The scene opens inside Grill 23, one of the finest restaurants in Boston. Located in the Back Bay area of Boston, Grill 23 is known for many things: delicious seafood (including some of the best lobster on the planet), an unbeatable wine selection, and some creative food combinations. However, what it's most known for, without a doubt, is its juicy, mouth-watering steak. In The Hub, there are few places that can match Grill 23 in the steak department.

With it comes an atmosphere that screams high class. All of the wealthy financial types make this a constant stop, and who could blame them? You paid top dollar to practically even get the honor of sitting down at one of their tables. The waitlist is always jam packed, whether it be a Tuesday evening right when the doors opened (which is around 6 in the evening), or a prime Friday night, with all of the "important people" out, boozing up and schmoozing with other people of like minds and wallets, spending their capital gains for one night (an amount, which, was frighteningly more than most middle class Bostonians could imagine making in a month) and cheating on their out-of-town spouses.

However, the scene in front of us is tucked away from the normal hustle and bustle of Grill 23 and in one of their private rooms: The Dartmouth Suite. Holding 30 people comfortably, this room is filled to capacity. It's a Monday night, so this is the perfect night for the rich schmucks to entertain their business partners with some incredibly expensive cuisine and plenty of socializing. The typical handshakes and business card exchanges are occurring, men dressed in their best after-work suits, their wives, girlfriends, or mistresses dressed in their finest dresses (at least for a Monday night).

Gorgeous mahogany walls envelope the room, the mindless chatter drowned out by its presence. Adding an air of pretentiousness to a room that was already racking up a total bill, sans alcohol, well in the thousands. As they continued chatting, a man strutted his way in to the room. Adorned in his finest penguin tuxedo, sunglasses, white gloves, and sunglasses (yes, this was his actual attire), he looked like a man caught in a remake of Titanic.

Santos: Ladies and gentlemen! Thank you for coming!

The crowd in front of Tony Santos breaks from their conversations, then breaks out in emphatic applause.

Santos: Folks, tonight is a special night. A very, very special night. See, tonight, thanks to my hefty paychecks from the, all of your meals and alcohol are FREE! Please, eat up! Enjoy as much booze as you can consume! This is a night of excess, and I want you to enjoy it!

Ladies and gents, I'm not opposed to some good old fashioned sinning either! Go ahead, cheat on your husbands! Cheat on your wives! Just make sure you defy your almighty being or beings, whatever or wherever they may be!

Tony smiles, raises his hands in the air, and then lowers them in a clear motion to quiet the crowd down. He tightens his gloves, lifts a glass of champagne, and raises it to the crowd.

His audience... his admirers of gratuitous extra-marital sex and everything green, lift their respective glasses of alcohol in unison back at Tony. Like a bunch of behaved, well-placed Matryoshka dolls, sitting in their chairs upright and stoic, they are 100% attentive to their presenter.

Santos: Ladies and gentlemen, I want to thank you for taking the time to join me in this little shindig this evening. The fruits of my wrestling labors are paying off, and I figured, what the hell? I'll put down thousands of dollars to gain the validation of my not so close, newly-made friends. Why the hell not?

However, tonight, I'm here not only to lavish you with free food and drink, no no. Tonight, I want to partake in a bit of spirited discussion with some of Boston's elite. Then, maybe, just... just... maybe, we can always do some good ol' fashioned SINNIN'! How's that sound?

Tony's audience breaks in to applause. One man even yells "Bravo!," utterly floored by Tony's presence and high class.

Santos: Now please, ladies and gentlemen, let's have a toast. Raise your... oh, your glasses are already raised again. Well, anyways, raise your glasses and join me in praising... ourselves.

Why, you may ask?

Because, we're driven. Driven by earthly possessions. Driven by the desire to do more here, on earth, a place that we know exists. I'm happy to bet that each and every one of you in this room is either an atheist or a weekend Catholic who couldn't give a damn about the church, the supernatural, or any religious institution outside of the one godforsaken hour you're nailed to a pew on a Sunday (which, let's be honest, you're probably not actually awake for anyway!).

We raise our glasses to living for the here and now. For living to see others fail... to stomp them firmly and resolutely in to the ground. We live to see others fall apart, and not to please some voice in our head or some "god" above... no no, haha. That would be just completely and utterly naive of us. We do so for ourselves. We do so in order to please our earthly, human desires... you know, things that we know exist.

For Christ's sake... that's just hyperbole, ladies and gentlemen. Don't be taking that seriously now. For Christ's sake, we do this, and can do this, because we're the cream of the crop, the best of the best. We're all sitting in this room because, god damn it, we've earned the RIGHT to be in this room. And we won't let anyone take that away from us without a fight.

Ladies and gentlemen...

Just then, Tony stops. He looks at his surprisingly full glass of champagne, his sober mind actually able to absorb the scene around him. Ah, the sweet smell of success. The allure of power. It's brought him here, to this famous Boston restaurant where, under the warm glow of the golden lights he was being admired. Just for once, people were appreciating him rather than chastising him. There were no snide remarks, no deep, disappointed glares. No accusations of wrongdoing simply because he was present and conscious. No, no, he was being held in high esteem, as if he was an important business mogul or a highly successful (and incredibly wealthy) investor. Even more surprisingly...

This was all happening for a pro wrestler.

Tony Sullivan. The kid that couldn't cut it as a youngster. The kid with a mean streak but no direction. He was now being lifted of the burden of familial pressures, societal expectations, and the sting of failure. He'd made it, and here he was, fighting Eli James for the title in just a matter of days, and he was toasting it with the social kings and queens of The Hub.

