***Knock knock knock***

We start where we left off. The cool, hardwood floor presses against the face of Tony Santos, having just fallen with a thud as sudden as the ever-changing circumstances piecing together his life. A fog covers the wood around Tony's head, capturing each heavy exhale of carbon dioxide, as if it was still a living being. Tony's eyes are glossed over, his face turned towards the crack underneath the door. Two dark blobs stand out, separated by a few inches, and after a bit of squinting, Tony understands the obvious: these are obviously feet.

***Knock knock knock***

The knocks get a bit louder. And louder.

Kayla, his attractive, mid-30s rehab leader, stands up, staring at the door with concern. This is her apartment, after all, and someone is practically banging down her door to get in. Small beads of sweat begin to form in the corners of her forehead as she looks down at Tony, her fling from last night (and a few nights before)... a majorly inappropriate fling at that... and back at the door. She continues to look back and forth, weighing her next move, her long, scraggly brown hair flailing with as much uncertainty as the thoughts bouncing around her head.

***Knock knock knock***

And again. All of a sudden, sunlight shines through the window and into the crack beneath the door. The light reflects off of the "blobs" on the other side, and the center of each pushes the light into Kayla's eyes light two silver laser beams.

Just then, Kayla figures it out.

Kayla quickly bends down to Tony, who might have yet another head injury, one of many from his days wrestling, fighting in his youth, and just generally being an idiot. She releases her lanky arms and they drop on to Tony's shoulders like two excavators, grabbing on and attempting to lift Tony's ~200 pound frame. Tony starts to come to, more out of annoyance than consciousness, and he looks up at Kayla with a grimace, pieces of words coming from his lips.

Santos: Kayl... whah are you...

Kayla, not up for any games right now, slaps Tony right across the face, knocking the specs of her dirt on his cheek straight off. If Tony wasn't with it before, he now most certainly is seeing things a bit more clearly.

Kayla whispers to Tony.

Kayla: You need to get up... NOW. This is not a joke, that is my fucking boyfriend.

Kayla pulls Tony up, and, starting to understand the urgency of the situation, Tony pushes himself to his feet, the "Tony" finger tattoo on his left fingers crinkling in his pale, dry skin. Kayla yanks Tony's t-shirt sleeve, dragging him across the room and into a nearby closet. Kayla opens the sliding door...

***Knock knock knock***

...presses her palms against his chest, and plunges him into the closet. Tony falls backward, and in the midst of the haphazard hiding attempt, hits his head on the closet light bulb, smashing it. Pieces of the bulb rain from above, landing in Tony's lengthening hair, while the rest clang to the ground. Tony stumbles backwards, stunned, and falls into an open washing machine. His butt sinks further into the washing machine as Kayla slams the door shut. Tony, feeling like the piece of meat he's treated so many others like, including Kayla, sits in darkness.



Kayla walks across the old wooden floor, each step stretching an hour long. As she makes her way to the door, Tony can only think to himself...

Santos: Fucked this one up too, huh? Without even a drink inside my stomach, just a gaping fucking pit.

Boyfriend, heh. Makes sense. Shit where you eat enough times, and you'll find yourself shitting in a toilet with the boyfriend watching from the tub.

Tony stops after that bit of wisdom, crinkling his eyebrows and shaking his head in disagreement... with his own thoughts.

Santos: Okay, maybe not the most apt metaphor, but the point stands. You play with fire and you'll watch yourself get burned. So here I am, sitting in a god damn washing machine, my ass stuck next to a chunk of old fabric softener, like the dirty fucking laundry I've been, drunk or sober. Just waiting... listening... hoping.



The door opens, and lo and behold, it's Kayla's boyfriend. You can't see this right now, since, you know, we're sitting inside of a dark closet, but Kayla's boyfriend is a burly, 6'7" Irishman bleeding Boston through his veins. His accent seeps through the slats in the closet door, and Tony can only cringe as he hears this man scold Kayla for lying to him about...

...being out of town, not answering my texts, and leaving me in a state of fuckin' panic. How could you, Kayla? You know how I get when you're on the road for work...

(Kayla lied about being a flight attendant for JetBlue. Oops!)

...but when you fuckin' lie to me? And you're right here in your fuckin' apartment? You know my brain goes down dark places, Kayla. Rape, murder, all that grisly shit.

Tony turns to the camera, and you can barely see his smile in the dark.

