We open in the Castro in San Francisco. It's the epitome of everything the Bay Area stands for: vibrant, eclectic, and very, very... colorful. The camera pans Market Street, the thoroughway of the city, stretching from the water by the Embarcadero, through the needle-lined Tenderloin, to where we sit at this very moment. And like San Francisco, Market Street is a mish mash of waterfront prosperity, to dilapidation in the Tenderloin, to gay goodness in the Castro. Gay bars thrive, and crosswalks are painted rainbow colors. This is the soul of San Francisco, so there's no better place to begin our journey.

The camera traces a crosswalk, hovering over red, then orange, yellow... you get it. Within the cracks in the pavement emanates the struggle of decades of gay rights battles. If you trace the many steps to City Hall, you can hear the screams as Harvey Milk was murdered in City Hall. Finally, you can hear the roar of gay rights activists after that killing, and in the years to come, fighting for equality in a city known for its activism around homosexuality, long before the rest of the country made a turn towards equality.

The Castro. Beacon of freedom, albeit not in the traditional sense. History books gloss over the work done in San Francisco, in favor of men in wigs who advocated for owning slaves. It gets lost in history, a strong and powerful corner of the country, but not the right strong and power corner of the country.

Music blares from each side of the camera, bass pulsing into your living room. Enrique Iglesias on the left, Jennifer Lopez on the right. It's the perfect stereotype of what you'd expect the Castro to be, just a bunch of gay men and women dancing in the streets to icons.

Except they're not.

They're going about their evenings, single strap bags over their shoulders, tight "dress" jeans, and stylish loafers covering their feet. It's a chilly night in November, and everyone just wants to get home. A bag of groceries here, a CVS bag there, all that matters is that another day of work is in the books. The same social justice warriors have been ensconced by the corporate culture of the previously rebel part of the country. San Francisco and its activist culture had been transformed into just another corporate drone factory, a bunch of tech farm hands ready to sow the seeds of corporate greed. The people who had rebelled had become the robots.

Not anymore.

The camera traces the pulsating beats, and sees no humans at its sides. It crosses the rainbow paths, the revolutionary cracks, and finds nay a person along the journey. The soul of the city lost, its people cut down by the expectations of a modern economy... one which they never expected would affect them. Marketers, engineers, and salespeople, who have a job to do in the morning. People who may have been revolutionaries a year or two ago... lost to the pursuit of profit. Profit off of data. Profit off of ads. Profit off of the same people they asked to surrender freedom to.

Then the camera pans to Tony Santos.

Tony sits on a curb, his knees hovering over the rainbow pattern. He stares straight ahead, lips pursed like two bits of copper wire, the ground beneath him gaining weight as he sits Indian style. Tony last found himself in a cocaine and alcohol bender, taking Mastermind's brother-in-law for an absolute ride, touching on his addictions, the very same addictions Tony still suffers from, to weaken him... and Tony succeeded. Markus (the man connected to Mastermind), found himself as incapacitated as Tony, as weak and fragile as a man who fell into a drug-induced trance on a constant basis.

Tony Santos played an addict even more addicted than him.

The camera zooms in close, capturing Tony's constantly dilating pupils, zooming further into their ever enlarging holes. Tony Santos stares into the seeming abyss, sinking further and further into the pavement. A win in his belt, seeming validation, Tony sits in San Francisco. He'd returned, wanting a break from Boston, a six hour flight where he managed to not collapse on the floor... or vomit in the bathroom.

The bass gets louder as the camera gets closer to Tony's face, the hairs on his chin practically pulsating from the beat. His hands are wedged in his crotch as he sits, stoic, in Indian style. The chilly San Francisco air flows over his now bald head, his hoodie the sole indicator of what a chilly, and frankly, typical, night in San Francisco this is. Around him, men and women, many of whom are with their fellow men... or women... partners, happily jaunt up and down the sidewalk, completely unaware of the camera rig set up in the middle of said busy sidewalk. The chilly air carries the bitter smell of whisky down the heart of San Francisco.

It's a carefree Friday evening, and life just oozes through the neighborhood... but it hits a sharp wall around the typically gloomy Tony Santos. A city known for its color... colorful characters, colorful... activities, and genuine joy and freedom, always has a little bit of gray looming over it when Tony gets into town. I guess that's what New Englanders do: bring a salty attitude and a lack of life everywhere they go, and this was no different.

Tony had spent most of his time on the other side of the Bay Area: Oakland, and with good reason. Oakland was always considered the edgier, less appreciated sibling across the water. Oakland has always been known more for its crime, while San Francisco is known for prosperity. San Francisco has cable cars, Oakland has broken down buses. San Francisco has the Golden Gate Bridge, Oakland has the gray Bay Bridge. Oakland was what Tony considered home, and San Francisco... just never seemed right.

