Tony, tell me... why are you here?

The scene opens on a peculiarly gloomy summer day in Boston, Massachusetts. We find ourselves in downtown Boston, near Fenway Park, back at the addiction specialist treating Tony for his rampant, but now at least partially self-aware, alcoholism. Dr. Melissa Oliveira, as mentioned previously, was about the only person with an ethnic-sounding name in this entire city. Tony Santos, albeit with a Hispanic name, was about as white as they came, only managing to come into the Santos name due to his grandfather changing a decidedly more Irish name upon realizing how out of vogue it was to be Irish in the entire United States, especially when said grandfather was living in the middle of the country. See, being a "Santos" relegated you to the bottom of the societal totem pole, sure, but at least it didn't get you killed, and that...

...was how a white boy from Boston, born to a father who moved to the Northeast when he realized how god awful the middle of nowhere Oklahoma was, became a Santos.

Anyways, Dr. Melissa Oliveira. Outside of being one of five Hispanics in the entire city of Boston who wasn't playing for the Boston Red Sox, Dr. Oliveira is a gorgeous young doctor, having turned down a far more lucrative career in tax law to serve people in need. Before attending Boston University in a doctoral program, Melissa spent her early years studying pre-law at Cornell, followed by the law track at... Harvard.

Yup... Harvard.

Upon graduation, Melissa nabbed a clerk position for Supreme Court Justice Ruth Bader Ginsburg, one of the hardest jobs in the entire country, let alone her field, to take on. See, Melissa took this clerk position to set herself up to take on the vital cases of our time: She was on a mission to use her intellect and brilliant mind to take down corruption and fight for the common man and woman.

Then reality hit.

After undergrad and law school, Melissa found herself in $200,000 in debt. Her family was poor, so she had to take out loan after loan to cover her immense fees. That led her to working for a tax law firm in downtown Boston, decoding the Internal Revenue Code for businesses that, sure, provided valuable services to their customers, but these businesses used Melissa to evade taxes...

...ahem, to uncover tax savings...

...and that was it. Melissa was hired as a sort of cheat code for the IRS! A way businesses large and small could save money by not paying into the system. The system that, sure, had its flaws, but a system that was out to at least try to make the lives of its constituents better and more equitable. It went against everything Melissa stood for to deprive future generations of similarly poor Hispanics and other minorities of the opportunity and benefits that Melissa so desperately desired, and had to overcome. Melissa wanted to make lives better, not use her newfound privilege to make lives WORSE!

And that led her to where she is today. In a dark room, huddling over a notepad, asking a far too young alcoholic about his problems. A privileged kid who'd certainly not been given everything in life, but who had a leg up simply by the color of his skin, and the natural charisma he was born with. Melissa Oliveira, a woman of immense mental ability, who'd overcome every challenge thrown in front of her, and who had still turned down a lucrative path to a debt-free existence, to instead help those less fortunate and practically guarantee a life filled with student loan debt until the day she died, affecting her future husband and children...

...had to put up with Tony Santos, all without slapping him back to reality.



Tony Santos. That's him pictured shortly after his title defense against Azrael Erebus, partying in Fiji with a bunch of Fijians who were either super fans who were looking for any way to rob him of his match winnings, or people who had no clue who he was, but knew he had money simply by the fact that he was a pale white man running shirtless through a bar in Fiji.

Tony Santos.

Dr. Oliveira: Tony? Can you answer me?

Tony is awoken from his daze. He's sitting in his chair across from Dr. Oliveira. The chair is reversed, his arms dangling over the back of the chair and his torso leaning into the vertical wooden bars. Tony is in a backwards, adjustable baseball cap... you know, one of those caps that clicks when you adjust the size to match your enormous, or tiny, head. Tony dons a black, zip-up hoodie, a random pair of torn up jeans, and his usual black Chucks.

Tony's forehead shines in the fluorescent light above from the all-too-common layer of sweat caking his forehead. Tony wasn't particularly known to be a sweater, well, at least until a few years ago. Alcoholism is a weird thing. In its infancy, especially when you're younger, the body can handle the excess booze, controlling its temperature throughout a day's binge, and repairing itself remarkably quickly after an intense night out.

However, give it a decade, and your body starts to lose a TEENY bit of its resilience. It overheats easily, and recovers much more slowly, resulting in constant bouts of hyperhidrosis. Not only that, but sweating, especially sweating in public, tends to make you self-conscious about said sweating, resulting in more sweating, and on and on.

Basically, Tony's body was starting to tell him that it was breaking down, and this was the hint to get his shit together.

Dr. Oliveira: Tony? You've been sitting there silent, staring at nothing. What's going on?

Tony takes a deep breath, exhaling with enough force to take down the rugged wall in front of him.

Santos: Doc, I came here, not because I want to, but because I have to. Do you know the feeling?

Dr. Oliveira nods her head.

Santos: I was shipped out here, against my will, because I was told to to maintain my standard of living. To keep a roof over my head. To hold on to one of the few things that gives me purpose. And what's the fucking fun in that?

Dr. Oliveira drops her head, taking notes in her notepad, simply nodding as Tony continues talking. Her short, brown hair envelopes her neck, a thick strand falling over her left eye.

Santos: I get it, you know. People come here for... support, I guess. To pass off all the stupid shit they've done and project it on to you. Why? Because you're fucking paid to handle it, that's why. You'll listen, you'll ask questions, and you'll flatter me with a bit of praise about how fucking successful I am, or how god damn funny I can be, just to get in my good graces, to win me over so I come back and pay you next week. But let's be real, you're just as interested in this... arrangement, as I am... as any of your customers are.

Or do you call them patients? Is that the right term for the shit you sell?

