One, two, three, four, five, SIX, seven, eight. One, two, three, four, five, SIX, seven, eight. One, two, three, four, five, SIX, seven, eight. One, two, three, four, five, SIX, seven, eight. One, two, three, four, five, SIX, seven, eight.

Come on, Antonio! Get those buns tight and that spine upright!

One, two, three, four, five, SIX, seven, eight. One, two, three, four, five, SIX, seven, eight. One, two, three, four, five, SIX, seven, eight. One, two, three, four, five, SIX, seven, eight.

Dance! Dance! Dance! You're terrible, Antonio! TERRIBLE!

Tony Santos can be seen sprawled out on the floor, his hair a bloody mess, the skin on his hands practically sawed down to the bone. Tony looks down at the black tile floor and sees his handiwork: a frantically dug crevice with obvious finger indentations.

Tony looks up. The man calling him Antonio is his salsa dancing teacher in South Beach, Miami, Florida. What had started as a run-of-the-mill, $20 salsa dancing class as a gag for a lonely, drunken Tony in a shithole bar in Miami had turned in to a weeklong horror show. Only, it felt like a month, or a year. Tony had failed to properly get the salsa cadence down, and his dear salsa teacher, Carlos, refused to let him leave until he could get it right.

Tony hadn't gotten it right.

Tony was partnered with a lovely Caucasian female by the name of Brianna. She, like Tony, had no clue as to what salsa dancing entailed, so they were perfectly green for one another. A meek, 5'3" woman, Tony towered over her with his 6'2" frame. They had clasped hands: her left and his right, and anchored their opposite hands to each other's waist. That's when the lesson started, and when Tony failed.

One, two, three, four, five, SIX, seven, eight. That's what was playing through Tony's head, nonstop. One, two, three, four, five, SIX, seven, eight. A quick roll through the first five steps, a large enunciation on six, and a slower, more deliberate end with seven and eight. The steps never changed, but Tony never got it right.

Carlos wouldn't quit. The door was locked.

Tony seemingly got increasingly more inebriated without taking another sip of alcohol, which made the task impossible. He practically broke all of Brianna's toes with the endless amount of missteps. He continuously dropped his weight on to her right shoulder as he lost control of any sort of balance.

Three hours later.

No progress made. Carlos barks out orders...

Carlos: One, two, three, four, five, SIX, seven, eight. Antonio! One, two, three, four, five, SIX, seven, eight. Antonio! One, two, three, four, five, SIX, seven, eight. Antonio! One, two, three, four, five, SIX, seven, eight. Dance, my child! One, two, three, four, five, SIX, seven, eight. My puppet! One, two, three, four, five, SIX, seven, eight. One, two, three, four, five, SIX, seven, eight. Dance!

Yes, those were his orders. A fucking cadence call along with the name Antonio sprinkled in between.

Three days later.

The room is spinning. Tony's ass is practically cemented to the floor, his legs having long given in under the intense pressure of the dance. Brianna is still standing, her hands in position as if she were dancing with an invisible man, smiling, as she continues the salsa dance that she has mastered. Oh, that smile. A smile someone on LSD couldn't muster up. A smile that frightened Tony of all people.

Tony claws at the tile floor. He looks for a crack. Some way to excavate the foundation and make his way out of here. Anywhere. If he'd soon find himself in an underground cave of gremlins, he'd welcome them with open arms as they tear apart his internal organs.

Three more days later.

Tony'd gone mad by this point. Carlos was still choreographing. Brianna was still dancing by herself. And Tony was wasting plenty of fine, O positive blood that could have been collected by the Red Cross. Tony resorted to banging his head against the floor repeatedly. Hopefully he'd knock himself out and either wake up in an Emergency Room, or he'd just die. Tony managed to knock himself out.

Today.

Tony woke up, alright. He woke up to this...

Carlos: One, two, three, four, five, SIX, seven, eight. One, two, three, four, five, SIX, seven, eight. One, two, three, four, five, SIX, seven, eight. One, two, three, four, five, SIX, seven, eight. One, two, three, four, five, SIX, seven, eight.

Tony lost it.

Santos: You stupid, Latin motherfucker! You've been salsa dancing for a WEEK! A fucking WEEK! I've been sitting in this shithole for a good six days since I stopped fucking dancing! Now stop chanting that mindless fucking drivel before I go all Bostonian on you, you god damn prick!

