The scene opens four blocks from the Toyota Center, outside of St. Joseph Medical Center, where Tony Santos is making his way out of the building after having his gashes treated from his brutal cage match with Mr. Satellite.



Tony, a little wobbly, is slowly leaving the front door of the hospital, already changed into tattered jeans and a long, black and grey-striped button down shirt, with his hair in a ponytail. Jeremy is to his right, holding Tony's bags while also juggling his camera. At the door is the nurse who was taking care of Tony and overseeing the insertion of stitches, 34 in all, into his forehead, as well as the disinfection and gauze treatment to his cuts to his arms and back.

Tony is clearly irritated with how itchy the stitches are and is scratching around the protective bandage feverishly. Having lost a triple threat match on Wednesday and come to a draw with Mr. Satellite on Saturday, and thus losing out on an opportunity at becoming TV Champion, certainly has not helped his temper.

Santos: *Turning to the nurse* So, can I take these things out in, what, a few hours?

Nurse: Try a week and a half, a week at a minimum. You sustained some pretty pretty rough gashes to the head. You need to take it slow over the next few days and get yourself in working order, Anthony.

Santos: It's Tony. But, I have a match in a few days, and a pretty important one at that. What if I were to pull them out on, say, Tuesday?

Nurse: How about just not doing that? Unless, of course, you want to have that nice cut to open right back up in the middle of your match. I suggest canceling.

Tony lets out a loud, mocking laugh at that suggestion.

Santos: I'm fighting in the Big House, lady. No chance in hell.

With that, the nurse waves off Tony and makes her way back inside. Tony and Jeremy, who were supposed to fly out of Houston on that Sunday morning, were forced to have their flight rescheduled to that night, due to the hospital's request that he stay overnight due to blood loss. Now, for getting a cab to the airport...

Santos: Kid, when's the cab coming to take us to the airport?

Jeremy, having been looking down at the hot Texas asphalt, suddenly comes to attention, eyes wide, realizing he'd forgotten something.

Jeremy: Uh, um, well, I thought, well, I thought you were going to, you know, get this one, uh, sir.

Santos: Get this one??? Damn it, kid, I was busy getting my wits together and enjoying the free Jello to call a cab. You do remember that you're my intern, right? I kind of need you to take care of these things for me while I'm busy trying to take over the world.

Jeremy: Heh, taking over the world. Okay, sir. Let me call a cab. We have eight hours until we're supposed to leave, so we'll be just fine.

Jeremy veers off to the side to make a call to a local Houston cab company. Tony looks over as he sees Jeremy lugging all of his and Tony's bags, taking phone calls from the XWF office on a whim, making service calls and booking transportation and lodging, and realizes that he should probably give the kid a bit more credit. This is a kid who, at the age of 19, is already much better off and focused than Tony would probably be at 40. This kid was going places, and Tony was starting to realize that, without the kid, he may not have even made his way to his second match, let alone be in a position to grab a Wild Card spot in his fifth match in the XWF.

This is the big time, and while he is totally in control in the ring, there is no doubt that he is a mess outside of it. A man who fathered a kid of wedlock to a woman that he could never totally stand, a girlfriend who adores him, yet he cheats on relentlessly, and a drinking problem that has gotten him banned from Boston bars, dropped from dead-end, entry level jobs, and bounced from promotions. This intern of his, while realistically the child of this pairing, was the mental adult, stable and keeping the train on the tracks.

Jeremy: *Talking loudly to the cab driver* Oh, uh, yeah, okay. 45 minutes? Alright, thank you. Yup, we'll stay here. Yup, St. Joseph Medical Center. No, no, Star Jones? Saint. JOSEPH. Okay, thank you.

Santos: 45 minutes?

Jeremy: Yup, they're backed up right now. Lots of airport travel requests on a Sunday and they're apparently incredibly understaffed.

Santos: Alright. Thanks, kid. Give me those bags and take a seat on the curb over here. We'll just hang out here until the cab comes. You thirsty? Want me to grab you a water inside?

