The scene opens with the focus on a hand clasping a yo-yo. The hand opens, and the yo-yo drops. Hand opens, and the yo-yo drops. Hand opens... yo-yo drops. Gray, cracked concrete is the backdrop as the chilled, wistful air provides a bit of noise outside of the whir of the yo-yo.

Shannon: Stop playing with a yo-yo and come back to the couch.

Yup, Tony was playing with a yo-yo while his girlfriend was laying comfortably on her couch, in her apartment, watching infomercials. This was a sign. A sign that she was bored. A sign that she was fairly comfortable and relaxed. A sign that Tony was a moron by missing out.

Tony, without missing a beat, catches the yo-yo in his hand and... continues going through the same motions. Up, down... up, down... up... down. He could be doing the same thing with a human being of the female persuasion on her couch, but he seemed oddly pleased with playing with a children's toy in the middle of the day.

The scene is set in Boston, Massachusetts, out in the East Boston section of the city. Set near Logan Airport and Santarpio's (an iconic East Boston pizza place with few options and even fewer smiles), Shannon was in hell. This was not a part of Boston that was "hospitable" or "friendly." No, no, it was a place of frequent robberies, domestic disputes, and your occasional murder. It was an area that welcomed your prototypical part-time workers, and Shannon fit the bill. She'd tell you, that was why she quit her gigs at Dunkin' Donuts and the tattoo shop nearby. She liked a steady, albeit sparse, income, but she didn't like what came with it. When Tony started making some actual money, well...

Shannon: Tone? Are you listening to me?

He wasn't.

Shannon: Sit and watch the news with me. Come on, hun.

Tony catches the yo-yo in his hand. The sound of the snap in his palm resonates through the room as Tony smiles, a satisfied look on his face from his ability to complete a task that most pre-schoolers can achieve. Undoing the knot around his middle finger, he drops the yo-yo on a nearby table. However, Tony misfires on the drop, resulting in the yo-yo clanking off of the edge of the table and falling to the ground.

*Crack*

Tony hesitates and looks back at the fallen yo-yo.

Santos: Shit!

Shannon: Did you break it?

Yup, the yo-yo, upon impact, snapped in two, defeated by cheap Vietnamese manufacturing.

Santos: Um, damn it, yeah. How the hell?

Tony bends down to pick up the pieces when Shannon lets out an annoyed and needy noise for Tony to come over. It was similar to a puppy dog making a not so subtle plea for food or attention, and it was working. Tony turned his attention away from his fallen toy, stood up, and made his way over to his girlfriend like a child searching for the milk aquifer that was his mother's teet. And who could blame him? Shannon, a woman of 5'7" and a modest, yet slender build, her short, dark brown hair with always changing highlights, seemingly to match her mood, she was capable at times of paralyzing Santos. She could take this reckless drunk, a man who'd attacked bartenders and destroyed relationships at a faster pace than he destroyed hotel rooms, and turn him into, well, a helpless child. She was one of a few who could cut off his inane rambling and leave him frozen from the simple flash of her smile, her pearly whites glistening in the sunlight.

And today was seemingly no different. Tony marched over to Shannon, one foot after another, like a good little comrade, and made his way to the couch. Shannon adjusted herself a bit to make room for Tony to nestle behind her, but, oddly enough, he plopped himself on the floor. Landing with a loud thud, Tony rolled himself on his back and glared at Shannon. He then proceeded to roll over to his stomach, resting his head on his hands.

Shannon patted her hand against the couch as if she were calling a dog to come sit on her lap.

Shannon: The couch, Tone.

Santos: Nope, just fine down here.

I suppose even some lemmings could break and make their own decisions every once and a while.

Shannon: Suit yourself. Say, Tone?

Santos: Yeah?

Shannon: I love you.

Tony grunts.

Shannon: Not exactly the response that I was expecting.

Nothing. It was almost as if he expected this to be some setup on the part of his lovely girlfriend. Some way of buttering him up and getting him on her side...

Shannon: Fine, Tone. You've got other things on your mind, I understand that. Trust me, I do.

"Other things." Hm, I wonder what she could possibly mean.

Shannon: Like, well, you know, your match against Madison and MacAlister. I get it. You've got a lot on your plate.

