The scene opens in a cloud of smoke... cigarette smoke, to be precise. It's hard to discern what is going on, but some chatter can be heard in the distance. Some faint Frank Sinatra can be heard over to the right, and what sounds like a football broadcast to the left. The sound of a mug, or a glass, hitting a tabletop, and the flick of a lighter.

Some big fuckin' shot, huh? Who the fuck does this kid think he is, Frankie?

The voice you just heard is grating, raspy, a bit tar-soaked. Strong Boston accent, with the sound of many years of smoking and disappointment coating the walls of his throat. A man with a level of cynicism that could only come from rough New England winters and doing the same exact routine for at least 50 years.

The smoke dissipates.



Don't worry, the sounds you heard weren't lying to you. As the scene in front of us starts to become clear, we see the visual representation of the man whose commentary we were graced with. We're in Somerville, Massachusetts, and for some reason, we're parked up here:



The Dante Club; a private club for men in their 40s and up, who just want to drink around other old Boston men while watching sports and complaining about their wives. Even better if you hate change, because you won't find any here, except for a couple Red Sox and Patriots championship posters duct taped to the wood panel walls. Nope, this place looks almost exactly the same as it did after 9/11, as it did when the Patriots lost the 1998 Super Bowl to the Green Bay Packers, as it did when the entire city of Boston went into mourning over the death of Len Bias in 1986.

Like the dents in the Green Monster, from all of the big hits by major league ballplayers, serving as a time capsule to the history of Fenway Park, and in turn, Red Sox baseball, you could trace the history of Somerville to the tar on the walls, the cigarette burn holes in various pool aprons, cracks in the old leather chairs. Many men of Somerville spent their formative years in this club, having been taken here by their father, or grandfather, or hell, even great grandfather, and have passed that tradition on down to their children. People have died in the same spot their were born... just a few blocks from the Dante Club.

However, the Dante Club has an interesting... guest... in its normally members-only locale. See, the Dante Club was looking for a way to drum up some excitement on a normally dreary Monday before the new year. The Dante Club would technically be open for New Years Eve, but it was pretty light in the members section, as some sad private party would normally take over the function area upstairs, so it wasn't a big moneymaker. Meanwhile, the owner, Tommy Kennedy (son of former president and owner "PK" Kennedy), wanted to give his guys one last night to come in, enjoy a bunch of cheap Bud Lights and money on Keno, and call it a year.

Enter Tony Santos.

See, Tony Santos had been a patron of the Dante Club in his own formative years, his grandfather having taken him to the club every month or so. Tony would play pool, throw some darts, or do some low level gambling with his grandfather's money. All so his parents could pass him off for another bender, and in turn, so his grandfather could ignore little ol' Anthony for the bar. When his grandfather died, and not long after, his father, Tony would keep coming back. He'd become an honorary member, well below the age required to join, and would spend his time in the smoke-filled basement, scratching away another losing ticket on Keno, or climbing on top of the pool table for a tough shot. The intensity in his eyes were as sharp then as they are now, but with a lot more innocence.

When Tony reached adulthood, he'd started to veer away from the Club. Being in your late teens/early 20s and hanging out with a bunch of old men who play the exact same games, drink the exact same drinks, and have the exact same conversations, can get a little, well, boring. So Tony bolted. This isn't the typical story of Tony getting too drunk and making a fool of himself, getting into a fight with Tommy, PK, or one of the regulars, or ringing up a tab that he simply couldn't pay. Nope, Tony Santos had become bigger than his second home.

Or so he thought.

We turn back to the bar, where the initial jabs at Tony could be heard earlier. A man who looks 60 but is actually 45, elbows the man to his left, almost causing him to lose hold of his glass of Budweiser (or Bud Heavy as they call it for some godforsaken reason), and points to the pool area, smiling.

Some big fuckin' shot he is, huh? Sitting over there, a bunch of stupid fuckin' t-shirts, some fake belts, and stupid fuckin' sign. Who the fuck does he think he fuckin' is, anyway? Do you know who that guy is?

The man to his left places his beer glass on the bar, then proceeds to wipe some mild froth from his gray, mustached, upper lip.

Apparently he's Tony Santos, whatever the fuck that means.

A big laugh from the 45 year old.

Tony Fuckin' Santos. That name doesn't ring a bell to you?

The man shakes his head.

You remember the Sullivan guys from back in the day? Brian and his good for nothin' fathah?

Ah, yeah! Wait, is he...?

You're fuckin' right he is. That's little fuckin' Anthony Sullivan, the little runt who used to run around in his light up Adidas shoes. See, the kid changed his name to Tony Santos and ran off to be a pro wrestlah. From what I've heard, kid's ruined his life more times than a god damn cat has lives, but the entire time, has chased a buck while seeing himself as hot fuckin' shit. That kid is the guy you see in the back

Tommy! Hey, Tommy!

Tommy Kennedy, owner and president of the Dante Club, following the death of his father in September of 2018, walks over. He's cleaning a glass Ted Danson in Cheers style, his thin, pale, frame walking over. Tommy knows everyone by name, since he's here practically every day, whether it's to tend the bar, or just to balance the checkbooks. He's everyone's friend, and just an all around nice guy.

Tommy: What's up, guy?

Guy (not his real name, but let's roll with it): What'd you have to pay that kid to come here?

