Jeremy: So wait, why are we here again? And why are you dressed like that?

Santos: Bitches, kid. I'm here for the bitches.

Will C. Crawford High School, San Diego, California is the location, and yes, Tony Santos is on his way there...

Yes, for the bitches. Wait...

Jeremy: The bitches?

Santos: Yeah, kid, the bitches.

Jeremy: Sir, we're visiting a high school, you know, a place that houses minors.

Tony looks at Jeremy, a bit perplexed. To set the scene here a bit, Tony and Jeremy are traveling in a limousine from their hotel in downtown San Diego, out to this high school, which is only about eight miles away, for a speaking gig. Tony had signed himself up to speak in front of a summer school class as part of their speaking series on "overachievers," those who had gone leaps and bounds above their actual abilities, conquering the impossible and becoming successes. Not surprisingly, many potential speakers hastily rejected the opportunity, seeing it as a slap in the face to consider them to be "overachievers," as if they were Grade A morons who had just happened to slap themselves out of their own bad genes to do something greater than flipping burgers and cleaning toilets. Tony?

He was honored.

Decked out in a white, yes, white, suit, and red bowtie, he looked like a modern day Brother Love, had Brother Love just finished his night shift at Chippendales. Tony, not owning a suit, had made his way over to the local goodwill joint and found a suit and tie combo that an unsuccessful pimp had tossed away as a lost cause. However, Tony was elated. He already felt like a million bucks, so now he looked like a million bucks, at least in his mind. Now he was going to rock the hell out of this speaking session and bring home some hunnies to boot.

Santos: I'm not talking about high school chicks, kid...

Although, I'm sure some are 18...

Jeremy, uncharacteristically ragged and dressed down, glares at Tony disapprovingly. Maybe it was just the universe losing its marbles: Santos, looking all prim and proper, while Jeremy was the one looking like a hobo for once.

Jeremy: Sir...

Santos: In all seriousness, have you ever seen how fine young, female, high school teachers are, kid? Hell, they're all in their late-20s to mid-30s, just waiting to be sexed up by a man who's not 65, had tenure for longer than they've been alive, and who doesn't smell like their skin has been caked over and over in leftover liver and onions...



from decades of perusing the fine kitchens of the public school system.

No, no, kid. These women are looking for a hot, young, studly man to come in, flash his stunning smile, show off them pearly whites, and sweep them off their feet.

Tony leans back in his seat, head tilted to the roof of the limo, as he pauses, his face becoming stiff as a stark realization comes over him.

Santos: Kid, KID! These women, the ones that teach these summer school classes, they're the youngest, least tenured of the bunch. They're at the bottom of the totem pole, but they can sure get to the top of mine...

Jeremy: Jesus, sir!

Santos: Lighten up, kid. Everyone loves some good ol' sexual innuendo.

Jeremy: That's not even good innuendo. Just perverted...

Santos: Whatever, kid. I'm flying high, and today, I get to inspire some young kids. Today, I inject just a little bit of hope in the kids that society has forgotten. They, just like me back in high school, don't give a damn about homework, about grades, about anything except boozin', smokin', and just having a damn good time.

Kid, that's all fun and dicky...

Jeremy: That's all fun and dicky?

Santos: But, as I realized once I got my head out of my ass, you gotta give life the fight of its life. You gotta ride this train like it's ten seconds from going off of the tracks and taking you off of a cliff. What ya gonna do? Are you gonna fart around, kick it and let your brain melt away as the last seconds of your life tick away, or are you gonna take control of that fucker, steer it on the right course, and keep that baby on chuggin' for as long as humanly possible?

Kid, I took the latter approach, and that's what I wanna show these kids. Anything is possible, and I'm living proof that a little elbow grease on the dashboard of life will allow that Hawaiian hula-hoopin' woman to stand upright, swaying left and right in perfect harmony.

Jeremy, having half-heartedly listened to Tony for the past few minutes while looking out his driver's side window, people watching through the busy streets of San Diego, couldn't help but turn to Tony and finally acknowledge his sermonizing the Story of Santos.

Jeremy: What?! What?? Have you lost your damn mind, sir?

Tony sits, looking down at the bottle of Absolut vodka resting comfortably in the tray of ice to his right, barely pays the kid any of his attention.

Jeremy: Sir, you fell into this opportunity. You managed to pull off a few wins and a week-and-a-half long title reign while partially, well, incredibly at times, inebriated. Your "success" story is one of an alcoholic who passed out on a winning lottery ticket.

Santos: Kid, you can put it any way that makes you feel better about it, but just remember this: In a few weeks, you'll be just another Joe Schmo, slogging along at Boston University, crushed under crippling debt, to earn a degree that will leave you with a job, if you're lucky, that will pay three times the minimum wage. While you're doing that, I'll be cashing in on my success in the wrestling biz, riding in limousines like this because I want to, chasing and catching dozens of fine ladies, and just loving life, all while having a fantastic security blanket of more money.

Jeremy: Aren't you still waiting on your last two Warfare checks?

Tony snaps back at Jeremy.

Santos: They're comin'. The woman that I spoke with on the phone mentioned something about a bank hold. It'll be fine. It's comin'. I'm not worried about it at all.

Just then, the limousine pulls up in front of Will C. Crawford High School. Tony giddily hops out of the limousine.

Santos: We're here! Will C. Crawford High School! Who names a school after a guy and only uses his short name? Will C. Crawford? Not William?

I digress! Let's head in and start inspiring some crazy sons o' guns!

Tony sprints toward the front door, showing the amount of composure akin to a third grader. He reaches the door and looks to give it the dramatic entrance that only a little bit of Santos flair can truly provide. He forcefully pushes the front door, only to realize far, far too late that this is a door that has to be pulled (hence the door handles). Tony hits the ground hard on his back, ripping his suit jacket in the process.

After a minute or so, a groaning Tony reassures a less than caring Jeremy that he's OK.

Santos: Ugh, I'm alright, kid. I might've twisted my ankle, though. I think I'll need you to carry me in.

Jeremy, still walking ever so slowly to an ailing Santos, facepalms.

Jeremy: Just a few more weeks, Jeremy. Just a few... more... weeks.

The scene fades to black.

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