Carlos stops. Brianna disappears in thin air. Carlos releases his grasp of his partner and turns to Tony. A look of disappointment and shame on his face, Carlos seems like he's actually failed one of his students. From looking at his reaction to all of this, it's clear that this isn't something Carlos is used to, nor accepts.

Tony stands up. He brushes himself off, smearing the blood from his fingers on to his clothing. He brushes his hair with his fingers, untangling his blood encrusted locks. He stands with a slight slouch, facing Carlos, panting. Tony awaits a move from Carlos before reacting. Carlos smiles. He slowly walks toward Tony and stretches his hands outward, going for a hug. Tony manages to crack a smile as he goes for an embrace with Carlos. Just then, Carlos grabs Tony's hands. He slaps Tony's left hand on to his waist and his right in his left. He straightens himself, and begins to move Tony to the music that's still playing overhead.

Carlos: Here we go! One, two, three, four, five, SIX, seven, eight. One, two, three, four, five, SIX, seven, eight. One, two, three, four, five, SIX, seven, eight. One, two, three, four, five, SIX, seven, eight. One, two, three, four, five, SIX, seven, eight.

Tony's eyes widen as his cheeks turn red.

Santos: You piece of fucking garbage! I won't! I won't do this! I'm going to end you!

Bedtime's over.

Big Lou: Tony! Hey, Sully. Get up!

Big Lou, Tony's trusty bartender and "friend" in Brighton, Massachusetts, nudges Tony on the shoulder. Tony doesn't respond, so he tries poking and prodding at him, hitting his ribs and neck. No response.

Lou, noticing that Tony was in a state of inebriation and/or exhaustion that was unheard of for even a daily drunk, took the next logical step: he sprayed Tony with a fire extinguisher.

Tony immediately awoke, the right side of his head covered in that lovely white foam, which would no longer serve a meaningful purpose in this bar, considering it was being used to kick out an idiot rather than, you know, extinguishing a fire. Tony lifts his head as he gasps for air. He looks to his left, then realizes that he can't look to his right, so he clears his right eye of the foam that was encasing it. He blows out of his mouth, launching the foam from his lips and on to a nearby Goose Island tap.

Santos: What the...

Big Lou: Tony, get the hell out of my bar. You've been sleeping here for a freaking week. Did you know that? A whole week and you didn't wake up once. I had to actually prove to patrons that you weren't dead. We checked your pulse. We watched your stomach move to ensure you were breathing. A pastor came in and was ready to read you your Last Rites!

Tony, discombobulated from his current circumstances, looks at Big Lou with the gaze of a mentally disabled child without any real understanding of what was being communicated to him.

Santos: What time is it?

Big Lou: It's 11 in the morning and I'm just opening up.

Tony, his mouth agape, rests his head on his hands. He turns to his right and observes the taps lined up and ready to pour. He looks back at Lou, then at the taps again.

Santos: Can I... can I just get a Harpoon? It's been like a week.

Lou's mouth stiffens as he focuses on Tony. He turns to his right, walks to the end of the bar, and turns the corner. Now behind Tony, Lou yanks him off of his stool and drags him to the door. Tony puts up no fight as his limp body is dragged ike a rag doll toward the cold, snowy outdoors. Lou kicks the door open with his left foot, drags Tony a bit further, and tosses him in to a snowbank resting against a tree.

Big Lou: Get the fuck out of my bar!

A few minutes pass. Tony lays against the snow, still too tired to move. Passersby rubberneck at the disaster on their sidewalk as they pass by, but say no words. Just then, a Guinness truck roars down the road, making its way to The Last Drop, a bar only a block away from Castlebar, to fill it up with a sweet stock of deliciousness. The truck makes its way down the line at quite the clip and hits a gaping pothole in the road, causing one of its side doors to pop open, a 12-pack dropping to the street.

Tony, hearing the commotion, twirls his head to his right and notices said 12-pack. He manages to lift himself up by the palms of his hands and catch his balance. Stumbling toward the road (a completely sober stumble, I might add), he reaches the case of Guinness. Tony looks down at it, his shoulders slumped, his back arched, a dopey expression on his face. He reaches for the case, inspects its contents, and notices only two broken bottles. He caresses the case in his hands, pulls out an intact bottle, and pops the top with the bottle opener on his belt. Tony takes a sip, smiles, and casually strolls down the middle of the street, halting cars in the process while his case spills excess beer from said broken bottles. An internal soundtrack plays in Tony's mind as he walks down the road with his own bit of swagger.

Santos: I'm back, motherfuckers.



The scene fades to black.

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