The scene opens in a field outside of Phoenix. The camera circles around a lone brittlebush, which looks oddly stunning, glistening in the beating mid-afternoon Arizona sunlight, but mainly only because of the dry, dead ground surrounding it. The camera focuses on the plant from a top-down, diagonal view as the bush sways back and forth in the dry, Southwestern breeze. The field is quiet, serene even. The perfect getaway for anyone looking to leave the worries of the city behind and just, well, bake in the heat. Hell, if you stayed here long enough, you could practically make yourself believe that you were being watched by the heavens, dead to the world, the next life imminent.

Well, not today...

A scratching, digging sound can be heard in the background, accompanied by frantic panting. The camera turns toward its right, only to see Tony Santos taking a shovel to the rock hard earth beneath his feet. Adorned in jeans and no shirt, Tony's long, brown, dry hair, beaten to death by the incredibly hot sun (something that a native New Englander can in no way handle) is tangled and frizzy. His hands, a blistered, bloody mess, grip the handle of the shovel with incredible ferocity as pounds at the soil, breaking the ground similar to how he's been progressively breaking his liver. His triceps bulge at each thrust, his ab muscles clench.

Tony stops for a moment to notice the camera to his left, and despite his best attempts to make this seem as though it was a completely unexpected coincidence, it's obvious to anyone watching that this was, in fact, completely contrived from the get go. Tony plants the shovel in the ground, then kneels down into a catcher's position to get closer to the camera. Smiling, he looks directly into the camera, then glances at the camera man before taking the camera for his own use.

Grasping the fairly large camera with both hands, Tony stares into the lense, squinting enough to see his own microscopic reflection, and he frowns.

Santos: Good god, I look horrible. Take the camera, Mr. Cameraman. I don't want to see myself, even slightly, in the lens.

Santos hands the camera back to this clearly underpaid XWF cameraman. A short, stumpy little man wearing a purple "The Action Navar Slows Down" t-shirt (yes, he got one of the reject shirts that was pumped out from a sweatshop in Bangladesh) and a black and blue XWF hat, he falls backward as Tony plants the camera in his sternum. This man, seemingly lacking in the ability to convey thoughts out loud, simply mumbles his indignation toward Tony to himself as he raises the camera to his face. Tony brushes his hair back, the dried blood from his hands getting caught in his not-so-attractive locks. Wiping the sweat from his brow, he smiles, then looks straight at the camera lens.

Santos: Phoenix, Arizona. Phoenix, motherfucking, Arizona. This is a fairly cruel maneuver on the part of the folks of Madness, as it's obvious that I'm a New Englander. A New Englander who can't handle temperatures north of 75 degrees, let alone 95. Shit, it's god damn hot out in this barren field. The heat is, in all honestly, unbearable. I can't stand it.

You know who else can't stand it? The Extreme Revolution. LJ Havok and Cam Lang, in particular, can't handle actual competition. Sure, it's easy to talk a big game when you first arrive, make your presence known, and exclaim the power and fury that you're going to wrought over the place. However, it's another thing to actually execute on those promises.

LJ Havok and Cam Lang. As vanilla as can be. Vanilla look. Vanilla insults. Vanilla grouping.

Havok, how's taking over the XWF going for you? I really, really want to know. See, you came in, giving the same bullshit that so many others have, and with the same results. You came in wanting to take over, to rule, an organization that you knew nothing about. And how were you going to do so? By dishing out lackluster maneuvers and even more forgettable matches. You've spent more time on your back than the Dong has erect, and for what? A pointless stable and a token match against John Madison. Good work.

Tony looks at the camera, mockingly flashing a smile for Havok.

Santos: See, LJ, here's what I've noticed about you over your short time here: You have a real problem with positivity. A disdain for my pearly whites. Well, guess what? I smile for you, LJ, and I'm smiling wide. You wanna know why I'm smiling, Mr. Savior? Because my drunk ass has done more inebriated and happy than you have sober and angry.

For instance...

Tony looks toward his shovel, places both hands on the tip of the handle, and then takes his right foot and plants the shovel a bit further in to the ground.

Santos: Your Extreme Revolution is full of top players, isn't it, LJ? You, Cam, Jason E Smith, and Peter Gilmour...

Peter fucking Gilmour.

Let that sink in, LJ. You've got mid-card talent running through the group's proverbial veins, LJ. You're the leader, so you MUST take the brunt of the criticism. You've managed to put together a group of fools, and you expect anyone to take you seriously? Really, you do? Too bad, LJ. Too, too bad. Your reputation has already been made. You're no savior. You'll never even be able to save your own damn career, let alone a group of idiots who can barely manage to walk through the ropes without hurting themselves, let alone hurting their opponents. This is the bed that you've made for yourself, and shit, you better learn to sleep in it.

Tony once again places his hands on the tip of the handle, then proceeds to jam it further in to the dry, unforgiving ground, Tony's boot receiving the brunt of the blow. Tony tries to hide the slight discomfort that he feels from trying to jam a shovel in to what is basically Mother Earth's version of concrete, but he doesn't manage to do so.

Santos: And Cam Lang...

Tony limps awkwardly, failing to hide the pain in his right foot.

Santos: Oh, Cam. I'm going to end up in a stretcher, eh? Well, buddy boy, it's you who've thrown your career on to life support, my friend. By teaming with LJ and his other stooges, you've managed to place yourself in a neverending timeout; constantly poo poo'ed by the adults of this company, and given a slight reprieve every once and a while to let out your aggression, take a spanking, and then get locked back in your cage. That's what you've become, Cam. A caged animal, sure, but not some rapid dog that people are afraid of...

No no. You're like a fucking angry chihuahua, barking nonsense and getting stepped on, but not on purpose. Shit, that'd be giving you too much credit, now wouldn't it, Lang? For people to actually notice you would be too much of a compliment for you. No, no, you're stepped on, but only accidentally. Only because you managed to fall on to the card and crawl to the ring.

Tony takes a step back, flips his hair back, and stares out into the Arizona wilderness. Not his typical stomping grounds, and Tony certainly wasn't comfortable. Scorching heat, lonely "wilderness," this wasn't him. He was happiest when it was 32 degrees and below, angry Bostonians surrounding him, the sounds of tires screaching, cabbies cursing, and old men preaching about the "good old days" of Larry Bird, and what "coulda been" with Len Bias. Being in the great nothing that was the Southwest unnerved him, and his agitation was transferred to his opponents... and to his partner.

Santos: See, gents, while you've been toiling around with the Extreme Revolution, My partner, Luca Arzegotti, has been enjoying his time with his nose in the pooper of John Madison and The Black Circle. And I...

I've joined Sebastian Duke and The Brotherhood. I've...

Tony stops. He looks down at the ground beneath him, and kicks a bit of dirt ahead of him.

Santos: I've become just as much of a pawn in this game as the rest of you. I've done what I said I'd never do. I joined a group. But here;s the difference... I've joined a group that I can add to. A group that has purpose. A group that can use me. A group that can take down Luca, that can take down Madison.

LJ and Cam? As I've mentioned before, you joined a faction with the unintended purpose of becoming insignificant. Luca? He joined The Black Circle to take the easy road to power. I've joined The Brotherhood simply because I want to end each of you. And I will.

However, it begins on Monday. LJ and Cam, Luca and I are a dynamic combo. I don't like the man, but he's damn good, and on Monday? We drag you around the Arizona desert like the lousy snakes that you are. Then we'll leave you in the dirt, your careers dead and fucking buried.

Tony plants the shovel further in to the ground, wipes the sweat from his brow, and smiles for the camera.

The scene fades to black.

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