Route 128 South is where the scene opens. It's Friday afternoon as Tropical Storm Arthur still roars through Danvers, Massachusetts. Tony Santos, straight from being reunited with (and subsequently separated from) the mother of his child, finds himself trudging down the slick emergency lane of the highway. Tony is adorned in a black rain jacket, blue jeans, black Converses, and, oddly enough, a black, spiked dog collar around his neck. This is particularly strange, given that he didn't have this on his neck during his conversation with Laura just an hour ago.

Tony's short, unkempt black hair presses down on his cranium like a soaked mop or dead, hairy octopus... whichever suits your imagination best. Cars zoom past him on this rainy 4th of July, with cars in the exit lane spitting water from their tires on to Tony's left leg. Tony, without a care as to the situation around him, simply keeps his hands shoved in his jacket pockets, kicking bits of dirt and broken concrete in front of him as he carries on. Tony can only think of how he got here...

Santos: So, this is what it's all come to. Walking down a fucking highway in Northeastern Massachusetts. I've finally reached a bit of my goal in wrestling: a belt that's more important than the "broken skull" shit that I held for a week and a half previously. The same belt that even Peter Gilmour was able to hold. And not just hold once, but multiple fucking times.

And here I am. A champion that matters. A wrestler that fuckheads in the XWF actually want a piece of. A wrestler with a prize that's not a bunch of token whores like Frodo Smackins.

And here I freaking am. Walking down one of the major interstates in the country, on the 4th of July, wearing a dog collar around my neck like I'm trying to make a statement that I don't even understand. Cars pass by, many likely containing groups of families and/or friends, trying to make the best of a day that typically involves cookouts and games of ladder ball...

...which is a really awesome game, by the way. Ah, ladder ball. I kicked serious ass at ladder ball at that kid's graduation party like eight years ago. I need to buy me a set and just hook it up on my porch or something. It's gotta cost only like 20 bucks or something for a solid plastic set. Maybe I'll pocket some of that fancy cat food that that elf I'm facing on Monday eats and pawn it off for the money. That shit's gotta have CLOSETS of that shit. He's probably got a basement FULL of Fancy fucking Feast. I could probably buy myself a trip to fucking Siberia and leave this fucking society for good with the amount of cat caviar Frodo Smackins pockets, and hell, as an added bonus, throw in a free trip down on his daughter's landing strip. She is interested in a guy named CRANK after all...

But I digress.

Cars whiz by me on their way to, say, Cape Cod, Martha's Vineyard, hell, maybe the Hamptons, and I stand here, alone, while it rains cats and...

...FUCKING CATS. Enough about fucking cats!

I still digress.

I make my way down this highway, to home, or what I guess I call home. If Castlebar hasn't thrown all my stuff out of their basement yet. I make my way home, only to wonder, first off, how long is this shit gonna take... and secondly, what in the hell I'm doing. Laura's off to see the spawn of a kinky night out, but, she's HAPPY about it. She's... happy. And here I am, making my slow crawl to the top of my profession, tearing through my opponents on my recent return... free from Shannon... making more money than I ever could have imagined...

...and in turn pissing it away on child support to Laura and Troy, of course...

...and I'm clearly missing what she has. What am I missing? What in the hell am I doing wrong? Is a drink here or there so bad, even if it means trading away a bit of consciousness during what is realistically an incredibly small window to begin with? Is that so bad if I'm enjoying myself? Is it so bad that I find myself just wanting to give myself time for ME? Even if such time does, well, encompass about 95% of the day... Is that really so bad?

Tell me... and I'm not sure if I'm thinking to myself right now, or having some sort of conversation with God...

...nah, that's not it. No god would talk to a man with a tattoo spanning his fingers that says "DOG LOVES." The supernatural don't typically like being mocked, I wouldn't think...

So, scratch the god idea here. But, in the off chance that I AM talking to God, I want him/her/it to weigh in here. What in the hell should I be doing? Saying hi to my child and taking him to a fucking baseball game or something? Would that help? Would that do it? Would that truly be worthwhile? Why would a god/the universe care if I, Tony Santos, spend time with my kid, when "attentive" fathers like Justin Ross Harris are leaving their kids in 100+ degree cars to fucking melt? Do they?

What else? Stop drinking so much? That sure as hell has done more bad than good for me, when attempted. Is that what you want? You want Tony Santos to walk the streets SOBER? Hell, everyone's better off when I'm unconscious in a dingy basement or hotel room than out SOCIALIZING. You and I BOTH know that! And what would you like me to do, Mr./Mrs. God/Universe? Spend more time with the pathetic, lost assholes that occupy Alcoholics Anonymous? Do you SEE how lost they are without booze? Do you really want me to become like THEM? Do you really want me to quit drinking, move back in with my mother, and take a job with the fucking Department of Revenue, where I'll work five hour days on computers running Windows 98, punching in and punching out while counting the days until I buy a one-way ticket to San Francisco and jump off of the Golden Gate Bridge?

No.

Tony fiddles in his left pocket, then pulls out a cigarette. Noticing how difficult it will be to light a cigarette in pouring rain, he moves toward the grassy area bordering the highway, then curls himself in to a sort of hook form, with his knees bent inwards and his body scrunched up. Tony manages to light the cigarette, then take a few long drags, all while protecting his cancer stick from Mother Nature. He leaves the cigarette in his mouth, right in the gap of his front teeth, and smiles before shortly letting out a few awkward coughs, which releases some small clouds of smoke in to the gray sky.

Tony rises, bringing his body upright. He stretches his arms outwards, then slants his back slightly so that his head is slightly closer to his ass than the road ahead.

Fitting.

Suddenly, a 1999 Sliver BMW zooms past Tony in the exit lane, honking at him as he gets dangerously close to oncoming traffic. Tony jumps to his right, startled by the sound of the horn. At the same moment, the car's tire hits a pothole, which in turn spews its contents on to Tony. His cigarette drops from his mouth, rolling down in to the soaked, grassy ditch below. Muddy water flows down Tony's face, its trails similar to a woman's mascara after being left at the altar.

Tony just stands there, looking ahead at the road in front of him, the cars whizzing past him in to the distance like his personal acquaintances, friends, and loved ones alike. That Green 2005 Chevy Malibu? That's Jeremy, "The Kid," moving on to his first full-time position as a photographer at The Hartford Courant. The 2007 Red Ford Bronco? Big Lou, giving a big "fuck you" to Tony as he speeds off in to the distance, leaving Tony in the dust that Tony so often said he'd be doing to him. And that sleek, sexy, 2014 Lexus IS 250?

Shannon. Oh, sweet Shannon. Cruising down the road on her way to a luxurious vacation in Manhattan with her investment banker boyfriend. Living the dream that Tony could never provide. Turning that dream in to reality while Tony could only create that reality in his own head after a multi-day dance with the bottle. A dance that would eventually lead to him stumbling on the dance floor, hitting his head on the harsh, wooden dance floor called Truth, as he...

Falls.

The scene fades to black.

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