But here he was. For Tony, he at least understood some semblance of showmanship was involved in these little vignettes, and Oakland was good for the dangerous vibe, but the glitz and glamour of "The City" was where the fans, for whatever they're worth, would pay attention. People watch wrestling to be entertained, and to get a break from the shit that is the real world, after all. No one wants to see Tony take the camera past carjackings, shootings, or people shooting up heroin. They wanted to be entertained, so Tony would...



...entertain them?

Just then, Tony lets out a deep breath, and the reason he's barely moved from the pavement becomes eminently clear: his breath once again strongly reeks of alcohol. His sobriety just a month ago felt like it never existed, after a cocaine bender that put him on the streets of Miami for an entire month, encrusted with dirt and the many unseemly things that cover city sidewalks and back alleys. Tony had barely made it to his match at Savage, stumbling through the first round of Lethal Lottery, only thanks to a corrupt opponent who had no interest in competing in the match.

Now, he found himself back in his comfort zone, with a buzz in his brain, and a tingle through the rest of his body, the sweet, sweet flow of alcohol coursing through his veins. He was content and genuinely happy.

But man, does it not look like it.

Tony lets out another breath, and you hear a faint sound in the background, only to realize that not even the cameraman can bear the smell of Tony's breath. Tony pays no attention to the reaction, instead rotating his head to take in the commotion around him. Tony sees people laughing and drunkenly stumbling, all while barely noticing him. In front of him, a man holding a not so subtle 40 in a paper bag nearly knocks over the camera man, barely skipping around him on just a few toes. To his right, a bar is packed, buzzing with pointless drunken chatter.

Tony sneers. He's better than this. Tony Santos is better than each and every one of these people.

Tony pulls a pocket knife from his hoodie pocket, and directs its point at his forearm. He slowly pushes the knife into his forearm, his skin curving inward as it turns a shade of red from the pressure. Just then, a bit of blood appears from the end, and Tony releases the blade. He returns the knife to his pocket, and watches a stream of blood slowly makes it way down his arm and towards his elbow, the little bits of arm hair playing a game of plinko as it crawls further and further.

Seemingly satisfied, Tony returns his gaze to the camera.

Santos: Still alive. Still here. It may seem like I'm not much more than a reanimated corpse, a mirage, but as long as the blood flows through my veins, that's all the validation I need of my place in this world, and that I'm not done. And just like life continues to flow through me, privilege flows around me. Hell, it's oozing around me in this city of overpaid children, who make more money in a few months than many make in a year.

And sitting in front of you is a man who is none of this. A man who should've crumbled under a heap of bad decisions. A man who should've been whisked away by the flowing river of excess.

A mess, but not dead. Broken, but not defeated.

I've put myself through hell, but I overcome, every... single... time. And unlike everything you see around me, I've experienced real success, and real struggle.

Tony stops to take a deep breath, his nostrils flaring as he enjoys a deep breath, while subconsciously seething incredulously. He knows this is about more than what's surrounding him at this very moment, that there are bigger and more immediate fish to fry.

Santos: Privilege. It's something embodied in the people I'm preparing to destroy in a week's time. Struggle. It's something neither of them know, unless you count each and every time they see their failed careers flash before their eyes, as hundreds of arena lights shine down on them, the loud thud of a palm smacking the surface near their head to count the ol' 1... 2... 3.

Instead, they hide because humor, or private jets. They build up this entire facade to mask the inadequacies they project each and every time they speak. All colorful, glitzy bark, with absolutely zero bite.

But not me. Not Tony Santos. I've overcome, and I'll continue to overcome. This frame takes bumps in the ring, and bumps out of it. Because I'm a god damn champion, and I've proven... time and time again, that no matter the battle, I always win.

Always.

Tony lifts himself to his feet and brushes himself off, smearing a bit of blood on his pants in the process. He stands upright and still, continuing to stare into the camera. After a few moments, he turns to the buzzing bar from earlier, walks over to the bar, and grabs a stray beer left by an empty stool. He lifts the cool glass to his lips, latches on, and chugs, taking down all 16 ounces in less than 10 seconds.



Tony lets out a satisfied breath. He turns back toward the camera, patrons around him becoming aware of a strange man chugging a random glass of beer while his arm is bleeding. He smiles, wiping the foam off of his face.

Santos: Like I said, I always overcome. I always...



Tony keels over, vomiting some weird mass of red and yellow... well, vomit. Hands on his knees, he continues to hurl, his stomach tightening as it expels the masses that were sitting so calmly in his gut. Now, all the other patrons can do is stare at Tony, watching with looks of curiosity, and then slight horror, as he lets his liquid breakfast, lunch, and dinner, cover the pavement. Tony looks up at the people around him, then down to the pool in front of him, and then the camera, eyes swelling with tears.

He lets out a deep breath, then collapses to the ground.

The scene fades to black.

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