The scene opens on Prospect Street in Boston, Massachusetts. It's 7:00 in the morning in the Financial District. The birds are waking up as the gray clouds overhead signal impending rainfall. The newly repaved street and sidewalks are mostly empty. Some bits and pieces of trash glide down the street as the breeze carries them. An older, white gentleman in a blue windbreaker and scally cap can be seen, hands in his pockets and newspaper perched in his armpit, making his way to the local coffee shop. A young lady across the street fumbles around in red high heels and skimpy cocktail dress, clearly from the night before, as she attempts to make her way back to her apartment after what was likely an "interesting" night before.

The wind whistles through the small, evenly planted trees. Just then, an empty liquor bottle slides out of an alleyway, and a foot appears next to it. The camera rolls over to the scene, and sure enough, the foot belongs to Tony Santos. Mind you, the foot does not have a shoe on it. Nope, it's Tony's bare foot. As the camera turns the corner of the brown, granite building, Tony can be seen laying on his back, his head resting on the bony stomach of a less than appealing woman with a few chiclets resembling teeth in her mouth. Strewn around their bodies are cans of Michelob Ultra and Natural Light, as well as a few empty 40s of Hurricane Malt Liquor. This was the typical alcoholic fare... for either a college kid or someone with little to no money. Thankfully, Tony pretty much met the first bit of criteria mentally, while, well, the second bit was covered by both of them.

Daylight awakens Tony. Tony's face curls in to a ball as he lets out a slight grunt. He then proceeds to stretch himself out, with his stomach poking upwards as his neck cranes backwards, the top of his head grinding in to the woman's stomach. Tony stretches his long, pale, and dirty arms upwards, as his bare toes curl and then extend out in to the sidewalk. Tony rolls over to his right and off of the woman. He places his left hand on the concrete, then slowly pushes himself upwards. He manages to plant himself on his butt, bringing his legs in so that he's sitting Indian style. Tony scratches his head, then looks at his surroundings like a newborn baby getting used to the hot, fluorescent lights enveloping him.

Santos: Fuck. Where the hell am I? Why am I outside and why is it so fucking bright out??

It wasn't that bright out.

Santos: Where the hell did I even go last night? I thought I stayed in my apartment... nope, that's right, I left to get some cigarettes. How many cigarettes did I buy? Shit, I had like $40 on me yesterday. If I bought four packs, I'm out most of my...

Tony looks down and sees an empty pack of Marlboro Black 100s. He fishes through his pocket and finds one other pack. Opening up the pack from his pocket, he notices that he has four remaining.

Santos: Four fucking cigarettes?! God damn it. Now I'm gonna be out another 20 bucks. Do I even HAVE 20 bucks?

Tony pulls his wallet from his back pocket. He fumbles through the opening. He sees three one dollar bills.

Santos: Shit! The XWF hasn't even given me my first full paycheck yet! God damn it. God damn it!!!

Tony slams his wallet on the ground. Then he sees his companion. His eyes open wide with horror as he sees the woman who is passed out drunk next to him. He scans her head...

Santos: Oh god. That hair. That charred, stringy hair. Uh, those lips. Are those mouth sores? Oh god, those are definitely mouth sores. Those bags under her eyes... like she stuffed baggies of cocaine inside her eye socket.

Tony's eyes make their way down her body, passing her pencil thin neck. He observes her upper body. She's wearing a black hoodie with a white t-shirt underneath. Her hands sit calmly in the pockets of her hoodie, which would make her look as if she was simply relaxing and in no way under the influence of multiple types of alcohol and drugs... if it weren't for her putrid face and slovenly facial expression.

Tony scans further down her body...

Santos: Oh fucking shit, why the hell is she not wearing pants?! Why AM I not wearing pants?! Did I...? No, I couldn't have... fuck! Fuck! Fuuuuck!

Tony looks to his left, then his right. He notices his jeans hanging over a trash can and tries to stand up, but immediately falls back down. Tony feels like a human dreidel as the City of Boston spins around him, the numerous financial institutions turning in to a blur of colors as they dance around Tony's head.

Tony finally gets to his feet. He stumbles sideways, with every step being more difficult than the last. Finally reaching the trash can, Tony props a hand against the brick wall of the adjacent building while grabbing his pants with his other. He quickly slides his light blue jeans up both legs, buttons the top and zips the fly. He takes one last look at the pantsless wonder laying drunk against the granite building and shivers.

Santos: I'm not sure whether I should be more offended in my taste in women or alcohol last night...

Tony stumbles down the sidewalk. A cab honks at him as it drives by, clearly trying to get Tony's attention. A man stumbling down the street clearly needed a lift. Sure, a Boston cab driver likely wouldn't be looking to pick up an obviously homeless man, but Tony had a decent enough appearance (blue jeans and a black rain jacket that looked fairly new) that the general public was willing to at least pay attention to him, as long as he was amenable to paying them for the pleasure.

He turned the cab down, and a local coffee shop was about to get that same opportunity.

*Tling*

The door to the Flat Black Coffee Company on Broad Street in the Financial District opens up, and in walks Tony Santos. He immediately plops down on a wooden chair near the door. He lets his eyes explore the interior of this shop, admiring the wooden panel walls, the black chalkboard with a handwritten menu, and the interesting choice of lighting fixtures across the restaurant. However, Tony's admiration for this place is only momentary. He crosses his arms, stretches them toward the other end of the table, and places his head in his right elbow.

He's knocked out for what feels like days, but are only a few minutes...

Barista: Sir? Sir. Sir, please wake up.

