The scene opens with intensely flashing lights, bass pounding through your speaker. Your blinded by the bright, white light, as this plays in your ears...



It takes a good 20 to 30 seconds before the bright lights start to dissipate. The lights break to the left and right, clearly spotlights rotating in and out. The camera pans through the misty lights, an intense stench of cheap beer and liquor permeating the air. The room is enveloped with purple neon lights. Bottles of untouched Patron shine in the distance, while bottles of Bacardi 151, practically fire in a bottle, sit nearly empty, the light shooting through them like a laser.

Bartenders furiously pour drinks for the busty female servers, who are furiously trying to keep up with the... typically... old patrons who are taking advantage of $1 beer pitcher and 50 cent shot specials. Cheap booze flows from the uncleaned vodka and tequila nozzles, and servers hand them out like candy to desperate men looking for an ounce of attention from women decades younger, slapping their plastic heels together and stripping down to literally nothing, all so these same old men could slip euros into their g-strings, or...

Yeah, let's just say they slip them into their g-strings.

The camera turns from the bar, leaving the sweaty and exhausted bartenders, as well as the overworked and underpaid servers, to hit the dance floor. By Irish standards, this is a bloodbath. The camera catches light shining on the liquor-stained floor, men holding pints of beer that flow from their hands as women gyrate on their groins, and just general debauchery.

And then appears Tony Santos.

Tony Santos is sitting in a plush red corner chair... you know, the wrap-around couches that were born from the 70s? Tony sits deep into the chair, Guinness in his left hand, his body slumped downward, a very pale, very Irish woman... dancing... on top of him. This woman, clearly of Irish decent, grinds on Tony's lap, topless, and barely a bottom on her. Tony sits in the chair, his spine curved inward, a smile overcoming his face. Tony sits in the chair, short black hair, t-shirt, and jeans, wasting his time in a basement strip club in Dublin, before his title defense against Fuzz.

Tony Santos was here:



Angels Lap Dancing, a low-rate strip club in the outskirts of Dublin. A place where women with little self-respect and lower profit margins came to swing on poles for dudes with even less money. Hell, Angels Lap Dancing knew how low rate it was, simply by being hidden beneath a stairwell.

Yup, Angels Lap Dancing was in the basement of a sad Dublin apartment building.

And there was Tony Santos.

Tony sits in the plush chair, taking in the pale, emotionless, Dubliner in front of him. A dollar bill hangs by Tony's index finger, his forlorn eyes staring towards the door, waiting for an escape. The bass pounds in his ears, and in the ears of his dancer. Tony waits for the song to end, his rocks clearly not getting off. His dancer? She just keeps grinding, sweat running down her face. Her long, brown hair splits, her breathing getting stronger, as she grinds Tony like her life depends on it, but both want nothing to do with this situation.

One is in it for profit.

One is it for what he thought was pleasure.

The camera turns to Tony. Tony smiles.



Tony sits in his chair, missing tooth and all, and smiles at the camera in front of him. His body slumps up and down with the gyrations of the dancer on top of him, his Guinness flowing as freely as his choices. The hair over his forehead flails with the care of everyone who made the choice to walk into this strip club.

Tony continues to smile. Tony's body bounces to the beat of the song and his dancer, as he speaks.

Santos: Fuzz, it's great to meet you! A battle of fighters, one a legend of seemingly decades old age, and one a "millennial," as you call me.

The final battle.

The fairy tale ending.

I'm the young buck, and you're the man who's set to conquer the world. You're the hero of this story, taking down a man who's complacent, taking down a man who's clearly not the future of the XWF... because... I'm too young?

Because you hold the keys to the castle that is this company?

The future of the XWF is the Past

There's a campaign slogan for you, bud: The Future of the XWF is the Past.

The Future of the XWF is the Man Who is Afraid of Twitter Follower Counts

The Future of the XWF is the Man Who Shells Out Garbage Metaphors

The Future of the XWF is...