Tommy: Sullivan? I didn't have to pay him a dime. He just wanted to be let back into the Club and let him sign autographs for five bucks a pop. Didn't take much.

With that, the men at the bar roar in laughter. Tony can be seen in the distance, leaning against the cheap wooden table, hands pressed against the surface, his eyes glancing only for a second back to the bar. Tony's eyes squint in annoyance, before turning back to the TV in his corner, playing re-runs of The Price is Right.

Tommy raises his hands, palms down, pressing the air down, shushing the barflies.

Tommy: Guys guys, don't be dicks. The kid's here just trying to make a few quick bucks, and he's a bit down on his luck. He's just as welcome here as the rest of you fuckin' bozos, and he's been through a lot of shit. Just let him have his moment. In fact...

Tommy raises his hand to his mouth, places his thumb and index finger inside the corner of his lips, and lets out a loud whistle.

Tommy: Sullivan... I mean, Santos! Why don't you come over here and grab a drink on me?

Tony stares at Tommy, then the rest of the bar and their shit eating grins. He lets out a deep breath, pushes his weight upright, and makes his way to the bar. As he walks over, regulars stop to turn their necks and watch the spectacle that is Tony Santos. His face, from the many kicks and punches, is in a state of perpetual swelling. His hair, which he shaved off in some... rough... times, is growing back, but unevenly. He's in light blue jeans with unexplained paint stains, and his usual black hoodie. He carries an air of condescension as he jaunts over, as if he's better than the people who have seen him in racecar pajamas. Years of on and off stardom in the carnival-esque world of wrestling has made him think he's A-list, when he's very much C-list... on a good day.

Tommy pours a Bud Light and lays it on the bar. Tony walks up, looks down at the glass, then back up at Tommy.

Santos: You got any IPAs?

The bar chuckles again, before Tommy hushes them for the second time.

Tommy: Sorry bud, none of that here. We got Bud Light, Bud Heavy, Yuengling...

Tony raises his hand to quiet Tommy. He then places his fingers around the pint of Bud Light, raises his to his face, and promptly downs it in a cool four seconds. He slams the glass on to the table and raises his eyes to Tommy.

Santos: Another.

Tommy: That first one was on me. You wanna start a ta..

Santos: Another.

Tommy raises his hands as if to say "sorry for encroaching," takes Tony's glass, and pours him another. Smiles begin to flatten, the sound of the TV and music fading away, even as they continue to play at full blast.

Tony raises the glass to his face, and again, down in four seconds. The glass once again slams down on to the bar.

Santos: Another.

This continues three more times, the Club hushed throughout. Pool balls aren't connecting, darts aren't flying, and chatter... it just ain't happening. Instead, everyone has their eyes on this 6'2," beaten down kid who is just chugging beers at the bar... expressionless.

Santos: Another, but this time with a shot of vodka.

Tommy: Hey Sull... Santos... I don't think that's such a good ide...

Tony tilts his head to the right, glares at Tommy, and nods. He puts his hand into his right pocket and pulls out a wad of cash, proceeding to slam it on the table. It looks to be all 10s and 20s, with a few ripped 1s thrown in for good measure.

Tommy looks down at the cash, turns to the tap, and pours Tony another Bud Light. He then grabs a bottle of Smirnoff, flicks it higher up into his hand, and pours a shot. He slides the glasses to the other side of the bar. Tony looks down, then back up at Tommy, then to his left, and to his right, then back to his left, where "Guy" sits, motionless and completely silent. Tony glares at him for an extended period of time... seconds that feel like hours. Guy uncomfortably plays with the pack of Parliament cigarettes in front of him, then clears his throat, in hopes of breaking the tension.

Tony looks back down, grabs the shot glass, and quickly downs it, then rapidly picks up the Bud Light and does the same. Tony loudly clears his nostrils, sucking in all the nicotine and booze, before laying his hand down and tapping the table.

Another shot and beer.

Then another.

And another.

All told, Tony stood at the bar for roughly 15 minutes, in complete silence, taking down eight shots of vodka and 12 glasses of Bud Light. After his final set, he looks up at Tommy, pushes the cash his way, and simply nods. Tony walks over to his table, grabs a stray pack of cigarettes and an unscratched lottery ticket, and leaves the rest, merch and all. The sound of his boots hitting the linoleum floor reverberate throughout the Club, his size 13 feet walking over the same spots where his bare feet hopped around, on to men's laps to watch them play poker, or to peek at the bar.



Tony makes his way back to Tommy, nods one more time, then looks at Guy. Guy stares straight, waiting for Tony's time in the bar to pass and for conversation to get back to normal... but Tony hovers. Obvious shaking emanates from Guy's right hand, which could be from this moment, or honestly, just from needing a nicotine buzz. Either way, he wants this moment to pass, but damn is it taking a long time.

Tony lets out a long breath through his nostrils, landing on Guy's head, slightly shifting his dusty gray hair.

Santos: Who the fuck am I? The fucking guy you'd hoped be 20 years ago, you pathetic piece of shit. Who the fuck am I? Everything you are, but with everything you didn't become.

Who the fuck am I?

Tony Fucking Santos.

Who the fuck are you?

Every god damn doubter standing in my way.

Tony nods once more to the bar, throws his coat over his shoulders, and turns to the long hallway where the exit stands.



The scene fades to black.

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