The scene opens in New Orleans, Louisiana, on Bourbon Street. The camera pans the city on this muggy May evening. Festival season is just about over in the city known as The Big Easy, with Jazz Fest, a two week jazz party, having just finished up. However, Bourbon Street is basically the Las Vegas of New Orleans, with strip clubs galore (male and female), slot machines and easy gambling in the corner of seemingly every bar, and a constant array of scammers and drunk tourists just meant to be scammed. Hell, this is a drunkard's paradise! A place where being different levels of drunk all day is not just encouraged... it's expected.

So...

...you get why we're here.

It's 8 in the evening, which is practically pregame time in New Orleans. The camera pans overhead, scanning the neon lights as they begin to flicker on.



Ah, Larry Flynn's Barely Legal Club, the first shop the camera pans past. Nothing better captures the essence of this neverending party street. From the blacked out faces of bachelors and bachelorettes, to the perv oozing out of 65 year old married men trying to pick up college girls, when you experience Bourbon Street, you experience every sick vice known to the human race. It's a place where a veneer of happiness paints over the sweet escape of alcohol and sex.

As the camera pans above the street, drunken passersby swipe at the camera. A woman in her early 20s, no taller than 5'4", jumps at the camera, not even seeming to realize she's a solid 10 feet away from even touching the same air as the XWF rig.

A man nearby with half a shirt on and a sideways Jazz Fest visor... the epitome of everything terrible, tosses Mardi Gras beads at the camera. His meaty right arm muscles flop right and left, his hand snapping back like a reverse mouse trap, as the beads flail up at the camera.

Bullseye

The crowd goes nuts as they being to chant...

Show your tits! Show your tits! Show your tits!

Perverts.

The camera continues to pan down the street as the crowd boos in unison, the green, purple, and gold beads popping in and out of view, until the camera operator jolts the camera downward to knock them off. It's a balmy night, and the camera lens begins to fog up.

The bass bumps in the distance, as street vendors and club promoters can be heard promoting $5 Lucky Dogs, 3 for $1 Coors Light, and cock-shaped hurricanes from Willie's Chicken Shack...

...no really, shaped like a chicken, but also meant to look like a penis.

Perverts.

The camera cuts to a little touristy dive, Spirits on Bourbon.



The bar is surprisingly empty for this time of night, with just a few bar flies manning the table. There's a 45-ish year-old man decked out in UT-Austin (the Texas Longhorns, for those at home) gear, burnt orange covering him from head to toe, seemingly for no apparent reason other than to proclaim he's a super fan. Next to him is a woman who is seemingly his wife, but her leathery and broken skin makes her look at least a decade older, thanks to years of bathing in the hot Texas sun covered in baby oil.

Just then, a man calls for a beer. The bartender, a busty young gal in a purple halter top pours an IPA, the sound of the fizzy concoction sloshing around the glass, a sign of a baaaaaad pour, and it shows. Foam lines the top of the glass for a solid three inches. Whatever, beer is still beer, right?

The woman slams the glass against the bar, releases her palm, and flicks the glass with her fingers. The glass quickly slides across the wood like a shuffleboard puck on a newly sanded table. The scene behind the glass is a chaotic mess, with the sight of those vendors and partiers blurred in the background, but the beer stands still. It's reached its peak speed, but is at peace as it meets its maker.

Just then, the camera is brought to an abrupt halt, as the glass loudly slaps against a means blistered palms. His bloated, red fingers grip the glass, a glistening pink strap around his neck. He's wearing a dirty, white tank top, with red blotches seemingly from a $5 bottle of Pinot Noir. Old cigarette burns line parts of his chest, sweat drenching his collar.

He lifts the glass to his face, takes a big gulp like he has done so many times before, and...



...Looks... a bit on the rough side. The few people in this establishment are keeping a safe distance from Tony Santos, and who could blame them? Tony has been on a perpetual bender since his post-Hart vacation in Toronto. And now here he was, sitting in the city that was meant to be a layover to Samoa, but he missed his connecting flight for... reasons all too common to Tony.

Louis Armstrong New Orleans International Airport - May 4th, 2019

Just a few days ago, Tony smuggled wine from the drink cart on his flight from Toronto to New Orleans, hallucinated about his dead girlfriend, and woke up choking on his own vomit.

Upon arriving at the airport in New Orleans, Tony was forced to the terminal ER, where they attempted to pump his stomach. However, Tony was all too familiar with testing the limits of alcohol poisoning, and upon arriving...

Doctor: Sir, we need to get this gastric suction completed NOW! I need to be honest with you here: You could die from the amount of alcohol you ingested. This is incredibly serious, and this is not up for debate.

It was up for debate.

Santos: Take my pulse.

Doctor: 135 beats per minute.

Santos: Fine, check my god damn blood pressure.

Doctor: 210/145

Things weren't looking good for Tony, until...

Santos: What if I told you I'm a wrestler with no health insurance and a few hundred dollars to my name? I just missed my connection to Samoa, and have to pay for a whole new fucking flight. I won't be able to cover a dime, I won't tell you my real name so you can't bill me...

The doctor cuts him off.

Doctor: Your name is Anthony Santos. It's on your boarding pass.

Santos: Fine, I won't tell you who my employer is, so you have no backups for the insurance claim.

The doctor snaps for his clipboard from the nurse. He squints at the small print at the bottom of the page.

Doctor: It's the... Xtreme Wrestling Federation? With an X? You wrote it right here for me, Anthony.

The doctor hands the clipboard to Tony, who also squints at the page, seemingly due to his bad handwriting being turned even worse by having a truckload of wine. His loose front tooth (the one that's still there) peeks out from under his top lip.

Tony rips up the piece of paper.