A male barista of approximately 28 years of age gently taps Tony's table, hoping to wake him up without actually touching him. After a few more taps and louder prompts, Tony's body jolts sideways, his head poking upwards.

Barista: Sir, you can't sleep here. If you're tired, we can certainly get you something to drink, though.

Santos: Erm, yeah, sure. What you got?

The barista points to the menu without saying a word.

Santos: I can't see that shit. Just tell me what you fucking have.

Barista: Sir, we don't allow that sort of language here. If you'd like to leave, we can certainly arrange...

Tony smiles at the man in front of him.

Santos: Oh, cut the bullshit and quit acting all fucking above me. Don't play the self-righteous douchebag like you yourself don't start swearing like a classless fuck once you walk out that fucking door. You're no different than me, you're just playing the part for some corporate suits so you can have the pleasure of pouring cups of hot, prettied-up caffeine for a bunch of hipsters and financial types, the latter of whom make considerably more than your less than "living wage..." what should we call it? Salary? No, that'd imply some sort of job security or dignity attached to what you do for a living. Nah, let's call it an allowance, since you're a fucking child who never stopped playing tea party.

The barista stands upright and crosses his hands.

Barista: Sir, I'm gonna have to ask you to...

Santos: GET ME A FUCKING COFFEE!

Barista: Sir...

Santos: Did I fucking stutter? Get me a god damn coffee! I'm not leaving until I get a coffee or you have the gall to get the cops here. I know you don't have the least bit of spine to attempt the latter, so why don't we just do the right thing and get me something that will wake me the fuck up? Sound good? Once you do that, I just sit here and mind my own fucking business. I'll sit here, right next to the entrance, and not bother any of your fine customers. Sound good?

Barista: That will not...

Before the barista can finish his sentence (and before Tony can once again start berating the man), a female barista behind the counter cuts the man off.

Female Barista: Lucas, it's fine. I'll grab him a coffee. Just come back here.

Tony leans back and smiles at the man.

Lucas: But, Mary...

Santos: You heard the woman. We're good here, Lucas. Just fucking fine.

Mary, make sure it's under three fucking dollars. I literally only have three dollars.

Lucas makes his way back to the area behind the counter, apologizing to his customers for what they just witnessed, his manhood subsequently running out the door.

Mary, a woman in her mid-to-late 40s, pours some black coffee in to a coffee cup and walks it over to Tony. Wearing her black Flat Black Coffee Shop polo shirt, which sits tucked in to her blue jeans, she quickly makes her way to Tony's table. She's an attractive woman, with wavy dirty blonde hair, modest breasts and a stomach that shows that she's borne at least one child. As she approaches Tony, she does so with no look of hesitance or discomfort on her face, but rather, maintains a warm smile.

Mary: Here you go, darling. It's black, so if you need creamer or sugar, you can find both to your left.

Tony smiles as he unzips his rain jacket. Underneath his rain jacket is a modest, blue button-down shirt with black outlines on the collar and cuffs.

Santos: Thanks. I'm surprised you folks didn't just kick me the fuck out. I'm not exactly the most pleasant son of a bitch you'll meet.

Mary: It pays to be nice, hun. You should take note... and not swear so freaking much. It really takes away from your cute little baby face, you know.

Tony smiles as he grabs some Splenda, then proceeds to pour three packets in to his cup. He stirs the cup with his spoon, and does so for an inappropriately long amount of time. Letting his head rest on his left wrist, he just continues to stir, staring straight in to his coffee. Maybe it simply helps to have something else spinning the same way that your head is.

Mary notices this as she starts to walk away. She makes it halfway to the counter, then leans her hand on the clear glass containing the different bits of pastry that Flat Black sells to its patrons. She looks straight ahead, then at the clock above. She turns back to Tony, then looks back at the clock. After about 30 seconds of indecision, Mary makes up her mind and walks back over to Tony. She makes her way back to Tony's table, pulls up a chair across from him, and sits down. She reaches in to her pocket, pulls out a card, and slides it across the table.

Santos: What the hell is this?

Mary: I see it in your eyes. You're fidgety, restless, and incredibly irritable. You came in here stumbling from side to side, and you reek of alcohol. Darling, you have a drinking problem. I can see it, I'm sure everyone in here can see it, and you most definitely see... and feel... it. Take this, and meet me at the next meeting. It's on Tuesdays.

Santos: I have a wrestling match tomorrow night in Houston. I can't make...

Mary: Then a week from Tuesday. Just come to one. It's over in Dorchester. You'll be pleasantly surprised with how beneficial it is.

Tony looks at Mary, then at the card. He drops his spoon on the table with conviction.

Santos: I'm not going to no fucking AA meeting!

Mary puts her finger up to Tony's lips.

Mary: Hush and drink your coffee. You need to clear your mind. Hopefully we'll be talking soon, dear. My name is Mary by the way, and you are?

Santos: I'm some guy who's not going to a fucking Alcoholics Anon...

Mary once again cuts him off.

Mary: I asked for your name.

Tony frowns. He picks up his cup of coffee, takes a snip, and cringes as he burns the roof of his mouth. He places the cup down and pushes it away. He grabs his jacket, flings it over his shoulder, and stands up.

Santos: Tony. Tony fucking Santos. And I'm not going to any dumb shit that someone I've met five minutes ago suggests!

Tony slaps the card down on the table, rotates around the table, and heads for the door. As he's about to leave, Mary grabs his butt. Tony jolts backwards for just long enough that Mary can slip the card back in to his back pocket. The door flings open, the bell rings, and Tony stomps out.

Mary: See you soon!

The scene fades to black.

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