Jeremy: Sir...

We're in a cab in California, being driven by a rough Italian-American transplant from, of all places, Brooklyn, New York. Speeding down Route 101 on their way to the War Room, Jeremy can be seen in the back seat of the cab, behind the cab driver. It's a surprisingly cool day in central California, and, with the cab driver zipping down the road with the windows open, Jeremy's put on a light fleece. To his right is an unconscious Tony Santos. Still in the same clothes from his mini-bender in Brooklyn, he's just now recovering from the excessive alcohol consumption and bad decisions that were made. His jeans are torn, his shirt is barely hanging on his back, and he smells like a mix between stale alcohol and cat piss. Jeremy's not sure whether the cab driver's love for the air of the open road or Tony's stench is the reason for the windows being kept open, but, as he sits next to Tony for a longer and longer period of time, he's becoming more and more convinced that it's the latter.

Jeremy, pressing his right fist harder and harder into Tony's left shoulder, still receives no response.

Jeremy: Sir... Sir! Wake up!

Jeremy, having become increasingly brazen and less afraid of Tony's increasingly volatile reactions, backhands Tony.

Santos: Grruhgh...

Tony comes to, albeit sloppily and with little grace. After a long and comatose flight from New York to California in which he was stopped at the check-in point for looking like, as the TSA agent stated, "a hobo," he managed to convince this portly, middle-aged man that the crumpled boarding pass in his hand was, in fact, legit... then getting strip searched at the gate, Tony was just now beginning to catch up on true sleep after his murdered brain cells officially burned up and disintegrated. Dark, deep bags under his eyes, scratches on his face, and crusty food stains on his chin and lips, Tony looks like a straight up mess, and surprisingly more so than his usual self.

Tony rubs his eyes, stretches his arms out, and yawns. A sudden case of vertigo overtaking him, he grabs his head in agony, holds the grimy, yellow insides of the cab, and holds steady while the cab rocks on the road. Jeremy stares at him intently with a seething level of resentment. Resentment for Tony's disrespect of Jeremy as a person, and his disrespect for himself.

Jeremy: What the hell is wrong with you?

Santos: Hm?

Jeremy: You heard me. What the hell is wrong with you? Why are you being a god damn moron? You have priorities... obligations. Get your shit together and act like an adult.

Santos: When did you develop a potty mouth?

Jeremy, not in the mood for Tony's side comments, punches Tony in the ribs and points a stern finger in his face. Tony, stunned and wide-eyed, smacks Jeremy in face.

Santos: Don't get ahead of yourself, kid. I can still beat you up, even while drunk.

Jeremy rubs his cheek, a few tears building in his left eye.

Jeremy: Okay, okay. Well, what are you going to do tonight? You know you have to defend that little gold belt that you love so much.

Santos: I'm gonna beat the living devil out of that kid I'm facing, then befriend Drotte, tag team with him, win the tag belts, and continue on my journey to world domination, obviously.

Jeremy: Sir, get serious. When we get to the arena, we're finding a hotel, grabbing you a shower, and getting you to the ring. No alcohol, no cigarettes, nothing. You'll have a nice meal and get ready to defend that damn title. I'm done with you being a drunk, at least while I'm around. I'm gone in a month and a half. Until then, get your shit together and get off the sauce. When I'm gone, you do what you wanna do.

Now, what are you gonna do tonight?

Santos: I'm gonna get a drink.

Jeremy: Get serious. What are you going to do tonight?

Santos: I'm gonna make Stevie Tyler my little bitch, just like I did at Leap of Faith. Kid, I know what I'm doing. Tyler's afraid of me. He can only muster up confidence, anger, confusion, hell, emotions in general when one of his figments of his imagination decides he should. He's got no heart. No desire. I tore him apart once, and I sure as hell won't be giving up that belt just yet. Not a week and a half in.

Tonight, I'll be the one controlling his feelings, his emotions. I'll be deciding whether he gets out conscious or even with a damn pulse. If I want to cut him up and make him feel naked in that ring, I will. Someday, if he gets his wits together and becomes his own person, maybe then he'll be ready... but not tonight. Tonight, I'll carve him up, toss him around, and throw a Final Destination on as a cherry on top.

Kid, don't you worry. I'll be smiling tonight. Smiling after I've shown him who's the better man for the second time. Humbled him again. Left him in the corner, a shred of his former self. Dream On, I'll tell him. Tonight, he faces an alcoholic with a lack of care. A man who has and will continue to stomp down weaker competitors who tip toe around actual insults with me. People like Stevie Tyler are afraid of me, and I always expose that fear.

Oh, I'll be smiling wide tonight, kid. Trust me.

Tony fades from consciousness.

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