Tony, get back to Boston, now. I bought you a ticket for a flight tonight. It's nothing fancy, but make. that. flight.

Tony rolls over in bed, AirPods in his ears, a confused and groggy look on his face.

Santos: Wait, what Lou? I don't even know when...

Lou: 7pm. I'll see you in the morning.

Santos: But... where?

Lou: You know where.

The scene opens where it all began...




We find ourselves down the main drag of Brighton... Washington Street. It's a sunny, clear day in the middle of May. People carry bags of leftovers from Jim's Deli, hold boxes of overly sugary custard from Abbott's, and a Boston College kid stumbles down the street from St. Elizabeth's Medical Center, his medical bracelet still around his wrist.

It's a mixed bag in Brighton. College kids mingle with Boston townies, who mix with third generation Greek immigrants. The nights can make it feel like a party town, while the days make you think you could live in this low cost neighborhood of Boston for the rest of your life. It's that kind of a mix that brought Tony Santos into this town...

...and what made him flee.

Tony can be seen walking down Washington Street, quickly puffing a cigarette, his short hair starting to dangle further and further down his neck. Tony just landed in Boston's Logan Airport an hour ago, and he quickly grabbed a cab over to Brighton to meet with Lou, a man you'll know more of in a bit. His duffel bag sits over his shoulder, some random hoodies and torn t-shirts thrown in, and his Hart Title grasping the strap, holding on for dear life both to the bag and to Tony, following a draw with Noah Jackson.

Tony hurries to the spot he feels Lou is talking about, The Castlebar. His old divey haunt in Brighton, many a nights spent eating Chinese food delivered from around the corner, while waxing drunkenly poetic about the son he didn't want and the life he wanted to give up.

Nothing quite goes together like beef chow mein, a Harpoon IPA, and existential regret.

Tony moves into a light sprint, and makes it to his old spot. Time for a drink! Then he looks up.

Santos: What the fuck is this?



A fucking pantry, Tony. Organic produce, local cheeses, and wine all the way from California!!!

Lou: That's right, it's gone.

A large, portly, older man kicks himself slowly off of the lamp post nearby, coming into view.

Lou: Did you even know that, Tony? It's been, what, five years since you've stepped foot here? I don't think I've heard from you since you told this town to go fuck itself, as you were moving on to greener pastures in California! A state even more fucking expensive than this liberal hellhole, where a gallon of gas costs four bucks and a pack of smokes basically gets you thrown in the... actually, hand me one of those.

Lou extends his beefy hand towards Tony. His hands have been bloated by years of drinking too much of his own product, being a bartender at The Castlebar, then at the local dive out in East Somerville after The Castlebar closed up shop. Tony extends his own hand, bruised and battered from wrestling, and passes Lou a Marlboro Black.

Tony hands Lou a book of matches. Lou swipes a match across his pant leg and lights his cigarette.

Lou: As I was saying...

Tony stops Lou before he can continue to spout off on him, raising a hand to his face.

Santos: That's how we're gonna play this, Lou? Five years and all you're gonna tell me how much of a god damn traitor I am? That's why you sent me back to this gentrified shithole, on an economy seat near the fucking toilet on Spirit Fucking Airlines? Bringing me back to tell me how I ruined everything or some shit?

You can fuck right off with that bullshit, my man. You were a mentor... a friend. But you sure as hell are not, and never have been, my father. So you can save the sanctimonious BS for one of your bar flies, you entitled, old prick.

Phew! That was a relief for Tony to get off his shoulders! You can practically feel the heat emanating from Tony's face through the camera. Tony and Lou are the only two people on this side of the sidewalk, and with their encounter turning more and more into a shouting match, this sleepy neighborhood would likely avoid crossing paths with them until they tired themselves out and hit up Dunkin'.

Lou's pudgy, graying face shows no love for the man in front of him, nor joy for the moment that was bringing them together.

Lou: Anthony...

Ah, the big gun right there. Something as small as calling Tony "Anthony" could turn Tony in an instant. Adding those three little letters was a privilege only allowed for people close to Tony, and Lou had earned that privilege long, long ago.

Lou: Anthony, I didn't come here to make you feel bad about this godforsaken neighborhood and what it's become! I picked this spot because, guess what? All that resonates with you is meeting around a fucking bar! And this is the bar you spent practically every god damned day at, with me overserving you. Remember all the times you passed out near that very window? All the times I had to carry you to your apartment over on Montfern?

That is why I'm here. Because, unlike this neighborhood, nothing has changed with you. I see you on TV, Tony, and I'm proud of what you've accomplished. That belt right there? Fantastic! You're earning the gold I saw you ripping from the hands of others years ago! But here's my fear, Tony.

Remember how quickly you lost those titles? Because I sure as hell do. It was because you acted like a drunken buffoon, caught up in your own brief bit of success, and your own ego, and you last those belts like... *snap* that.

But I'm not concerned about your fleeting success, Tony. I'm happy you're doing well, but wouldn't care if you're taken down in your next match, and the record books record your short reign for the world to see...

...I'm concerned about you, Tony. I've seen this playbook play out over and over and over again. When you were here? I saw a stupid kid who would grow out of his reckless habits. Now? I see a man setting himself up for a very short lifetime. And I don't want to see you fall, Tony. Not off the cliff of life, my friend.

Lou grabs Tony by the arm. Tony's face has turned from angry... to a bit bewildered. Lou forcefully rotates Tony as he lifts a hand towards the street.

