The scene opens in John F. Kennedy International Airport in New York. Tony Santos had just spent a week in New York, his "escape" after only one addiction therapy session back in Boston. Tony finds himself sitting in Terminal 4, the International Terminal, as he awaits his Cathay Pacific flight from New York to Hong Kong, then Hong Kong to Fiji. 30 hours of flying time? No big deal for Tony Santos, he's a pro at flying! He just needs to not get drunk two hours in, that's all. Just don't get...

Santos: God, I'm fucking drunk.

...fucking drunk.

It's a quiet Monday morning in New York. The weather is a fair 66 degrees, slight cloud cover, but the bright yellow sun begins to peek through just as soon as a fleet of yellow cabs take to the streets, clogging the highway and main streets with people making similar Monday morning treks across the country/world. Tony Santos hit the New York streets well before the typical early traffic jams began, which, in New York, those traffic jams begin practically the moment you wake up.

Tony? He practically didn't sleep. Tony started his trip to New York scared, but somewhat inspired, to kick the habit that had turned from a bit of 20-something debauchery into full-blown alcoholism, cirrhosis easily on the horizon. His first day in town, after some slight... hallucinations, about his opponent, Azrael Erebus, he went to a bar and ordered a water, and instead went to town on the saddest plate of fish and chips... then a double burger with extra bacon and cheese, followed by a plate of pork nachos, and finished off with an entire pizza at the 2.5 star Yelp dig that was more dough than actual pizza. See, if Tony couldn't drink, he'd find another way to indulge to complete and utter excess, just this one affecting his cholesterol and not his overclocked liver.

Tony continued this behavior for a good few days. Each time he'd see a billboard pushing Brooklyn Brewery's gems, or the neon lighting outside of a bar pushing one of seven shitty name brand beers, Tony would stick his hand in his pocket and pinch the ever living hell out of his thigh. He'd begun trying a new technique of associating pain with alcohol, hoping to kick the habit by making his brain remember that pain any time he saw anything booze-related.

Then he tasted it again.

Sunday afternoon, Tony hit Central Park. He spent a good four hours at the park, riding a bike he took some guy left unchained outside of a cheap pizza joint across the street. Tony zipped down pathways, through the lush green grass, and up and around trees. Distraction... it was all about distraction.

Until he tasted it again.

After Tony left Central Park, he tested himself again.

Santos: Pizza, and two bucks a freaking slice?!

Tony grabbed a slice of pepperoni and a slice of cheese. He plopped himself down at the corner of the pizza parlor, dumped a mound of mozzarella on both slices, followed by a mound of crushed red pepper. Grease flowed down his lips and chin, Tony's teeth cutting through the dough like an excavator ripping through the earth. That was the sign of some good pizza... pizza you just can't find in San Francisco or Oakland.

Then, he saw the display...



Heaven. Sweet, sweet, heaven. But... don't worry, Tony, that was vanquished a week ago! A whole week ago!

Tony's eyes hit the taps, and then he looked up at the menu board.

Santos: Four bucks a beer? Four bucks a fucking beer in New York?

Tony's eyes jetted back towards his pizza, but it was only a sliver of crust in his hand, greasing flowing across the plate like the Mississippi, specks of burnt crust carried through.

Tony looked back to the board. Then back to his plate.

Tony ordered two more slices, this time both cheese, so he could focus on ordering quickly. The faster he ordered, the faster he paid, the easier it was for him to not get lured in by a row of sweet, sweet alcohol.

Tony finished his slices in an instant, his right leg twitching, his left eyebrow sinking into his eyeball. Tony's tongue flicked at his teeth as he slid it across his top and bottom teeth, the gap serving as a perfect divot for his tongue to fill.

Santos (thinking to himself): You can do this, Tony. Clutch your thigh, bite your tongue, grab some more slices. Nothing will stop you! You are GREATER than the temptation in front of you. You are BIGGER than your tempation!

Back to the Present: JFK Airport International Terminal

Seven beers. Tony Santos drank seven beers in the span of two hours before stumbling on to the streets of Manhattan. Now, Tony could be seen slumped down in his chair, the sounds of flight calls overhead ringing in his ears like an alarm clock that just keeps getting louder and more grating. Tony's body progressively slides down the leather chair, in part due to him wearing basketball shorts and a thin cotton hoodie, but also clearly due to his own inebriation. When he walked through security, Tony had to be practically undressed by TSA, and walked like a senior citizen through the metal detector. His gaudy Hart belt, weighing seemingly half the weight of the young, female TSA agent, was lugged over to a side area and almost thrown in the trash, if not for Tony vouching for its purpose.

Seven beers.

Tony sits in his chair, staring at the convenience store ahead. Self-important businessmen and women with bluetooth headsets in their ears take conference calls while buying a far too expensive bottle of Coke and a bag of chips. One person in line even grabs what is very clearly a commemorative Donald Trump chocolate bar.

