Santos: Ain't this the life, kid? Sitting in a field, out in the country, just sipping on some cold beers and enjoying the peace and quiet. There's not a person to be found and not a voice to be heard except ours.

Kid, this is what it's all about. Forget about the city life, I'm moving out here. No girlfriend to nag me at my front door in the morning, no landlord hounding me for money, and no screwy neighbors bringing the area down. No no, kid, none o' that. The only sounds will be the air gently blowing around us and the crackle of the cherry on a freshly lit cigarette.

Jeremy: Um, sir, we're in Quincy. It's like a 30 minute drive from your apartment...

The kid was correct. Quincy, Massachusetts was the setting for this conversation, a city not far from downtown Boston, but a long enough ride on the T to convince any city-dweller that this was, in fact, the suburbs. However, the country? Only Tony Santos would consider this to truly embody the "country."

Faxon Field, adjacent to Route 3A (which, by the way, takes you downtown if you follow it long enough), was the "country" in question. Sitting in a cheap beach chair, complete with a makeshift cupholder, is Tony. The cupholder, made by Tony himself, is basically by tying together bundles of five to ten wooden rods (about five bundles in total on the left side of the chair, which is where his trusty drinking hand is located) in order to support what amounts to an old, plastic Budweiser cup that he found on the ground after pulling clean-up crew for a local indy show years ago.

Sitting to his right is the kid. Not being of legal age, and not someone who enjoys the act of imbibing, especially to excess (like Tony), Jeremy had a Diet Coke in his right hand. Jeremy's not one to get attached to any sort of drug, but there was one that even this pure soul couldn't avoid: caffeine. A student and test-taker hell bent on perfection since he, well, started taking tests, he spent many a sleepless nights in his father's old study in the basement, studying whilst downing cup after cup of coffee, only to followed up with a bottle or two of Diet Coke, and then, for expediency's sake, a caffeine pill or two (or three). Hence why he could be so fidgety and on edge; which Tony exacerbated. While Tony's habit of pumping excessive quantities of alcohol into his system was something entire frat houses would consider excessive, the kid would gladly shame said frat bros in the Red Bull category.

Tony, taking turns between sipping on a Southern Tier 2X IPA and focusing on a pebble that he's rolling between his right thumb and index finger (which he's showing far too much attention to), looks up at the sunny sky, squinting, and sighs.

Santos: Eh, it's close enough. Kid, this is the farthest I'm roaming from the city. Do you know that I ventured out to Springfield once? Springfield! I practically went nuts from the quiet.

Jeremy: Sir, Springfield has at least 100,000 people living in it. That's actually much more crowded than Quincy. Hell, sir, you grew up in Dedham. That's much more like "the country" than either Quincy or Springfield...

Tony, not paying attention, completely changes the subject.

Santos: Kid, we've come along way, you and me. We started out together two months ago, coming from nothing, you, a lowly college intern with no money, and me, an elite pro wrestler who was just never given a chance. Now look at us! You're paying your way through your internship, and I'm, well, still pretty fantastic.

Jeremy frowns, then turns his gaze to his left, directly at Tony's ridiculous smile.

Jeremy: Sir, I have plenty of money. When we initially talked about me serving as your intern, I told you about the money that I'd saved up and the help that I had from my parents. I go to Boston University. I actually have much less money now, and have received zero life skills in my time on this trip. If anything, this has been a step back for me.

Tony, taken aback by the blunt nature of the kid's comments, looks at the kid, then back to the sky, taking a swig of his double IPA. He stops rolling the pebble between his fingers, and instead tosses it out in to the field in front of him.

Santos: Oh come on, kid. If anything, look where you've helped take me. I've been in a US Title match, a TV Title match, and an Xtreme Title match in only two months. That's thanks to you, kid. You've kept me on my feet when I've wanted to fly high. You've kept cab drivers from attempting to jam my face into a lightpost, paid my tabs, and woken me up in time so that I don't miss flights or matches. Kid, you've been a lifesaver.

Jeremy, having finished his Diet Coke, lightly places it on the burnt, unkempt grass. He looks at Tony with the same gaze as before, but with it slightly breaking.