This was a lot to take in, and Tony was unfortunately feeling the effects of being completely and incredibly overwhelmed all at once. Just then, the glass slips out of Tony's hand. It crashes to the floor, shattering into seemingly millions of little pieces. Tony, suddenly feeling nauseous, bends over and leans against a nearby table. His head facing the ground, Tony takes deep breaths... 10, 20, 30... it feels like forever. A scene that has lasted only a few minutes feels like it's lasting an hour.

What must these people be thinking?, Tony thinks to himself. I can't disappoint such impressive, high-ranking people! Not when I've come so close to the top! No, no, not this time. No failure tonight. Get your shit together, Sully...

God, he hated that nickname as a kid.

Look up at these people and shake it off. Just some withdrawal pains. Just smile like you always seem to be able to do, have someone clean up the broken glass, and move on.

Tony lifts his right hand from the tables, scratches the back of his head, and flings his hair backwards. He continues looking down as he adjusts his gloves and bowtie, taking the same mentality as a baby rabbit: if you don't look at them, they won't see you.

Tony smiles and raises his head. Oddly, everyone in the room is still toasting him, hands raised in the exact same position as before, those goofy smiles on their overly plastic and insincere faces. No one says a word. Tony, confused by all of this, takes another look down, then back up. Nothing has changed. The champagne glass is still on the ground, shattered, the carpet soaking up the excess alcohol.

Tony, befuddled by all of this, adjusts his bowtie one more time and makes his way toward his audience. Not moving an inch, they sit in their chairs, smiling those cheesy smiles, and stare off in to god knows where. Tony, a look of utter confusion on his face, walks up to a table populated with some wealthy lawyers from the Financial District, along with their wives, many of whom are also lawyers. Tony bends over, toward their faces, then proceeds to wave a hand in front of a few of their faces.

Nothing.

He pokes at their drinks and garb.

Nothing.

Tony, still confused, stands straight up and slowly walks over to another table, this one filled with bankers and a doctor. Noticing some hors d'oeuvres on one of the bankers' plates (just your standard fine cheese and crackers), goes in for the kill. However, when he sticks his hand in the food, there's nothing to grab. The food is apparently a hologram, as Tony's hand whisks right past any substance and plots on the table.

Santos: What the hell is going on here? Hello?! People!

Nothing. No reactions, no movements, no sound... just Tony's voice, all alone. Tony turns his head, his long, brown hair following seemlessly, just like a Pantene commercial (if the hair was full of split ends). Not sure what the hell is going on, he heads for the door of the suite, figuring he'd check out the rest of the establishment. Striding toward the door, Tony passes the lifeless automatons around him. Step by step, he heads for the main foyer. Just as he reaches the door, he clips a bump on the floor and lands with a loud...

*THUD*

Tony's chin nails the ground and he immediately feels it split open. However, the impact certainly didn't feel like what you'd expect from hitting carpet. That felt oddly like... concrete.

After a few minutes just resting his head on the ground, not wanting to deal with the pain or frustration that will inevitably follow once he deals with this issue, he opens his eyes. What he sees in front of him isn't concrete, but hardwood. He lifts his head slightly and notices stairs leading down to a narrow city street.

Santos: Hmmph. What the hell?

Tony raises himself slowly with his hands until he rests on his knees. He rubs his eyes, notices that he's still seeing the city street, and rubs his eyes again, as if hoping to exit a bad dream. He opens his eyes again and... the same thing. He's on his porch in Brighton. He looks down and notices that he's wearing a ratty t-shirt and jeans. He slowly places his left hand on his chin and, yep, he's busted it wide open.

Realizing that he needs a towel or something to stop the blood flow before hitching a ride to the hospital, Tony gets up and walks back inside his apartment. He closes the front door behind him and heads down his hallway. Turning to his right, he reaches his living room; TV on an infomercial loop, laptop sitting wide open on his floral patterned, green couch. He grabs an old t-shirt that he's had lying around his living room for a good month and presses it against his wound. He plops himself down on his couch, and after a few minutes, the blood flow slows down. He shakes his head, hoping to shake the cobwebs out and not lose consciousness from any sort of bleeding from the head.

Tony slowly and begrudgingly reaches for his phone, hoping to reach Shannon, his girlfriend, in the middle of the night so that she can get him to the hospital. It's not a major cut to the chin, but it needs a few stitches to close itself up.

He leans forward to his living room table, desperately trying to get a fingertip on his phone so that he can drag it towards him. As he gets closer and closer, his attention is diverted to a mouse crawling around in the corner of his living room. Next to it? A broken beer bottle, along with a good 10 or so, along with an empty case, sitting in the corner. The bottles are lined up, their empty faces seemingly staring at Tony, together, as if they were their own little cult, casting their judgmental stares on a weakened alcoholic.

No distinguishing characteristics or qualities make them stand out. Just a bunch of mindless tools of a faceless and empty leader. They dispensed their poison to Tony, and now they stand there, work complete, yet all in vain. The only one that stood out was that broken bottle. It was the final boss. The one that was given the chance to inflict the crushing blow. But look at it now... lifeless. Its contents... its poison... strewn all over the floor. For all its efforts to end Tony Santos, to take advantage of his greatest weakness, booze, it had failed. He was still there, and albeit a bit roughed up, he wasn't broken. He'd continue on, while this temporary poison was gone.

Would Tony Santos join Eli James's Congregation?

Santos: I'd rather break that son of a bitch.

The scene fades to black.

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