The camera pans back, scanning Tony and the dancer still grinding over Tony. Tony smiles, his greasy hair laid back into the couch, his beer, pouring from his hand. Tony looks at the dancer, then at the camera, then back at the dancer.

Santos: Oh, Fuzz. You and I have a lot in common, don't we? You talk about the Top 50, and you claim I care about being beneath you. You use that ranking as the exact cudgel as I knew you would, because...

...you feel inadequate.

And so do I!

Fuzz, I'm just like you! I should've won the King of the XWF! I should've won the Universal Title! I should've won whatever prehistoric title was around when you existed, if I'd been of legal age to wrestle!

But I'm not you, am I? I'm not a man who has to talk about my "destiny..."

...because I've actually won something.

I'm not a man who has to talk about "participation ribbons..."

...because I've actually won something.

I'm not a man who has to talk about my own change and evolution as a wrestler...

...because I've actually won something.

And I sure as hell don't have to host some lame ass TV show where I get lost in the desert and have a cast of extras watching me cut half-rate promos about my past life as an... "OK," wrestler...

...because I've actually won something.

Tony's head jumps up and down at the cadence of the dancer on his lap, Hart Title over his shoulder. Tony smiles, slipping a ten dollar bill into the dancer's... uniform, and continuing the roller coaster ride. He turns from her back to the camera, and smiles.

Santos: Here's the difference between you and me, Fuzz. You're a con man. A man living off of cliches you know you can't match. A proverbial John Wayne... a tough guy in scene, but who folds to the cancer inside when the cameras aren't rolling.

You're a man of phony charisma. You'll sell me a... beachfront property in Idaho, because that's the limit of where your wit stretches. A man who calls me a...

Tony reaches into his pocket and grabs his phone. He squints at the bright screen in front of him, smirking.

Santos: Who calls me a... thumb print on his phone screen.

This is your legend, XWF. Fuzz. FUZZ! A man whose mind stops at the relic in his pocket and the ego in his brain. A man who thinks being the master of minds turns him into a god.

Fuzz.

That is your legend.

The camera inches closer to Tony, his head bouncing up and down, his dancer gyrating harder and harder.

Santos: See, Fuzz, above all else, you lack the self-awareness necessary to make you successful. You came back to the XWF in March as a self-proclaimed legend. You came back into this business as a serious performer. But, you take yourself so god damn seriously, you spew so many fucking cliches, and you worry about your own status atop the history of a company that you insult at the same time, that you don't have a clue who you are.

You shit on a title that you seem so desperate to carry.

You shit on a wrestler that you seem so desperate to beat.

But why? Who are you? Why did you return?

To win some quick cash?

To rise up the rankings?

To prove to yourself that you're worth more than your gap in employment showed?

Tony smiles, sweat dripping down his face. He hands the dancer a couple 20 euro bills and stands up, walking towards the exit.

Santos: Fuzz, you and I were once a fairy tale. The cream of the crop! The best in the business! And what changed?

Well, my liver decided to crawl up into the fetal position, and my body called it quits throughout my late 20s.

But... I'm just an entitled millennial. A creature of our PC culture, right? What changed for you, you prehistoric creature? Speak! Don't worry, I won't be offended if your jaw creaks... just... let it out!

Tony stands in the middle of the strip club, the purple mist covering his face, his hair waving to the side. He smiles.

Santos: You just realized you're an old man chasing past glory and status. You don't even want the belt presented in front of you... you actively insult it, and me. You just want to feel valued again... important.

Well don't worry, Fuzz. This young alcoholic will show you the respect you so desire. I'll show you the love you need from the audience you perform for, the people you employ, and the conscience you can't impress. I'll show you the love each and every woman in this dank strip club feels every time some asshole like me pushes a few euro into their hips...

...no more...

...no less.

Fuzz, I'll show the little love you deserve, and the fucking hate you need. You once were a fairy tale, but now I can't wait to drop you into reality.

The Future of the XWF is the Past

The scene fades into black.

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