Tony sits in his comfortable little beach chair, enjoying the peace and quiet of a cold, snowy winter day in Atkinson, Maine. Yes, he's sitting in a beach chair; a pristine, seemingly invincible beach chair, an Allagash Odyssey in hand as he enjoys the winter wonderland in front of him. Knit gloves on his hands, he grips the cold pint bottle in his right hand, his left hand holding a fresh Marlboro Black. Was he going to die an early death from either lung cancer or severe liver damage? Sure, if this was real life. However, this was a dream. Santos couldn't be harmed in a dream. Well, he did do this in real life too, so, um, I guess he was susceptible to one or the other, after all. Oh well. He wasn't dying today, so that was all that mattered.

Santos smiles as he looks out to the seemingly endless field of white. He's bundled up in a black pea coat, hoodie underneath, the hood covering his head and, more importantly, his ears. Tony takes a big swig of his beer, followed by a cancerous drag of his cigarette.

Shit, thinks Tony, Philip Morris knows what it's doing. They can willfully get people to inhale these toxic rolls of cancer, and have us yearning for more. Fuck, man, that's a business right there, and a damn good one for your run of the mill sociopath. Push people toward liking these things, then, slowly fucking kill them while siphoning their money from their pockets. It's god damn brilliant.

Tony looks to his right at his bottle of liquid courage, his other vice, and smiles.

And this. Shit, if cigarettes are the number one killer, alcohol is second in command. Fuck, man, this shit tastes better than cigarettes, and it gives you that little itch in the cranium, but it still can't beat out those cancer sticks. Fuck if it isn't absolutely motherfucking delicious, though. About as good as your typical midnight stripper in the bad part of the Bronx, who gives out lap dances for a cover charge of a cool $20 a piece, with some hand grabbing on the side, and, if you're lucky, a taste of her nether region and all of the "exotic" bits that lie down below.

Vices. Motherfucking vices. They'll kill you, but they won't do so all at once. That's their strength. They take their time, letting their poisons seep within you, eating you inside, until eventually, after years of depravity, after years of embarrassment, and after decades of destroying everything that you love, they finally kill you. They don't want the quick victory. Hell no, they want to take you slowly. They want you to love them, cherish them, NEED them. They feed off of your dependency. They thrive off of your frailty. While you think they're your true love, while you desire them, need them, they're eating you up. Your liver? Alcohol's burning a hole in it that would make the ozone layer feel fortunate. Your lungs? They're being filled with tar to the point that they're gasping for the air that they can no longer hold. All the while, your brain is the one that's in love. It's the one that was bitten by the bug a long time ago. The central computer of the body, all it took was the beginning stages of these viruses to nail its central control system for it to be completely and utterly seduced. Then, and only then...

do the viruses take control.

That's all they need. That initial inroad, and they're golden. After that, they coast along, multiplying, killing blood cells, and making a nuisance of what was once a perfectly functioning ecosystem.

Fuck, that's Madison. He's taken a hold of his own universe, and all that he has to say is "march," and the legions of lemmings will march willingly to their own deaths. If he tells them to jump, they will. Sit, they will. Hell, if he even utters his name and they hear him, they'll immediately, without hesitation, drop to their knees and bow at the presence of the king.

That's what gave him the ability to take in The Congregation. Eli James and company proved that they're nothing more than power hungry fools, just as I had foreseen. Eli James, the "savior" that he consistently, without fail considers himself, fell under the allure of power. Power that was greater than his, and he knew it. Upon joining Madison and the Black Circle, he admitted that he's nothing more than a mere mortal. A mere mortal who's below OTHER mere mortals, and nothing more. He was infected with the virus that he himself tried to spread across the organization, a virus that couldn't withstand even JOHN MADISON.

Tony looks back down at his beer, then lifts it up to his mouth and takes a swig.

Santos: Fuck. Heh, willingly inject this poison, and enjoy it. I'll willingly inject mine as well.

All of a sudden, Tony finds his chair floating. That's right, his pristine beach chair has lifted off of the fluffy snow and is now floating higher and higher into the cold, gray, Maine sky. Why? Because this is a dream, that's why. Let him enjoy his drunken haze, will you?

Santos travels over the clouded landscape, his chair picking up a brisk pace, but, nothing changes. This is Tony's paradise. Something that he'd become completely unaccustomed to. A life of, well, nothing. As a kid, and even as a young adult, his failures, his many, many moments of irresponsibility, gave him endless opportunities to be alone, to enjoy listlessness. No one cared to associate with him, because no one could gain from it. Now?

Everyone could gain from him, except himself. Shannon wanted his money, XWF wrestlers were chasing the flavor of the week, and Madison was chasing his next target. Tony was inundated with attention, with false praise, with false fans, and he wanted nothing more than to enjoy silence. Quiet. Peace. Nothingness.

He floated in the atmosphere, sipping his beer, inhaling his cigarette, as he glided over complete and utter nothingness. No fans. No mooches. No one to benefit from this but himself. And, he was happy. Hell, he was euphoric. He was... relaxed.

Just then, to his left, a... hawk (?) collides with his cheekbone, and he proceeds to spiral rapidly downward. Tony drops his beer, the ashes of his cigarette covering his face as he makes a beeline for the cold, hard ground. Tony grips the arms of his chair for dear life as he dives headfirst downward. His eyes wide open, frightened, the booze buzz gone, Tony readies himself for his impending death. Faster and faster he falls, but the ground, in its emptiness, looks no closer, making it that much more frightening. Tony closes his eyes as the ground is 200 feet...

100 feet...

50 feet...

10 feet from his face...

*SPLAT*

Is Tony dead? He couldn't be. It was a dream, after all. You can't actually die in a dream, right?

The scene is still completely white. Had Tony woken up? Was his face plastered in the snow? Was he in... heaven?

Shannon: Tone! Wake up! I want breakfast, and you clearly need some bacon and eggs. Let's go. Get your ass up.

Tony opened his eyes. The white surrounding him, a white bed sheet. He was in a cheap motel in Oklahoma, down for the count ahead of his match on Monday night. Tony was no stranger to a haze, but this was no drunken haze. He was just, well, tired. Barely able to see straight, Tony managed to push a few, barely comprehensible words out of his rose-colored lips...

Santos: Not bacon. Hash. Hash and eggs. Home fries and ketchup. Mmm.

Shannon:You clearly need coffee. Your head is in the clouds.

Tony smiles as the scene fades to black.

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