And there it was. Shannon had had this knack lately for drumming up interest in Tony's wrestling career, something that she had written off just months ago as another fledgling, worthless endeavor from a failed human being. She'd loved taking any and every opportunity to strike it down as hopeless, not worth his time. It's not that Shannon was a bad person, per se. She wasn't intentionally trying to hurt Tony, after all. She just didn't have a ton of faith that this venture would be any different from any other activity in Tony's life. And it seemed like she'd seemingly be right, given the odds.

Santos beat Salman Van Dam in a squash match to start his career on Warfare, followed by a throwaway victory in a six-man tag match with some less than memorable opponents... and yes, they were all considered to be opponents in Tony's eyes. This was shortly followed by a pitiful losing streak, some failed title opportunities, and a laugher of an Xtreme title "defense," if anyone could truly consider it that, that lasted just a week and a half. He'd beaten Stevie Tyler, and then soundly lost to Stevie Tyler.

Santos had followed his usual path. The script tends to go as follows: Walk in, get jazzed up as all hell, and throw enough piss and vinegar into the mix that the resulting solution is a mix of fine victories with no nutritional value. Then, get bored, get complacent, and get lazy. Get the shit kicked out of you for a bit, making an ass out of yourself in front of dozens of strangers along the way, and fine yourself soundly knocked back down the ladder that had just been swiftly climbed.

Next step? Acquire a bit of a chip on your shoulder and go back to kicking ass. Get close enough to touch gold before once again failing to meet expectations, and find yourself, one day in the main event, and the next lying on your back, in your apartment, drunk as a skunk as you contemplate how you could be such a failure of a wrestler, a father, a boyfriend, and a man. Ramble along, make some money, destroy some more relationships, and continue the cycle. Wash, rinse, and repeat.

But here he was. Tony had found himself at the top of the heap. He was fighting for the king's crown, a lovely little piece of validation that, considering the cycle of minor victories and major failures, Tony was destined to never actually touch. No, no. Tony would find himself in the middle of the ring with John Madison and Griffin MacAlister, and, well, he'd probably find a way to be setting himself up for a Final Destination senton bomb, only to land in the same old bar in Brighton, Castlebar, with Big Lou questioning how he could have possibly done this to himself again. How he'd fallen into the same old Santos rut that was fueled by the only reason Tony was there in the first place: alcohol. Then Tony would just sit, and sulk, in the corner, as he downed glass after sweet glass of whatever tickled his fancy at the moment.

Then, Tony would come home to find Shannon waiting. Waiting to comfort him. Waiting to console him. Waiting to condescend him. That's what she loved best, and it was the reason for her putting herself in this situation to begin with. Only now...

the tables had turned. No longer was she the breadwinner and Tony the worthless child who she had to reel in and support. No, no, not at all. Now Tony was making the dead presidents, and Shannon found herself searching for the teet. Searching for support. She'd quit her two jobs and was hitching her hopes and dreams to Tony fucking Santos.

And Tony knew that's why, a woman who'd given as much thought to his activities as those outside of it, now couldn't stop talking about it. Every chance she had, it was XWF this, Madison that. She didn't seem to realize, or care to realize,, that a drifter like Tony could find himself in mid-card hell for the next few months, falling victim to the same old troubles, the same old travails. Nope, she was betting on this broken racehorse, and by god, she fucking hoped he'd win. Not out of any sense of care for his well-being. Nope, for hers.

To hell with working the midnight shift at the 24 hour Dunkin' Donuts, followed by etching some stupid Japanese characters on 18-year-old arms, coupled with the assorted tramp stamp for your drunken, unemployed Bostonian whores at four in the afternoon. Nope, she was done with that. Shannon wanted the better life, and fuck if she didn't think she could see it down the yellow brick road.

Shannon: Tone, did you hear me? I understand that you've got a lot on your plate, is what I said.

Tony, head still resting on his clasped hands, stares at the blank wall in front of him, failing to utter a word.

Shannon: Tone? Hun?

Tony pulls out his iPhone and slides the little arrow on the screen to the right. He punches in his passcode and opens up a fresh text message. He texts a simple "<3" and sends it off to his lovely girlfriend.

Shannon looks down at her buzzing phone and smiles. Looking down at Tony, she lets a warm, yet subtle smile, appear on her face.

Shannon: I heart you too, Tone, even though you won't say it. You're gonna do what you need to. I know you will.

Tony punches a few buttons on his phone, plays a song, and sinks his head into the shaggy white rug he'd been laying on.



The scene fades to black.

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