Jeremy, not understanding this sudden giving, kind nature of Tony, gives Tony a confused, uncertain glance.

Jeremy: Um, thanks? I'm fine though. I had plenty of water in the hospital, since I pretty much had nothing to do in that waiting room for the night other than drink from the bubbler and read the Houston Chronicle.

Anyways, how are you doing? That was a tough loss to Mr. Satellite last night.

Santos: Whoa, whoa, hold up just a second. It was a draw not a loss. That damn time limit and a lucky grab of the neck from Satellite as he was falling off the cage, thanks to my offense, by the way, cost me that title. I gave everything I had for that damn title, but I admit, I lost to a serious competitor. A really good damn competitor. We'll see each other in the ring again, no doubt about it, and we'll put on another show.

However, apparently I have an old school wrestler schtick to get past before I can do anything substantial in the game. Hell, Jeremy, I don't even know what an old school wrestler in a new school game schtick is, but apparently I'm afflicted. I guess old school wrestlers love flying from turnbuckles and fighting in barbed wire cage matches. Strange.

Jeremy: Well, you did mention something about armbars in your sleep a few nights ago, and missing the days "good old fashioned catch-as-catch-can wrestling." Sounds pretty old school to me.

Santos: Come on, kid. I was probably just conjuring up an old Jim Ross bit. I don't even know what that is, dude.

Jeremy: Don't you also own a Bob Backlund t-shirt? And... well, Lou Thesz underwear? Seriously, where do you find Lou Thesz underwear?

Santos: Wha... what the hell, Jeremy? You better cut that bit from the feed to the XWF Universe. Not that I, well, own Lou Thesz underwear, but, well, we can't have people thinking that I do. You can edit that bit out, right?

Tony grasps for the camera but is rebuffed by Jeremy.

Jeremy: Yeah, sir, I'll cut it from the final product before submission to the head honchos. Don't you worry.

Clearly, Jeremy did not cut this from the final product. Was this caused by an innate desire to embarrass Tony for the hell that he's put Jeremy through? Abso-f**cking-lutely.

Jeremy: Anyways, what about this Wednesday? Are you even prepared to wrestle? We're heading to the Big House, and you'll be in quite a big deal of a match.

Santos: Kid, you've seen what I can do. I'm ready to go. I get to face our favorite superhero, Heironeous. He's so happy and courageous, ready to take down the bad guys and clean up the XWF! Titles? He doesn't care about no damn titles. This is a modern day Clark Kent that we have on our hands! Regular Joe by day, kissing babies and slapping high-fives with the common folk, and a PALADIN by night, defeating evildoers and, well, gosh darn it, making the world a safer place for everyone!

From seeing his little spiel with some local Michiganites... wait, that is what they're called right? Besides, you know, unemployed. I digress. From seeing his little spiel up there in Michigan, he really, truly believes that we're going to see a different result than the one we had in our tag match a short while ago. Come on! Our little crime fighter was a non-factor then, and he'll be a non-factor on Wednesday.

Kid, I've been in this promotion for three weeks, and I've already fought for a title in a main event, even though, well, it was partially because I got under the incredibly thin skin of Archie Bunker over on Shove It, and I've went toe-to-toe with top talent. Heironeous is foolish to think he won't get that chipper, youthful face of his plastered like the rest of them. Heironeous should have realized that he's no superhero from our first meeting, but apparently it's going to take a second go around to make things stick. Hey, I'm happy to do it. What better way to get off of this winless streak than to do so against some foolish crusader for the weak and defender of the insignificant. Trust me, kid, I'm gonna make this one count, and you'll see what keeps me kicking and from being left under a bridge in Roxbury.

Get ready to see some art.

Just as Tony finishes, Jeremy lets out a loud, obnoxious fart.

Santos: The hell, kid? Nasty.

Jeremy: Heh, heh. You wanna show me some art, I'll show you some fart.

Santos: And you're apparently the mature one.

The scene fades to black.