The scene opens with Tony Santos laying on the top of some monkey bars in a playground in a suburb outside of Houston, Texas, his random road trip throughout the Midwest close to its conclusion. Having recently run in to NAZI in some throwaway counterculture bar in the city, then managing to share a beer with someone who not only accepted that the Holocaust had in fact happened, but someone who inspired to surpass its accomplishments, Tony knew that that signified the end of this journey. It was time to come back from La La Land and in to a wrestling ring.

The camera points downward at Tony as he stares mindlessly at the pale blue sky, his long, brown hair breaking through the gaps in the monkey bars. His hands are clasped against his chest, covering a large Nike symbol on the chest of his red, long-sleeved shirt. Tony mutters...

Santos: Damn, I really don't need a drink.

And he was right. He was coming off of his latest "episode," where some relatively large men who like to ride motorcycles came close to inserting shards of glass from some recreational games of the pinball variety in to Tony's ass, when, out of nowhere, NAZI showed up and they fended off these dastardly creatures. Now, his head was screaming as the corners of his eyes were fuzzing up the picture, sort of like an old movie flick where the film was old and about to give way. Ah, another day, another disappointment.

Santos: Funny, right? For once, your drunken, terrible hero has had enough of the bottle. No more! It'll no longer have control of me. Today, things change. Today, I've seen the light at the end of the proverbial tunnel. God most certainly thinks I'm able, so I know I can do this. I know I can make this change. I, and only I, hold the power.

Santos smiles.

Santos: Heh, like any of you would ever believe that garbage. I've got a good case of the spins right now, hence my inability to move from this fucking playground, where I frightened children and parents a mere 20 minutes ago as my crutches for legs stabbed the ground with no rhyme or reason. I tried to go down the slide over there, but I couldn't get up the steps. I attempted to slide down the pole behind me, but I simply managed to lose my grip halfway down, landing on the woodchip-covered ground with a loud and unpleasant thud.Then I climbed up this here set of monkey bars, causing a little boy to lose his grasp and hit the ground faster than if Dean Moxley McGovern himself was below.

Even with the world and this fucking camera twirling around me as if I've been dropped on to the world's largest dreidel, I'll probably find myself lying outside a liquor store in the next hour, booze running down my shirt as mildly concerned passersby throw change on me like a hobo. Why?

Because I can't help myself. It's who I am. But hey, I've accepted that. I've accepted that, despite my troubles, I'm a moderately talented wrestler. You'd think it'd be close to impossible for some drunken schmuck to manage to make it to the arena each week, let alone win anything, but I've managed to accomplish that much. But, and stop me if you know how this story goes, you know that won't change how I act, or what I do. I'll continue to do what's in my nature. I'll continue to make all of the fuckers around me who pretend to care disappointed.

It's just who I am.

That's why I admire Luca Arzegotti. He's also not afraid to be himself. He's not afraid to act on his emotions, on impulses, and on desires. He and I are pretty similar, actually. Two young wrestlers with a problem with authority. Two dudes who seem to have a strong distaste for religion, and a disdain for authority. Yet, we've compromised our values when it seems to help us the most. Luca joined up with his sugar daddy, John Madison, to come closer to power. I joined up with Sebastian Duke for those same goals.

Fuck, you know neither he nor I mesh with those power hungry narcissists, but, we compromised our values for greater success.

However, and here's where I have to give Luca all the credit in the world: he did a lot more with his opportunity than I ever could've imagined. He grabbed a 24/7 briefcase, the same briefcase I'm looking to grab on to on the same night that I face him, and he cashed that sucker in against an ill-prepared Sid Feder. Boom, European Champ.

What have I gotten for my troubles with Sebastian Duke? A run with a second rate, hastily thrown together grouping of mismatched shit pieces, and a false allegiance to a man of authority that I was never truly comfortable with. Hm, hence my daddy issues, I guess. But that's not important.

Tony turns his head to his left, hoping to either stop the world from spinning like a top above and below him, or at least make it twirl in a different direction. No luck on the former, but the latter certainly worked.

Santos: And that's what I admire good ol' Luca for more than anything. For however headstrong he is, for however anti-establishment he seems to be, he was able to sell his soul for success. And that was something that I was never truly comfortable doing. He sold himself out to John Madison, knowing full well that that likely meant never reaching the mountaintop. Never becoming King.

But hey, second best ain't something to scoff at! Having knee jerking conversations with your hilarious King while kicking it with a Jew hater and talking about the virtues of Nova's "gay blood" is well worth it! Being the butt of all jokes that folks whisper in the back while they're too afraid to say them to your face, since you and your group are well above the likes of a Peter Gilmour, or a Gunner Layfield, that's fine! Because, hey, fear is the true measure of power. The more people fear you, or in this case, the more people fear you and your leaders, as well as their ability to hide their insecurities behind a wall of snark that I'm all too familiar with, the better off you are.

So Luca's doing pretty fucking well, I must say. Pretty fucking well.

And he'll continue to do just fine without that belt. See, he doesn't need that blasted thing. Hell, John's done one hell of a job in making it clear that his crown, the one that he's defending in a farce of a match with Theo Pryce, is the only "title" around here that matters. Luca's holding on to that belt for the same reason that Nova's holding on the TV Title. To make Johnny look better for having who he has around him, while Shane smiles off to the side.

But, he doesn't need it. Not in the slightest.

Good riddance, I say!

I'll take good care of it, Luca, don't you worry. You just go and make Johnny proud! Remind everyone why you're still around this place. Remind everyone why you truly matter. Reveal your true purpose...

...and show everyone what does in fact happen when you sell your soul for success.

It should be a fantastic fall for you.

The scene fades to black.

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