Trevor Walters: So, how do we market Tony Santos?

Boston, Massachusetts is the scene. Specifically, we're outside of Faneuil Hall Marketplace, a famous, historic landmark in the heart of Boston. It's a cold, winter day in this Northeastern paradise. A few inches of snow covers the ground, portions of benches, and the statues of famous Bostonians encircling it. A bitter chill darts through the air, piercing the skill and ear drums of anyone willing to charge at the January daggers.

Small children and their parents, along with tourists and college students, stroll through this tradition-seeped spot, taking pictures and gawking at the scene enveloping them.

A young Asian woman and her Caucasian boyfriend, both in their early 20s, slowly peruse the area while holding hands. Both approximately 20 years of age and students at Boston University, they're your typical college lovebirds just enjoying their lovers' bliss in a city full of picturesque neighborhoods and romantic getaway spots. Making their way toward Faneuil Hall, the woman comes across Tony Santos and Trevor Walters, as Trevor, Tony's newly acquired sports agent, looks to obtain some sense as to what Tony is all about and how he can be effectively marketed and utilized.

Trevor stands in the middle of a circle of four benches, wearing a clean, black pea coat, which covers a pressed white shirt and blue tie. Trevor's hair is gelled down and parted to the left, with not a single hair straying from its planned position. Trevor, a man of cool, coordinated enunciations and body movements, has always known exactly how to give a convincing presentation. Hell, that's why he was able to move up the ranks so quickly and easily in his professional career, making a name for himself as a tax attorney in his 20s to the point where he could legitimately make the IRS shiver in its boots, to his interest in contract law, and thus, sports contract law and negotiation.

However, you can't persuade a brick wall, and he happened to be speaking directly to one on this ice cold day. Slightly beneath him lays Tony Santos, resting on an icy bench. He'd heard Trevor's spiel over the past ten minutes, at least partially, and he preferred to spend said ten minutes staring listlessly at the cloudy sky, sliding his index finger between the gap in his teeth that formerly held his middle left tooth. Then he heard that question...

How do we market Tony Santos?

Santos: Market me, eh? Oh, I don't know. Just plant me in front of a liquor store or two... or three, or four, or five, or ten, or twenty, or thirty, or fifty, or for fuck's sake, as many as you can get me to in any given day, and toss some Tony Santos merchandise on me. Hell, let's create a fucking bottle of rubbing alcohol-flavored vodka and market it to college kids and Sewaside fans. Lord knows that anyone who can follow a Sewaside rant has burned off enough brain cells with shots of gasoline anyway.

Trevor Walters: Tony, that's clearly not...

Santos: Or... OR we could get some authentic looking Tony Santos clothing in stores. I'm not selective either, Trevor my man, no no, I'll allow this shit to be sold to and and all takers. Macy's, Sears, Bob's, JCPenney, Abercrombie and Fitch, Aeropostale, PacSun, and wherever else moms with children that they need to keep quiet and rad teenagers hang out at!

And you know what will separate my clothing from any other Joe Schmo Dick and Barry's clothing? Hm, do ya?

Trevor Walters: Tony, wh...

Santos: Vomit! I will personally vomit on every single piece of clothing that goes out in to stores. Or, once we hit it big and the volume is too much for even my booze-fueled puke to keep up with, I'll just start vomiting in to a fucking cauldron, we'll water it down a bit, and then throw some other sorts of puke in there and pretend like it's the real deal!

Baby puke.

Hobo puke.

Panhandler puke.

Cat puke.

It's all eligible! Trevor, I'm glad you're on board to hear my ideas. I'm usually only able to rant and rave about my goals and aspirations to bartenders and strippers, but you, you are different. You're a professional listener. A man with a fucking shirt and tie. That just screams "serious business" to me, tonto. And I'm honored to have such a professional, well compensated ear only partially filled with wax and human waste to listen to me provide my thoughts and spew my version of wisdom.

Tony smiles as he continues staring at the clouds above. Unbeknownst to him, the young couple of 20-something BU students had stopped what they were doing to hear someone whom they figured was a homeless man with an unfortunate case worker/good Samaritan by his side.