Lou: See, Tony? This is transformation. Sure, Brighton's got its shit, as we all do. But where we had nail salons, we now have nice restaurants. Where we had sketchy liquor stores, we have fucking yoga studios. Where we had The Fucking Castlebar... well at least we don't have alcoholics stumbling around and sleeping outside the door, waiting for the bar to reopen for their next fix.

Transformation ain't easy, Tony, and it certainly isn't perfect. But if you don't try, you'll close down quicker than you ever imagined possible. Don't shut the doors on your life so soon. I wanted to recommend... some help.

Lou ruffles through his wallet, flipping past his credit cards, before hitting some business cards.

Lou: Here. They're a good group of people, and they can get you on the right track.

Tony rips his hand away, a scowl showing a loose front tooth poking out of his mouth.

Santos: I don't nee...

Lou stops Tony this time, similarly with a hand to Tony's face, card between his fingers. Fenway Health is the organization, tucked in the heart of Boston, and Melissa Savage is the addiction specialist.

Lou: Just... take it. Talk to her. She's helped me, and I know she can help you.

Just... talk to her.

Santos: But where would I...

Lou: Stay? With me. Sure, my little apartment here is a dump, but there's a couch perfect for someone your size. I'd be happy to host you, if you're willing to work with me.

Anthony, I desperately want to see a new and healthy you. Just give this a shot... please.

Tony takes the card from Lou. Lou walks away, back to his apartment in Brighton, the one Tony could up holing himself in for the near future. Tony stares at the card, then pulls out his phone. He types the number into his Contacts:


Tony takes a deep breath and lets out a long exhale. This could be the change he's always needed, and really wanted, but was never willing to admit.

Maybe.


Tony turns towards the camera... the same camera that has been following his conversation with Lou this entire time. The dejection and fear on Tony's face turns into a wide smile as he shoves the Fenway Health business card down his pants pocket. Tony looks backwards and below him, finds the chair in front of the Wildflower Pantry, and plops himself down.

Santos: Well, everyone, that was a bit of a downer! Let's play some music to lighten the mood.

Tony scrolls through his phone, mumbling a bit, both excitedly and negatively.

Santos: Ah, here we go!

Tony hits play.



Santos: Much better. Now, since you've had a chance to see me get a bit... vulnerable, let's get a bit more open and honest about some of the fine folks my team will be facing at War Games.

Let's go! I'll make it quick! You've already watched me on screen for a solid 30 minutes, and I won't give you another consultation from Merriam-Webster, unlike every set you've likely ever seen from my opponents, well before they blessed us with their presence for War Games

Here we go!

Donovan!!!

As I've mentioned before, you've always been stuck on latching on to your family's achievements, and I get it! It's easier to talk about the great work of Mr. Satellite, Azrael, or whatever the hell else your father is calling himself... it's a "he," right?... than it is to do anything on your own. That's fine, you're trying! Just like you tried to hit me with some sweet, sweet burns right after I grabbed the Hart Title and you sat around with... nothing, to your name, except the accomplishments of those in your family tree that get the love and respect you so wish you had.

Donovan, here's the difference between you and me: I've been honest about the fact that I'm a man in this business for the money I've squandered, and to run away from the myriad problems that I so generously show you on your very TV or holographic screen on a weekly basis. I'm real about that.

You?

You couch your insecurities in 2,000 word dissertations that seem more like a fill in the blank exercise from a college essay you picked from a third-rate state school chat forum. You consistently tell people they should have been aborted, because deep down, you feel you were the mistake in your family. You've been riding their coattails, and you're afraid of failing them over, and over, and over again.

And that's fine! Just be real about it. Be real about yourself. Your fears. Your dreams.

Get your head out of whatever constellation you find yourself in and be real.

Lux!!!

I gotta give it to you, man... you're a true champion! You defend that TV Title over and over and over, and week after week, you make us all proud. Shouldn't you be the captain of this team? See, unlike Donovan, you back up your words with action. You're a man who knows how to get the hard work done.

But you didn't step up when it mattered, did you? You have a major profile here, Lux! You're one of the top guys in this company! You're an inspiration to so many fans, and so many wrestlers, young and old alike, want to be like you. They want to be as talented as you have proven yourself to be. They vie for the gold you so successfully defend.

But you proved you're not a true leader. You let Donovan Blackwater, the definition of "nepotism" in the book he so furiously plagiarizes, be your superior, again. Donovan has endless confidence, I'll give him that. Where you can back it up, he can't.

But at least he showed up. He raised his hand.

Instead, everything I've ever seen from you in my return to this business is a man who is hiding behind the gold you have so successfully defended. But it's a cover for the real problem you face: Self-confidence. You have the gold, but you surely don't have the guts. Maybe I'll stop by Savage and expose you for the fraud you are. That would be fun, wouldn't it??

And Robbie!!!

I'm bored saying this man's name. Everything I've ever seen from Robbie is a man big on speeches, and low on actual accomplishments. Give me a reason to care about you, Robbie... please! You're so cookie cutter that you're on sale in the post-Christmas aisle in fucking Home Goods.

You're as bland as the french fries at In n Out.

You're as formulaic as every Nickelback song.

You're...

Just not that interesting, or threatening.

Give me a reason to care.

Tony wipes his forehead, lets out a quick breath, and smiles again at the camera.

Santos: Welp, it's been fun, but it's time to go. I'll surely get a Google Alert the next time Donovan mentions the word "abortion," and I'll check my bank account when Lux sells me another piece of real estate in his head.

But now? I guess it's time to try some $20 brie with almonds in it for some fucking reason.

Until next time! Let me play you out.



Tony swings open the door to the Wildflower Pantry as the scene fades to black.

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