The American Airlines Center, Dallas, Texas. It's the night before Monday Night Madness, and, even without an event happening tonight, it's a bustling area of activity. Hotels are packed with guests from around the Midwest, bars are full of those craving the Dallas nightlife, and even some wrestlers are socializing with the partygoers. The night is young, but people are taking full advantage of the opportunity at hand.

The camera turns from the various party scenes and makes its way down the congested roads. Weaving through traffic and the sea of red and white lights, the camera soon reaches sparser land. What were once ritzy, high-end hotels are quickly becoming cheap, dead end motels. Audis and BMWs replaced with old Nissans and Chevy trucks. The tight, heavily planned roads have become wide, winding trails of concrete and sand.

Sitting against the wall of a warehouse is Tony Santos. To his right, an air conditioning vent, and in front of him, a web of railroad tracks. Tony sits, cigarette in hand, smoking and watching the trail of smoke acclimate itself with the air in front of it. Tony had been sitting in this spot, alone, for a good few hours. Hell, since he arrived in Dallas, really. His girlfriend, Shannon, had come along for the ride, but she didn't care to talk to him after his failure to grab the King's crown. Being the first one eliminate didn't help him any bit.

Tony pulls out his iPhone, which he'd been using to listen to music, until, well, it stopped playing music. Ever since Tony had made the decision to toss his phone through the streets of Brooklyn, New York, it'd been having some issues making and receiving texts, playing music, taking calls...

Just then, the phone vibrates. A Houston number. Who the hell did he know in Houston? He'd been there a while back for a Warfare show, but, he practically spent the entire few days there perusing the remnants of broken parts of the city, all while corrupting an impressionable Jeremy. No friends were to be made then, no no.

Tony hits the red "Ignore" button on his phone.

The phone vibrates again. That damn Houston number, again.

Santos: Fuckin' telemarketers. Racial slurs apparently don't work.

Tony hits "Ignore" again. After a minute or so, his phone vibrates again, this time letting him know that he has a text message. Tony reluctantly decides to read it.

Hey! Don't pretend you don't remember me, jackass. I'm the woman you met and insulted three months ago. Houston? That ring a bell? Middle of June. I remember that day like it was just yesterday. You're an asshole, but I heard you were back in Texas. I'll be in Dallas for your match. See me after. You have my number.

Tony lowers his phone as the moment of realization hits. Ah, the bartender from Houston. Tony smiled. She was a cutie. Clearly not the best with words, but, oh boy, did he remember that woman, and it stuck. With Shannon giving Tony the silent treatment all while becoming his nanny, he had no qualms with thinking about other women. Well, he'd actually cheated on Shannon multiple times while on the road, so, I guess this was progress?

Yeah, progress.

Tony leans his head back against the brick wall, considering the possibilities... the changes in his life. He could end it with Shannon, leave her in Texas, or he could leave himself back in Texas, and let Shannon trail some other guy with a fat paycheck. He could take on a job as a bouncer, or he could become a hustler...

No, Tony would never be smart enough to hustle anyone. Scratch that.

Tony was feeling oddly free. His match with Tri Bute was only a night away, and he suddenly felt as relaxed as could be. Truly at peace with himself. Funny how all it took to change Tony's mood was a freakin' text message. His emotional changes are like a pendulum; back and forth, back and forth. Angry, then happy; enraged, then euphoric.

Just then, his phone vibrated again.

Santos: She just can't wait, can she? She just has to hear my voice. To be honest, I do sound like a white Morgan Freeman, so I get it, I do.

Tony turns his phone over so the screen is facing him. His smile quickly turns to a confused frown. An unknown number.

Santos: Fucking telemarketers!

Remember that pendulum? Yup, it was over in "enraged" territory now. Tony hated unnecessary disturbances. Tony slams his index finger on to the green "Answer" button on his phone and puts the device to his ear.

Santos: You stupid sons of bitches! I've told you time after motherfucking time... don't call my god damn number! Does gook no longer offend you? Kike? Spick? What does it take? Do I have to personally find you and tear your vocal cords apart? Huh? WILL IT?

Tony, breathing heavily, awaits some canned response from some 22-year-old kid in Indonesia reading a script about how sorry he is, and then hawking some product to Tony that he in no way needs or wants, like a life insurance policy or something else that Santos wouldn't even consider.

However, the voice on the other end just laughs. A low, slightly maniacal laugh. Calm, but a bit crazy.

Oh, don't you worry, Santos. No need to come find me. I'm comin' to find you.

*Click*

The scene fades to black.

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