The scene opens, and a cigar begins to burn.



How much?

The man with the cigar takes in a large puff. He holds the smoke within his cheeks, they blow up to the size of small balloons. His eyes squint as he tries to make out what is in front of him, smoke from others in the room hugging each letter on the board above his gaze, tenderly. The room is warm with toxins, and he feels...

...at home.

Santos: Give me 50.



The scene opens in Las Vegas, Nevada. It's a hot, humid day in early September, but you wouldn't know that from the air being pumped into the camera, practically freezing the camera lens. The room bustles with activity, even at 11 in the morning. Slot machines ring bells for winners, and play little ditties to entice future losers, as their next loss plays out in front of them. A craps table in the distance goes berserk as a portly man in his 50s is KILLING it, on a run of 10 straight wins, taking a good portion of the table with him. To the right, security lifts a man from the blackjack table, who'd fallen asleep mid-hand, and not surprisingly so. He'd spent the past 15 hours at the table, hitting a big few hands that got him up $1,000, before he lost $1,500, and he spent the rest of the morning trying to win it back, all with a whisky and coke in hand, the drink sloshing every time he'd hit, and cooling down every time he'd stay.

Smoke coats the ceiling, making it seem like a foggy day in San Francisco, when in reality, it's just a mix of Parliaments and Marlboros, with a healthy mix of spit and disdain holding it up to the air ducts. The camera rolls through the casino, passing a quiet roulette table... not because there is no one there, but because no one was winning... and hits the back of the casino, where a bunch of (mainly) guys sit at little Pac-Man-esque machines, betting on electronic horses, as two men in the front take bets. Just like roulette, they ask the crowd...

Place your bets... PLAAAAACEEEEE YOUR BETS!!! How much are you throwing down?

And like little gambling sheep, they place their finger on a horse, and hope to god they actually win for once. The whole game could be rigged, for all they know, but they easily bet $10, $20, $30, even $100 at a time on a horse simulation, hoping the system isn't rigged. Hell, it's hard to pull yourself back from desperation when you're down $100, $200, $500, even $1,000. At that point, anything looks possible, any odd beatable.

The race begins.

Alright everyone, bets are closed! Good luck to everyone who placed their bets!!!

Tony Santos sits in his raggedy leather stool, swaying from side to side. Cracks in the leather are readily apparent, opening and closing as Tony's weight bears down on the cushion. You can practically hear the crunch in the 70s-era leather as his butt clenches with stress, awaiting the result of his recent bet. If it goes like any of his others today, it's just another loss, putting the tab at $450 lost in two hours.

And WE. ARE. OFFFFFFF!!!

Tony's teeth bite down on the cigar sitting firmly in his gap tooth. His bloodshot eyes stare firmly at the screen, watching the highest stakes video games of his life. Horses go through their pre-determined motions, cutting in front of, and falling behind from, the other horses, all on a stiff track background.

Men behind him and to his sides grip their glasses, knuckles turning white. Tony grips a large glass of Diet Coke, his sobriety still in tact. It's been over a month now, and albeit with some ups and downs, it's gone pretty well! However, Tony needed a vice or two to keep himself... entertained. He'd recently joined a less religious version of Alcoholics Anonymous...

...and slept with the organizer.

Now, before his next jaunt to Europe, Tony found himself digging into hardcore gambling. He'd purchased a ticket in the opposite direction of his business flight, heading west from Boston to Sin City, turning a six hour flight into ten... all to hit the tables and take a chance at winning big.

"Winning big" wasn't something Tony needed to do. He was a champion, after all, and making a hefty salary with that gold wrapped around his waist. But that wasn't the point... it never was the point. Tony Santos didn't need a big win...

...he craved one.

Around the corner we go, into the final turn! Luscious Lady Liberty has a leg on Terminator Exterminator, with Space Cadet holding a tight third! They're making their way to finish...

...it's close! Luscious Lady Liberty is kicking dust at Terminator's feet! Terminator is falling behind!

Tony is close to biting through his cigar at this point, his pupils almost flying out of his sockets. The camera zooms in on the race tracks forming around his eyes, the wrinkles of his 30s starting to show his... slight... age, accelerated by his history of heavy drinking and intense smoking. Tony is pushing for Space Cadet, and it's not looking good. There are mere seconds until his bet goes south... mere seconds...

To the finish line, and it's... Terminator Exterminator with the miraculous comeback! Congratulations to everyone who bet on Terminator Exterminator!!!

Two men in the back hoot and holler at the result, everyone else sulking at yet another loss. Tony sits in his chair, sinking deeper, breaking the leather further, cigar still gripped within his teeth, as he lets out a large puff of smoke. $500 down, and he's about hit the breaking point. The point where you either decide to drop more money in hopes of recouping your losses, and likely losing double, if not more, or calling it a night, and taking the hit, living to fight another day.

Tony smiles, as he lifts himself up from the table. Tony twists around, making his way down the path to the casino exit. Cigar still in his mouth, he heads past the same ringing slot machines. He looks to his left, and the cage protecting the casino workers cashing out "winners" (or just losers who left with a few bucks), and he continues forward. Tony walks with a confident stride, having lost a solid 15 pounds in just a month of bloat weight, his back straight and his jeans fitting ever better. He feels like a new man, and his liver appreciates the rest, even if his lungs are the ones bearing the brunt of his sobriety.