Santos: You know, like what our glorious Universal Champion loves to throw around like a 5th grader who's yet to learn how to be funny, rather than go for straight shock value? Yeah, that.

Kayla and her boyfriend go back and forth for a few minutes. Kayla tells him she just needed some time alone for a few days, that he was being overbearing, and that she just wanted a breather to grab drinks with friends or watch movies with a bottle of wine, not having to worry about entertaining for two. He returns fire... at first, with righteous indignation, only to cool down seconds later, after pounding the wall in frustration. He apologizes for being neurotic, and she apologizes for not being honest...

Santos:Eh, 50% honesty is as good as it gets, I guess.

...and before you know it, talking stops, replaced with heavy breathing and audible, and deep, lip smacking. A thud into the couch, a picture falls off of the wall. Fingers ruffle, a bra strap breaks, and... well, you get the picture.

Tony sits in the closet, slow, quiet breaths, just trying to wait this all out. The woman who just hours before had been coaching him on getting past his inner demons, his past addictions, had fallen back into one of her own. See, our famed protagonist Kayla had come to this AA-esque program after diving deep into a drug and alcohol fueled psychosis, thanks to the man she was now so readily embracing. Abusive, manipulative, and just plain mean, Kayla's "man" put her into situations of his own convenience, and toyed with her emotions for his own amusement, or to quiet his own momentary insecurities.

Tony felt for her in those classes. He had trusted her judgment, he had wanted to help her as much as she could help him.

And he had failed.

Now he finds himself...

Santos: Ass deep in a fucking washing machine.

20 Minutes Later...

Silence. Tony still finds himself stuck in the washing machine, sitting through sex between a fling and her abusive boyfriend, a predicament he couldn't have imagined a mere six hours ago, when he was the one who was taking that same fling home. Tony peers through the slats in the door in front of him, checking to see if the coast is clear, but he sees nothing except an empty living room, the TV running an infomercial for yet another OxiClean product.

"Blobs" of sweat form in his armpits, and, oddly enough, between his knees. Sitting in this living coffin, Tony's anxiety heightens, his long-forming deprecation coming to a crescendo. A man who had basked in his idiocy, someone who had soaked in his ability be a reckless idiot, found himself crushed by the ideals of his 20 year old self.

He was sober, but he wasn't free.

Tony takes a deep breath, winds his right leg back, and kicks the door in front of him. The slats he'd been peering through fly open, freeing Tony from the prison he'd been stuck in for the last 30+ minutes. Freeing Tony from... himself.

Tony lets out a gasp of relief. He smiles that toothy smile everyone following him is well familiar with at this point, but behind it, light shines through. The sunlight shines through, catching the back of his mouth, his ruined gums, flaunting the internal ruin so many have missed in Tony Santos's evolution. The champion who has gathered the Hart Title... his first major title run in the XWF... was holding no secrets beneath the surface, but like a victim of an invisible disease like liver cancer, it took lifting the hood to truly see the imminent destruction ahead.

But not now.

The door crashes open, white wooden shards flailing across the living room. Tony lays back, reviewing the scene, still stuck in the washing machine, sweat pouring from his brow, as it always seems to do. His triceps tighten, trying to remove himself from the predicament, a few grunts making their way from his wide throat. Tony lifts harder, looking to leave the prison he'd made for himself, and after a few more lifts, he finds himself free.

Tony smiles.



Tony turns to his right, and sees a door near. No noise, no breaths, but Tony can sense the presence of each person who had trapped him in that closet. He coud sense the man who had taken back the woman he had started to fall for, and he could send the woman he knew was meant to be his.

Tony stumbles to his left, still shaking out the cobwebs, but catches himself. He makes his way down the hall, his heart starting to race, anticipating what is to come. His hands begin to shake, the sheer adrenaline enough for him to know that he's many steps behind... no... he's completely...


Tony approaches the door. He builds up the courage to confront the man who was stealing the woman of his dreams, and he was willing to take that woman back. Tony Santos was willing to take a stand and stop that woman in his...



...tracks.

Tony stops at the door handle, his hand quivering in front of the entrance to his future.

Santos: Shannon.

No woman would ever truly be free for Tony to take back. Not after his girlfriend, Shannon, and his son, died in a car crash via train. Tony Santos left one prison, only to find himself in a much more open one. Tony Santos wasn't, and would never be...

...Free.

