garnered... has been mine. People mention my name as a guy they want to face... or don't want to face... but the name of Tony Fucking Santos echoes through those arena hallways week after week. When I come to play, I make damn sure my opponent remembers my fucking name. You hit your opponents with a finisher so cleverly called "Money Talks."

I don't hit them with a gimmick; I hit them with a Final Destination.

See, Theo Pryce, your wit and humor has failed you here. It's going to fail you when we step in to Texas Memorial Stadium at Leap of Faith in the same way that it failed Jon Plex. You're gonna realize, once Steve Davids notices he has a vagina for the first time in his life and runs away to test it out and that ring is ours, that I don't care for appearances. I care for fucking results. And, remember that flame I was talking about roasting your luscious, pink, swine carcass over?

I'm gonna make sure I stuff that shit spewing, over-compensating mouth of yours with a ripe, delicious apple, saving the world any further agony from hearing you attempt to sound witty or impressive while spouting off a piece that would bring Ayn Rand to shame.

Tonight, poor Theo, ain't gonna be your night. Tonight I drop you harder than the NASDAQ after your company's sham crumbles within. Get ready to receive the bitch slapping you have so desperately deserved.

And that will be all yours.

The scene fades to black.

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