Santos: To each his fucking own.... Tony mutters.

The camera swings through the terminal and back to Tony. The people in the terminal are obviously curious and a bit bemused at the sight of a TV camera that was somehow permitted through security, as well as the very drunk man sitting with a large pink and gold belt draped over his lap. Tony, noticing the attention, smiles that gap-toothed smile and waves to the crowd.

No one responds, except by continuing to flash skeptical frowns.

Santos: Fucking New Yorkers.

After a few minutes of inaction, the crowd grows bored by the fact that they're just staring at a drunk man drooling all over himself, so they begin to disperse. Tony, noticing the attention fading, lifts himself up his chair, clasps his hands on to the hand rails on each side of him, and moves into a standing position. Tony's feet are planted on the chair, but he quickly loses his balance, almost falling straight into the camera in front of him. He manages to catch himself (he's not entirely out of shape, after all), tightens his thigh muscles, and cranks his knees, pushing himself closer and closer to an upright position.

Tony's fingers hold the Hart Title seemingly by the fingernails, and he struggles, but succeeds, in bringing a firm grip to the belt and lifting it over his left shoulder.

Tony clears his throat.

Santos: Attention, ladies and gentlemen! Attention!

A few people turn their heads back around, but most simply ignore him like they do the vagrants that litter the streets of New York. Tony frowns, clears his throat again, and lets out a large wad of spit on to the chair next to him.

Santos: I said fucking attention, people!

A few more people turn around, as a security guard roughly 1,000 feet away begins to reach for his walkie talkie. Tony raises his belt into the air, the fluorescent light from above shining brightly around the dull terminal.

Santos: Ladies and gentlemen, you may not realize it, but you are being graced by the presence of a champion. While you all go about your business, flying to Canada, or Japan, or maybe to Fiji, for what, vacation? To avoid the humid New York summer that is creeping over you. To avoid the air of depression and anxiety that overtakes this city. To avoid your own sad human existence, an existence that consists of a sad desk job or serving food to people in those sad desk jobs, knowing that each and every sad minute brings you closer to your own demise.

While you're escaping the life you've accepted, take a moment to appreciate that you are being graced by a conqueror. Someone who has taken life by the balls and crushed it into submission. A man who hasn't accepted mediocrity, but has overcome it to become a fucking king. A man who has lost, and who has overcome.

In front of you is a man who holds this very title, one of the best in our business. A man who is on the rise. A man who is talked about far and wide. A man who is in the mouths of competitors who he's not even facing!

Tell me, friends. When was the last time your name was in the mouths of coworkers competing for a promotion you weren't even gunning for? Never? Probably not.

Well, that's what I do. I've come back from the depths with such a vengeance, with such dominance, that I can't help but take up space in the minds of people gunning for promotions... er, championships, I'm not even in line for. Sure, one of those people is named... BigD, which sounds like a character in a raunchy porn novel, but it still counts!

That's who I am. Tony Santos! Champion, master of his own destiny! That's why I'm in this very space with each of you! Off to Fiji to conquer a man who has had a hold over me ever since I joined this profession. A... spaceman, who has overtaken my own mind, my own psyche, in the way your abusive husband, or the mom who left you, or the bully at work, overtakes your fucking sad existences.

I'm off to conquer him. I'm off to finish what I should have ended six god damn years ago. Because now I hold the gold, NOT HIM! I am the one on the rise while he latches on to past success like the hasbeen he is. I...

Just then, the crowd in front of him morphs. The confused faces twist and turn at once, into... this.



Tony stops dead in his tracks, the faces in front of him staring... silent. The sound of the radiator clangs in his ears, growing louder, and louder. Tony's bottom lip folds forward, his jaw unhinged. The Hart Title falls to the ground with a thud, a thud that sounds like a boulder crashing into pavement. A face sticks out from the crowd, moving closer... and closer to Tony, as he crumbles inward.

Tony hits the chair, falling to his right, over the armrest. The face moves closer... and closer... and closer. The Spaceman has gotten to Tony... he'd always gotten to Tony. He was the man he couldn't beat, and the Spaceman was seemingly about to finish the job before they ever set foot in an XWF ring.

Tony cocks his head to his left, his eyelids crashing into one another with each deep blink like waves crashing into the Fiji beach with extreme force. He sees the Spaceman coming closer.

Three feet away

Two feet away

One foot away

Six inches away

Tony opens his mouth, a puddle of spit under his chin.

Santos: Not... this... ti...

Tony passes out. The Spaceman turns into that very security guard, an older, black man of solid build. He grabs Tony's shoulder, shaking him.

Security Guard: Sir... sir! Are you alright? Sir?!

No response.

Security Guard: Guys, I need a medic over here right now!

The crowd disperses as an EMT sprints towards Tony in the distance. The scene fades to black.

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