Santos: Kid, I get that I'm not the easiest person to deal with. Hell, I may be a drunk, but I'm aware of how I am.

Kid, stick with me for a few more weeks, until you leave to head back to BU. Stick with me.

Tony takes the thumb and index finger that had previously been less than a centimeter apart, only separated by that pebble, and Tony raises them toward Jeremy, still that same distance apart.

Santos: Kid, we're this close. I ran through the baddest of the bad in the gauntlet, and now I'm up against the leader of The Congregation. We have a chance to take the US Title from a man who didn't even rightfully win it. We have a chance to cap off this journey with a major title victory.

Sure, winning the Xtreme Championship at Leap of Faith was fantastic, but let's be honest; I faced a man with two first names and no talent, a burnout Wal-Mart employee, and a guy named after an herbicide who can only manage to spout off homophobic diatribes every now and then.

The US Title match is where it gets good. Only the best of the best, kid. Only the best of the best. Well, unless you're facing a man who practically threw in the towel before the match even began. Then, well, you're probably not the best, but I digress.

Tony finishes off his double IPA, then proceeds to cock his left arm back and heave the bottle ahead of him. However, Tony clearly forgot that he was a righty, so, while managing to impersonate the throwing motion of a 3-year-old girl, he only managed to throw the bottle two feet ahead of him before it abruptly.

Santos: Kid, on Wednesday, the gauntlet continues. Eli James is next in line. Just another fool caught in this faction craze that's running through the XWF like shit through the streets of Ethiopia. Another man with a penchant for telling others what to do and how to think is taking over the helm of a band of misfits with little direction and even less talent.

Which is why I turned down his offer to bring me in to his batch of sheeple.

See, kid, as I've mentioned in the past, I'm not a follower, and I sure as hell don't want allies in this line of work. You wanna know why? Because those followers will just as quickly stab you in the back and piss on your wounds the moment that they no longer need you; the moment that disposing of you will push them further than sticking with you ever could. Kid, everyone is disposable, even some false prophet, god, or whatever Eli James considers himself to be.

However, Eli may just be easier to dispose of than the rest. Why? Because he's weak. He's weak as a leader... weak as a competitor... weak a human... yes, he is human.

As a leader, he's not even confident enough in himself to avoid making general excuses of how leaders survive and how they fall, which, while he won't admit it, are meant to cover his own ass when he inevitably fucks up, loses the confidence of his followers, and finds himself face first on the canvas... title gone, status crushed, and dreams broken. Hell, as a man of godly proportions, he's not even confident enough that those in need of being "saved" will come to him. He has to come over to good old Tony Santos, extend his hand, and ask me to join his group of fools. That's a man without true power, without any real ability to save anyone, let alone his own frail soul.

See, I think a sinnin', alcohol chuggin', cigarette smokin' son of a gun like myself, stumbling around the city, picking fights and urinating in public, is stronger-willed than this joker. For all of my indiscretions, I don't mask my behavior in something that I'm not. I'm an asshole and I'm damn fine with it. I love drinking, I love cursing, and I damn well love not pretending that I can save people or that I in turn want to be saved. I live my life, accept my failures, and continue chugging along.

Eli James? He hides his insecurities behind this facade that he's carrying around these parts. He's fooled a handful, hell, it seems like more than just a handful, into believing that he's a legitimate threat; a force who will cleanse our souls and, at the same time, dominate our company. However, a fist to the head tends to be covered in reality, and the after effect is, if you're not incredibly delusional, that reality making its way through your thick skull and in to your brain. On Warfare, that's exactly what I intend to do: knock some sense into this Jim Jones wanna-be.

Tony slumps back in his chair and stares ahead at the not-so-broken beer bottle on the ground in front of him. He looks to his right, and in the distance lies Mt. Wollaston Cemetery. Lined with crosses and Stars of David, Tony smiles. He looks at Jeremy and then points in the direction of the cemetery.

Santos: Kid, remember this. For all of the false prophets and religious fanatics, for all of their preaching and cajoling, they all end up in the same place: the ground, their words long forgotten and utterly meaningless. Eli James would be wise to keep that in mind.

Tony smiles, cracks open another double IPA, and takes a long, welcoming sip, letting the sun set on their conversation.

The scene fades to black.

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