*********************************************************************************************

Tony Santos drops to the floor, falling flat on his back. The wooden boards holding up the house carrying his squeal. Tony hits the floor, his head protected only by the fact that his neck can do a solid bridge. He stares to the ceiling, tracing the dots in the tiles, and knows he's facing the wrong target.

Santos: Centurion. You're a man of legend. A man with an extensive resume. A man who is revered within the XWF. You're an old timer, a past champion...

...and a current failure.

Centurion, I miss facing you! I miss facing a man who is living off of past prime, while thriving off of inferior opposition. A man who has coasted off of his own name for so long, that it seems the talk about you is more legendary than the work you've put together in the ring. The "legend" who can't win a title, and the wrestler who can't lead the federation.

See, Centurion, you're not so different from everyone else I've faced. You come in, talk a calm, cool, and collected game, but deep down, you do what each and every one of my opponents does, one by one. You face me, you look at this wretched face, you smell the sweet, sweet smell of alcohol cruise right up your nostrils, and...

...you get spooked.

See, Centurion, I expect better from someone with the name recognition you have. Someone who has accomplished so much, you should be relishing the opportunity to take down a champion like me! Unlike some of the newbies, you should be thrilled to take me down a peg. You should be elated at the opportunity to once again prove how great your name is, and how much of an overhyped champion I am.

But not you, Cent. No no, certainly not you. Instead, you spend your time flaunting your wealth and success to the world, how you've made it, but when it comes time to talk to me?

You pander. You heap praise like a child trying to rip a toy from fucking Santa Claus. You... quiver.

Because you're scared, Cent, admit it. I beat you before, and you know I'm going to beat you again. You say you're "not here to make people feel good," but damn, you're not doing a good job. But you've never been good at anything you've set your mind to, now have you, Cent? Since coming back to the XWF, you've managed to fail up. You've failed time and time again at title opportunities, yet, because we have such pathetic competition in this company, you find yourself back in a position where you can yet again let down yourself and the five fans who you've paid to follow you.

Am I the best Hart champion of all time? Let's be real, even I can't take credit for that. Robert Main ran roughshod on this division for nearly twice the amount of time I did.

Do I have the respect of my peers? Cent, I was just sitting in a dark closet for Christ's sake! I don't have the respect of my own self, let alone the people around me.

But see, you know that. You know I'm overhyped. You know I'm a nuisance to the fans, this company, and the sad motherfuckers that line these cards week in and week out. Hell, you PREDICTED you're going to beat me, to take me down from my... perch, and take back your once good name. I know you want this, and honestly, you should feel pretty good about your chances. I'm an alcoholic whose liver could kick it at any time! I could keel over or suffer from hallucinations, and you could roll me up for an easy three count.

But for all of your words, for all of your flashy signs of wealth, the one thing you lack...

...is that killer instinct. Not a desire to win, but a need to win. The greatest champions of our time, when they're not joking about rape, or spouting homophobic nonsense, have made damn sure to let the world know of how good they think they are. Maybe it was a lack of brains, maybe it was an overabundance of self confidence, but man, did they let you know they were going to take that damn title, even if it meant spouting a liter of blood from their fucking eyeball. They just knew it had to be theirs, and they made damn well sure you knew it.

But not you. Not the great Centurion.

Because you're scared. You know how quickly I ruined you last time, exploiting your old and broken joints to take you down with relative ease. You've seen how I've rolled through countless competitors with zero singles losses in six fucking months. And you can envision how this broken brain of mine won't see you as a legend, or even your run of the mill wrestler, but as just another obstacle on my way to that sweet, sweet high...

Tony pauses, shakes his head, and smiles.

Santos:No no, not THAT high! I'm sober, Cent! No no, the high of yet another title retention. Yet another victory on my road trip through the half rate idiots that make up this clown show.

And now it runs through you... again. Same old song and dance, with the same old broken record. The same old playbook, the same old weak insults, and the shameless ass kissing of a champion who you know you can't beat.

I am going to destroy you.I am going to rip you apart, limb from plastic limb. I'll leave you mumbling that stupid fucking catchphrase, on your back, after I drop you with a Final Destination. I'm going to end the allusion you so poorly crafted ages ago, and drop you back into the realm of mediocrity you so utterly deserve, and secretly crave. I'm going to end you, Centurion.

But you already knew that, didn't you?



The scene fades to black.

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