Noticing that the rambling had ceased as Tony became entranced with the sky above (while Trevor simply took a moment to consider what he'd gotten himself in to), the couple began to mosey on over to the Black Rose, a restaurant/live music venue down the road from Faneuil Hall, leaving the seemingly mentally ill man to play with pigeons or something. As they walked away, the young woman muttered to her boyfriend...

And that is why you don't do meth, hun. Haha.

Tony's boyish smile instantly turned to a frown. Turning his head to the chair back, he notices through the black, metal bars that the couple smiled at one another and continued on their way.

Santos: Meth?! METH??!?!

Tony lifts himself from his street futon, leaps to his feet (still on top of said bench), and hops over it and in the direction of the couple. Making a beeline for these suddenly aware college couple, Tony lets his jaw drop and his tongue wag, looking like a man-dog with rabies. With Tony seemingly foaming at the mouth, the man and his girlfriend's heads roll in fear. Sprinting toward the street in hopes of oncoming traffic to either hit Tony, alert other human beings, or rid them of their misery, they quickly realize that this particular homeless man happens to be a bit fast for an awkward, slightly tall man with a busted liver.

Tony quickly catches up to both of them. He extends his cracked hands toward each of their collars (the man on the left and the woman on the right) and grabs hold of them, then proceeding to drop them to the cobblestone.

The man slams the back of his head against the ground and is immediately out cold. The woman, well, the woman must as well be a rat in a cage with a python. She was scared stiff and likely releasing some sort of waste within her jeans. Her hands covering her face like a styrofoam wall against a wrecking ball, the woman lets out a squeak. Tony unloads a verbal barrage of terrible.

Santos: Meth?!?! How dare you insult me like that! Do I look like fucking Walter White to you?! Jessie Pinkman?! One of those people from the Montana Meth campaign?!?

Ma'am, I am a drunk. To be called anything other than that is demeaning and downright disrespectful. Do you know that I could easily cripple your man toy here with as little as a breath over his frail, Michael Cera body? Do you realize that I could just as easily end your life and destroy, well, a day of your loved ones' time by throwing you in to traffic... right now?!?

Tony looks at the frightened meth accuser's facial expression. Tony briefly looks confused by her lack of reaction, looks left, then right, then back at her, calmly stating...

Santos: I said a day to emphasize the point that your life has little worth attached to it, just to be clear. It was a bit of, um, exaggeration.

I kn...

Santos: Shut your noodle sucking mouth when I'm talking to you!!

And I said that to point out that you're both Asian and that your boyfriend likely has a small penis... Just to clarify, you know.

But, shut up! I'm going to let you go without sticking my fingers in your nostrils and ripping your nose to pieces! You should be honored by my discretion! Are you honored?!

The woman peers through a gap between her left index and middle fingers.

Ye...

Santos: I said shut the fuck up!!! Now go give your brother CPR, or whatever you do to people that hit their head.

Tony releases the woman from his grasp, then turns and makes his way back to his bench. Mumbling obscenities as he makes his way over, Trevor cracks a smile. Trevor didn't care for the harm that Tony had caused to the young, bright man laying on the walkway just mere yards away from him. Oh no, he's a sports agent after all, and a born lawyer. He saw money signs, and he knew just how to capitalize on it.

Tony plops down on the bench, mumbles a few more choice words, then looks at Trevor. His lips curl upward as he looks at Trevor's shit eating grin.

Santos: What the fuck's up with you?

Trevor Walters: I've found how we sell you to the public, Tony my boy.

Trevor takes his two hands, touches his index fingers and thumbs to form a box, and then separates them widely, as if to form a billboard.

Trevor Walters: Anger, Tony. Anger everywhere. We're gonna channel that energy and pissed off attitude in to dollars. Many, many dollars. Time for me to get to work! Whaddya say we grab bite to eat at Union Oyster House, first?

Santos: Seafood is shit. How about I crap in garbage can and you dig in? I'll only charge you $20.

Trevor grins and winks at Tony.

Trevor Walters: Keep it up, my man. Keep it up. Big things to come. Big freaking things.

The scene fades to black.

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