The scene opens in Toronto, Canada. It's a cool, breezy evening, with the city buzzing after a Raptors (their basketball team) loss putting the spoiled residents in a frenzy. They were tied with the inferior Philadelphia 76ers??? Not acceptable in a town that hasn't cared about basketball since Vince Carter nailed a between-the-legs dunk in 2000. It's been...

...19 years...

...since people in this hockey town showed any interest in their basketball team named after a... dinosaur? But now? Now they treated a raptor like the mayor and a Kawhi set to leave town for Los Angeles as their messiah. Such is the drug of fair weather fandom.

The camera pans Yonge Street, one of the main drags in this metropolitan city. It zips up the street, starting at the Rogers Centre (home of the Toronto Blue Jays), past some slightly less... wholesome... stores down the main drag, and towards the Harbourfront.



The water rocks side to side from the cool, Toronto wind. A young couple can be found standing by the water, seemingly on an early date, talking about the romantic aspects of the evening. The man, tall and gangly, wraps his arm around the shoulder of his date as he waxes poetic about the cliche in front of him. Outside of that couple, there is very little activity on this quiet night. A few pedestrians make their way across the Keating Channel to the Lower Don Lands, the bistro lights above lighting their way, but this is a mostly quaint Tuesday evening. Many are staying in to binge the next Netflix series, rather than taking in the beautiful scenery surrounding them.

Except Tony Santos.

Just a few days ago, Tony touched down in Toronto's Pearson Airport. Tony had had enough of Asia Pacific, having traversed New Zealand after a mass shooting and Thailand to get away. In the process, he was traumatized by the internal politics he thought he had left in the United States, and found the weather he thought he would never see again in Thailand. He'd been mentally scarred and physically tortured, the latter far worse than the former.

He won the Hart Title, but now a paranoia seeped in...

Santos: Will I lose it as fast as I gained it?

Nothing was satisfying. Pain obviously hurt, but so did mediocrity. Feeling hurt was gut wrenching, but having to face the fact that he wasn't up to the task hurt even more, and that's what he faced...

...not in his results (hell, he won the Hart Title), but in his wanting more.

Wanting more from life. Wanting more from the people around him.

Wanting more from himself.

Tony finds himself sitting on the rail of the Keating Channel Bridge, his legs flailing over the ledge, almost in line with the line breeze nearly pushing him over. The Hart Title sits on his shoulder...

...it's been tied to the hip since he won the waist trophy from Dolly Waters...

...his backwards Toronto Blue Jays cap still sits on his head. Hair flails from the front, in that area of the cap where you adjust the size of the cap to match your large head. His sideburns flicker in the wind, as his eyes stare intently into the distance. He had his trophy. He had his money. He had some semblance of escape from the fear of failure, and the fear of mediocrity, that plagued him.

But here he sits, title on hand... empty.

Santos: I feel like I'm... lost. Just a bit, you know?

The camera tilts slightly to the left, then back to center, as if in a nod. Tony smiles a non-toothy smile.

Santos: I'm just, missing something. I can't quite put my finger on it. The gold is over my shoulder, weighing down on my likely busted shoulder like a block of concrete. The world is sitting in front of me, no obstacles in my way, just a clear horizon. But...

...it's dark. I can't see what's coming. I can barely even see what's here. I just see the depth beneath me. And that's life, right? Success feels so small, failure feels so great. I left Massachusetts for California, and for what? A hole in a building with cigarette burn marks? More expensive booze?

To escape from commitment?

Tony's lips purse, his lips creasing as his eyes squint forward. A championship was nice, but it wasn't fulfilling. Material possessions always escaped Tony, and every time he grabbed one, he wanted more. Now? He wasn't happy, but wasn't yearning for anything. He was just... stuck.

What was the point? Life is finite. People are...

Santos: Challenging.

Gold was temporary. Relationships were cut off by death. Your death, their death, it didn't matter. Eventually, it would all end, and...

Santos: For what? For love? For glory? I've traversed this city, this country, for a week. I was grilled at the border for simply taking a vacation as an American. I was told to go fuck myself, Hart Title on hand. I was spit on for not saying hi to a bar fly.

I had money thrown at me for stopping on the side of the sidewalk.

Tony turns towards the camera, his face leaning low, and his eyes cutting through the camera.

Santos: The truth is, people are terrible. They're terrible in the US, they're terrible in Thailand, and they're terrible in Canada. Stereotypes be damned, the world is a fucking minefield, and you need to do your damnedest to pick apart the madness.

And here I am, gold in hand. Ready to face a man with zero intellect. Zero ability to say more than the word "cunt," fifty times per promo. A man who disrespects himself as much as every human around him. A man who feels his own inferiority, and can only take it out by calling people a slur for female genitalia.

Tony turns his gaze back forward, staring towards the pier in the distance.

Santos: I guess it's good to get some perspective. Sitting on this bridge, in a city far and away from my own. A city Noah will never visit, because the window in his mind is too narrow to fit the Vatican, let alone Canada. Because while I'm holding on to this gold, a belt that isn't quite... I don't know, not making me feel... complete? I sit here, while Noah calls people "cunts," a sick, sick burn in his mind, because his infantile brain can't register anything greater than one syllable...

...But while Noah sits here conjuring an idea of his own legend... a legend that doesn't extend past four letters in the area he'll never experience, and the accomplishments he'll... also never experience.

I hold the gold he desires. I hold the respect he knows he'll never find. Noah Jackson is a man so empty, so cold, and so stupid that he says "cunt" 35 times. It's the reason he holds no titles, and never will. He's with no women, and never will.

He has no love, and never will.

And it kills him.

The scene fades to black.

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