Santos: Well now you got shit.

Tony launches himself from his hospital bed, rips the IV from his arm, and shoves the doctor and nurse to the side. In a drunken haze, his heart pumping far too fast for a human heart to function properly, Tony simply ignores the pleas of the ER staff, and somehow manages to not catch the eye of security. A drunken mad man, hobbling across the airport, past the overpriced "fake Cajun" chains and the crawfish souvenir stores, he leaves in a cab, his bag stuck somewhere with airport security, and makes his way for the New Orleans nightlife.

Back to the present... May 7th, 2019

It's been three days, and Tony holed himself up in a cheap hostel in the French Quarter. His new Blue Jays hoodie was shredded in the airplane madness, so he had the grungy tank top and only that to his name. He'd been soaking in the New Orleans nightlife in all its skeeviness, and was loving every second...

...maybe too much.

Three days of straight drinking had taken its toll. Money was close to depleted, thanks to excessive gambling at Harrah's. He hadn't showered in days, being unable to stand upright long enough to do more than carry himself to the nearest bar stool. And man oh man, his breath. You can practically smell the rot through the camera. Think of a cross between durian (the fruit that, in the words of one food critic, smells like pig shit, turpentine and onions, garnished with a gym sock) and your standard alleyway garbage.

You can almost taste the lack of hygiene.

But here he sits, sloshing his beer around the glass, lessons yet to have been learned from the many benders, and the many failings. He'd just found himself vomiting on the floor of a plane this week!

Tony smiles.

Santos: Hello, friends. Don't you worry, I'm still here, still going strong... in THE BIG EASY!!!

Tony's words slur, but his eyes never lose their focus on the camera. He smiles that gap-toothed smile, and the thick stench of his beer-soaked teeth assault the camera lens. Man, how good it would feel to be knee deep in the humid air outside, rather than being assaulted from two feet away by the breath of an alcoholic on a mean, mean bender.

Santos: It feels really... fucking... good to be steeped in sin. Everyone around here... gets it, you know? They get that life isn't to be taken so fucking seriously. It's all just a big god damn joke. Each and everyone one of our existences... one fucking joke. And... *SNAP*, just like that, it could all end... *POOF*

So why not live with no fear? Live like you've got nothing to lose, and no one to prove anything to? Like it's all just a big fucking joke, and you're the main attraction?

Tony lets out the face that he is famous for.



What a beautiful mug.

Santos: And that... that is why I admire you, Noah Jackson. See, you get it. The WORLD is your oyster, past, present, and future



Santos: You cunt the world by the cunt, and cunt, you never cunting let cunt. It just all comes NATURAL to you, even if no one can understand what the hell you're saying the entire time. You don't let words get in the way of your dreams, and I cunting APPRECIATE that, my friend!



Santos: You get that you are the main character in your own little vaudeville show. For every Larry and Moe, gosh darnit, you're the Curly we all need and love!

For every Carl, you swoop in as their Urkel and steal the show!

For every Zack Morris and A.C. Slater, you're the Screech we need to bring it all together.

A hard worker. Hell, in the words of your esteemed... manager? Mouthpiece? Friend? Whatever, in the words of whatever that dude who plays "serious man" to your cunty comedy routine, in his words, you're the HARDEST worker. You give it everything you have...

...for the love of the game.

...for the feeling of knowing you did just SUCH A GREAT JOB.

...and to fill the hole inside that you so eloquently admitted.



Santos: Noah, I'm excited! We'll get to dance in that ring, and based on the verbal tap dancing you've done on the dance floor of my ego, I know I have a fantastic partner on Wednesday. You really hit my fragile ego with some hard stomps. You cracked the floorboards of my heart, telling me to end my life, about how you're the superior wrestler and man, and how I simply do not stack up.

You waltzed all over my life's contemplations. You hopped all over my attempts at words greater than four letters. You swung me around like a cheap play thing, discarding my hopes and dreams with as little care as the resume you've spent so little time cultivating, while really stretching your sense of self-worth and accomplishment, like the BEST tango.



Santos: You're good, Noah. Really, really good. Better than the first bundle of idiots I've faced upon my return, for damn sure. They've barely managed to show up, and it's allowed me to hobble my way into this here belt over my neck. And that's what makes this title feel so cheap and meaningless to me. The competition I've faced brings this little value.

Am I proud to hold? You're damn right I am.

Would I trade it for a halfway decent bottle of scotch and a pack of Marlboros?

You're god damn right I would.



Santos: And that's what differentiates you and me, Noah. See, you seem to get that you're a comedic act. A man in it to make the crowd LAUGH. Everyone loves someone who makes them LAUGH, after all!

But what sits beneath your humor. Your hijinks. Your 3rd grade insults layered under an accent that sounds like you've had your tongue ripped out and your jaw separated...

...Is the same fear of being loved. And oh no, not just love of a woman... or a man. Love from others. Appreciation for who you are, and what you've done. It's why you shove your thin set of accomplishments down our throats each and every agonizing day. You see me as "the invisible man," and consider that an insult. I see you as the ever-present moron from down under who can't convince everyone of your own greatness, so you have to scream it through the world's loudest bullhorn for all to hear.

Tony smiles as he swirls his beer.



Santos: Soak it all in, Noah. Take it in like a rich beer by whatever shark-infested hellhole of a beach you would relax in. It'll be you and me! The man you want to take down so you can climb the ladder to relevance, on your way to the Universal Title that you so badly cherish, and the validation you so badly need.

Dance for me in that ring tomorrow, puppet. I'm your ticket to success. I'm what stands between you and self-worth.

You stand atop mountains? Just don't forget how easy it is to fall right off.

The scene fades to black.

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