Tony lets out a puff of smoke, smiling at the camera in front of him. He flicks his hair behind him and grabs the cigar with his left hand.

Santos: Soak it in, my friends... Sin City! An oasis of sex, drugs, and empty bank accounts. It's simply... heaven. Here I stand, a sober man, a lighter wallet, but also a lighter liver. For those of you who've been following along, I am a living testament to one's ability to kick debilitating alcoholism for a crippling gambling addiction. Anything is possible when you let go of the demons sitting deep in your heart and accept the endless possibilities god has in front of...

Tony pauses, and smiles.

Santos: Who am I kidding? I don't believe in god... At least not a god who would let me sit in a pool of my own vomit every single night. Not a god who would watch me get my face beat in and not intervene. And most definitely not a god who would let my girlfriend and son die in a fucking car crash on the other side of the country, leaving me penniless so I can't even give my condolences to my girlfriend's mom....

Certainly not that god.

No no, anything is possible when you simply take your faults, hold them into the palm of your broken hand, squeeze it real tight... and watch it sliver through your fingers, as you catch a fly ball of disgust with the other.

So here I sit... Las Vegas. 500 bucks down, but what does it matter, really? I'm a champion after all. My flights are paid for. My hotels are paid for. I make more money in one paycheck than your average bartender in Southie makes in a god damn decade. Nope, I can live every day like I'm playing a meaningless lottery. Like I'm facing an opponent who can't truly beat me. Like a match that doesn't truly matter.

It's all vanilla! It's all a meaningless set of goals and objectives, knowing full well that if I lose, I still win. Because I'm so painfully good at certain aspects of my life, that it doesn't matter if I'm shit at the rest. For every five ditches I fall in, for every bar bathroom I destroy...

...I'm so god damn good at knocking the next clown out, or twisting an ankle, or dropping almost 200 pounds of booze and taquitos on to the next sad subject.

For every woman I bail on, for every bill left unpaid...

...I win yet another title defense. I win yet another accolade. I my name called out yet another time from wrestlers who know they can't beat me, but desperately want to trash me from afar. Unknown Soldier, Peter Gilmour, Noah Jackson, Dolly Waters. They're all the same. Many I've beaten, others are next on the chopping block...

...should they ever make it to slaughter.

I'm that good. Despite me flopping around a cross-country flight, or rolling in concrete, the one constant, outside of seemingly endless inebriation... is that sweet, sweet, 1, 2, 3. Most of this company takes themselves so god damn seriously that they get stuck complimenting their own abilities, or buddying up with their more powerful brethren.

If you're Ned Kaye, you do all of the above. But also if you're Ned Kaye, you do it in the least interesting way possible. If you're Ned Kaye, you manage to take up as much air as humanly possible, while simultaneously sucking it out of the room. If you're Ned Kaye, you take the spotlight just by existing, while always guaranteeing you'll never do anything notable. If you're Ned Kaye...

...you'll always put in the effort, with so little results.

See, Ned decided to get all self-righteous on me this past week. He wants to take the title from me, not because he's a professional wrestler looking to further his accomplishments and prove his worth... but because he wants to take the title from someone he feels is... in trouble?

Ned Kaye wants to win the title because he feels he needs to save me.

It just shows Ned hasn't been paying attention, like he never has. The man who pontificates about the mistakes of others can't seem to really understand what they're going through. A recovering alcoholic, Ned Kaye doesn't seem to understand how 30-plus days on the mend is fucking progress. The shakes are gone, the eye twitching has ceased...

...but the winning has stayed the same.

And maybe that's why Ned doesn't truly get it. Because he doesn't win.

Notorious Ned Kaye. Ned Kaye is "Notorious" for given token big matches, and falling flat on his face. Ned busted his ass against Robert Main...

...and lost.

Ned faced a washed up Centurion...

...and lost.

Ned's claim to fame is a 24/7 Briefcase win...

...against B-list rejects of the XWF.

The camera continues to slide backwards, Tony walking forward. Tony places the cigar back into his mouth, takes a puff, and pushes the tobacco-filled air into the camera lens. Tony's eyes peer to the right, where he finds a blackjack table. $15 per hand minimum... sounds about right for someone looking to recoup money that will never be found.

Tony Santos sits down in a similarly ragged leather chair. He lays $15 down on the table.

The dealer lays two cards in front of Tony. The dealer shows an Ace as his first card, and Tony smiles, turning to the camera.

Santos: Take a chance, Ned. Take one god damn shot. Show that you're not just some charity case, given main event slots just because Vinnie knows you'll show up.. Show me you have what it it takes.

Make a fucking bet.

The dealer lays down a King.

House wins. Thanks for playing.

Tony smiles, $15 poorer.

Santos: The house always wins. The deck's stacked against you, and I can't wait to see you crumble under your own house of cards.

The scene fades to black as we're played out.

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