You stand absolutely no chance. You get that, right?

The scene opens in Glasgow, Scotland, the sight of tomorrow's Wednesday Night Warfare. It's yet another gloomy day in Scotland, but you wouldn't know any different, as all you can see is a thick layer of dust, floating carelessly through the air, leaving a must that coats your nostrils, tingling your nose hairs. Dim fluorescent bulbs hang overhead, latching on to white tile ceilings with a coat of beige, thanks to years of smoking and and zero cleaning.

Yep, we're in a hotel. The dingiest, low rent hotel in practically all of Scotland. Soak it in. The cheap leather (or "pleather") couches, the tables made of plywood, and carpet floors straight out of an old Scottish woman's third floor flat. But that's not why we're here.

This, is why we're here:



Tony Santos, the "fighter." The man who a mere few months ago was on a tear through the XWF, sits here, in his little Scottish flat, which he'd like to tell you he picked because its rough and tumble nature "fit him" better than the standard hotel rooms housing the rest of the XWF talent, but let's be real; Tony didn't book his travel in time, and found himself in a "budget" flat on his own dime.

Tony stares straight into the mirror, his gaze unchanging as the camera focuses on his reflection. Tony is dressed in a cheap suit jacket and button down shirt, thrown together from the one of the few remaining thrift stores in the increasingly poor city. Tony's arms are folded on the desk in front of him, his sleeves catching sawdust. To the right of Tony sits a half empty bottle of scotch, since, what's an alcoholic to do in Scotland except drink scotch??

Santos: Ned, did you hear me? Do you understand your fate come tomorrow night? Or did it not sink in the last time I tore you to shreds? Do you remember that, Ned? I remember it... fondly.

September 4th, submission match... admittedly not my specialty! Sure, I have the poorly coined "Santos Stretch," but let's be real, Ned. I threw that into my moveset simply because of matches like the one we had what seems like ages ago. And man, did you fucking cry like a little god damn baby, didn't you, Ned? You came into that ring with the same fire that you bring to each and every long ass monologue we have to sit through from you, and you brought as much flavor as water on motherfucking toast.

And what happened?

Ya' passed out, my dear friend. You crumbled in the same way you've crumbled throughout your time in this company. And man, based off of your first attempt at telling a compelling story...

Tony pauses, lifting his right arm to the bottle of scotch, cap already off the top, and lifts it to his mouth, taking a large swig... no glass to serve as the vehicle. He holds the scotch in his mouth for five or so seconds, then forces it down his throat, a smooth burn cascading down to his gut. That burn has stuck with Tony for the past few years, with numerous benders starting to tear at the sensitive tissue in his throat, making a home in his gums, and lining the walls of his increasingly irritable gut. But Tony has always fought back the discomfort with an ignorant smile, deflecting the problems mounting in front of him, stacking unresolved issues one by one in his psyche, a house of cards just a gust of wind away from tumbling down.

Not today. Today, Tony Santos just glares.



He smacks his lips together, letting a small hiss pass through his tongue and the roof of his mouth.

Santos: Fucking burns, huh, Ned? And you know what's sad? This bottle of scotch could take me down faster than you could say "ego crusher," let alone try to hit me with it. And that hurts you. But based on everything I've seen from you, you know it's true. It's burned into your pathetic little fucking soul, you goddamn coward. You know it, I know it, and everyone in this godforsaken company knows it.

You see, Ned, most people will bring up your win-loss record. Most people will talk only to past performance. And sure, you lost to me, and you lost to me badly, and SURE, you've managed to spend your time here winning nothing of substance and latching on to the actual accomplishments of others, but I'm too old and FUCKING TIRED to give you the same rap sheet spiel that every other hack in this company gives.

All I need is to look at you. All I need to do is hear you speak.

Your vanilla appearance, your mopey little face. It just screams mediocrity.

Or your words, my dear Ned. Whenever you make the mistake of flailing your tongue around the gaping maw within that jar of mayonnaise of yours...

Tony takes another swig, staring.



Santos: You just make me sad. See, it's because you don't care. You phone it in each and every week, and it shows. The same complaints about you squandering opportunities, and in the same breath, just another patronizing diatribe about how this is your time to shine... this is when things are going to change.

But they won't. I know you too well, Ned. See, you'll phone it in, I'd say...

Another swig, this time checking the barely functional Seiko watch on his left wrist.

Santos: An hour...?...after you watch this? Because all you know how to do is react, and not even that well! Hell, because we sure as hell know you're not a leader. You've proven that TIME AND TIME AGAIN, dear Ned!

Tony lifts the bottle, another swig of scotch in what are becoming increasingly short intervals. He continues to glare, bits of scotch dribbling down his chin.



Santos: On my worst god damn day I could pin you with the sore on my fucking tongue, you pathetic excuse for a wrestler, and for a man. The fact that I even have to waste my energy on a full-timer who's better equipped to handle the Chick Fil A drive thru is insulting, but a paycheck is a paycheck, and I understand that. I understand that my opportunity to shine has, at least for now, shriveled up and died the moment I lost to that old hack Centurion, and my pride went out the door when I waved to the fans giving me sympathy applause as I limped to the locker room.

But I know that. I know my place. I know my worth. And I'm fine with it, because I've actually accomplished some of my goals. I've actually earned the respect, and fear, of many in the back. When they see "Tony Santos" next to their name on the next card, I can sense the dread they hold inside. I can feel gravity trying to push them to the mat, trying to convince them to accept their inevitable defeat.

Can you say that, Ned, or do you reach for your next shoddy soliloquy? Can you ever say you've been a pioneer or a trailblazer in any way, or are you just a clout chaser... a fraud?



Santos: Now look even closer. Look deep into your eyes, and tell me what you see. Do you see potential? Do you really see a winner? Or do you see a man who can't even look himself in the face without cowering? Do you see a man who is confident and forthright, or a man who would run away from his own shadow?

Now look deeper, Ned. Do you see a champion, or do you see a man who attaches his entire self-worth into wrestling, only to lose to part-timers and has-beens? A man who chases belts, but can neeeeever quite catch them.

Look, Ned. LOOK



Santos: You can't quite see it, can you? You can only see the man in front of you. The man whose demons alone could turn you into fucking dust. You can only see the fear in front of you.

And that's fine, Ned! It really is! Fear is a powerful emotion, and the weak can only see what they cannot overcome. The weak ignore their inadequacies, while trumpeting up this mythos of greatness that simply doesn't exist. They tell stories, they make empty promises, but at the end of the day, they cannot see what isn't real.

But I am. And Ned Kaye, when all is said and done, this busted up drunk won't need to make you tap, no no. I'll do exactly what I did last time, and just knock you the fuck out. Because, you see, I may be fighting against myself, but so are you. The difference? I'll be standing, victorious, just like last time, conscious and triumphant. I'll still be standing alongside the demons I so sorely wish I could trample. But a winner.

You?

You'll be soaking up the same blood, the same sweat, as every other loser. You won't have defeated yourself, you'll just have come to a god damn draw.

And that? Hell, that's worse than losing.

The scene fades to black.

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