You provide support, but you provide something more important: A method, or let's be real... a product, that keeps me coming back. Gets me addicted to your bullshit over the bullshit I'm addicted to... and at a bargain rate of 20x the price! You addict me to allusions of normalcy. You addict me to a state of mind... a feeling.

But doc, just like any good dealer, you don't want me to truly get better, because that would cut into sales. No no, you want me to feel just OK enough that I pass everything I have on to you, but not quite OK enough that I move on altogether.

Dr. Oliveira: Tony, I...

Santos: Now just hold the fuck up, I'm not quite finished. We're on my time right now, right?

Dr. Oliveira looks at the hourglass on the desk in front of Tony...



...then nods.

Santos: Then, as I was saying, you're just as bad as everyone else. Just as bad as the corner store clerk who accepts my money the 4th time I've come into his store in one day, having upgraded from beer, to wine, to vodka, then to fucking Everclear so I knock myself out. You're just as bad as waiter who serves me my seventh god damn vodka soda when I'm at a table by myself with a pile of fucking bread in front of me. And you're just as bad as the bartender who doesn't know when to...

Dr. Oliveira: Tony...

Santos: You're just as bad as them all... you just think you're something special. You think you're doing good work. You think...

Tony stops, then squints at the wall in front of him. He sees a degree, framed and hanging on the wall over an antique cash register and a few empty bottles of soda. Tony scans the text from afar, at first confused, but then with a smile.

Santos: Ah, a lawyer too, eh? How much did that piece of paper cost you?

Dr. Oliveira sits still, not responding.

Santos: And is that... yes! Tax law! Wow! Good for you, doc! But...

...oh know, doc. What did you do? Did you accidentally tell Apple they had to pay $10 in taxes and they got you disbarred? Did the thrill of combing through subsection upon subsection of deductions and write-offs not get you off like telling a crusty alcoholic that he needs to better himself?

Or... ah, it has to be this.

You love pitying sad souls like me. You love feeling superior to an asshole like the one in front of you right now. You take my money, I buy your bullshit, and you get to go home and get a nice, natural high on the good that you did, and just soak in your self-righteousness.

Nice, doc. I get it, I really do!

Dr. Oliveira continues to write in her notepad, still silent. Tony's smile turns into outright giddiness. This felt like old Tony. Instead of self-pity, he was bringing back the old Tony. One who could insult his way past his insecurities, basking in the hurt he was causing to the innocent human unfortunate enough to have to converse with him. This was bringing life back into Tony's less excitable soul.

Santos: We're not that different, doc, we've just chosen different professions. See... you know my work, right? I hurl insults at amateurs with names straight out of knock-off G.I. Joe fantasy novels like Bearded War Pig, or others who spend more time on a shitty pun name for a TV show and go by a name reminiscent of the glory days of puberty in... Fuzz?... and I also hurt those very same people to maintain the vanity symbol you see over my shoulder right now. I chase quick, fleeting highs like a title win, while running away from crushing depression and feelings of inadequacy like a title loss.

You?

You chase quick highs by hurting your "patients," propping yourself up and moving another step up the ladder of your career. Similarly, you're constantly avoiding the crushing defeat that comes with a patient falling off the wagon. Not because you care for that patient's well-being, but because you care about your bottom line... and your status.

Tony drops backwards, almost forgetting there is no back of the chair to catch him, and he lets out a much more calm exhale. He takes off his hat and brushes his semi-long hair behind him. Tony's shoulders drop, his muscles relax.

Santos: You know, maybe this was what I needed, doc. Maybe self-interest isn't all bad, if we're helping each other reach our own selfish goals along the way.

I feel better, I really do! And it's all because we went along this little journey together. We lifted each other up, and...

Dr. Oliveira lifts a finger in front of Tony. She flings her hair back, a frown overcoming her vibrant, usually positive face. She leans forward, staring Tony straight in the eyes.

Dr. Oliveira: ...And what? We'll bring each other down? You don't get it, do you? You're bringing yourself down right as we speak, you just think everything in front of you is lifting you up. You're in the same vicious cycle you've always been in, and while it feels so good right now, it's gonna hurt like all fucking hell when you inevitably come tumbling down.

Tony's giddy smirk immediately turns into a stone cold stare. His muscles tense up, his shoulders heighten.

Santos: It's gonna hurt like all fucking hell.

Just then, Dr. Oliveira's look of pure anger turns into confusion. She leans forward further, waving a hand in front of Tony's face, but to no response. She slaps the desk in front of him a few times... also to no response. The hourglass?



It stands still, as if time was immaterial and irrelevant.

Dr. Oliveira: Tony? Tony. Tell me, why are you here?

Tony comes to, and he's not in Boston. It's not a gloomy day in Massachusetts... it's a perfect, clear sunny summer day with only a hint of humidity.

He finds himself in this Irish pub:



Tony, tell me, seriously... why are you here?... if you're not gonna fucking finish your beer.

Tony comes to, the hourglass shifts into a half-finished Guinness. The desk in front of him, a bar. His stool rocks back and forth due to a janky leg. Laughter fills the room around Tony on a slightly less rowdy Tuesday night in Dublin, Ireland, someone's violin furiously playing in Tony's ear.

Tony spent the past ten minutes rambling... inside his head. Completely still, but just as sweaty.

The bartendar asks Tony once more:

Bartender: Are ya' gonna finish yer beer, 'lad, or do we have to kick you to the curb?

Tony shakes out the cobwebs, reaches for his Guinness, and pounds the remaining liquid down his throat, without even hesitating or the slightest look of discomfort. Tony slams the glass on the table.

Santos: Hit me with another.

The scene fades to black.

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