We open on a chilly afternoon in Boston, Massachusetts. The wind is whipping through travelers in fall jackets. Just by the...

...oh, you want to talk about the panting? We'll get to that.

As I was saying...

Just by the looks on the faces of the Bostonians traversing to and from the trains below, as well as the buses above, this is not how they planned on spending a late May afternoon. March runs the spectrum of wintry to rainy, sure, but that's expected in the slooooow transition from winter to spring. April? As they say, April showers bring May flowers, so yeah, they expect more rain! But May? May is for laying in the Boston Common, for leisurely strolls through the Cambridge universities, and for getting off a stop or two before your normal stop, just for the long walk before another dreadful day in front of your computer.

It's not for this. Boston is miserable enough as it is, with the emotional repression looming over every church and human being, in the proud Irish Catholic tradition of guilt, guilt, and more guilt. Would it kill Mother Nature to... JUST ONCE, bring sunshine early? Would it?

Spoiler: It would.

However, what Bostonians love is experiencing the misery of someone else, and man, they get a slight reprieve from their own miserable afternoon, an afternoon of skipping out of work early after a long weekend to hide inside and binge Netflix, to crank their necks over and look at the pile of human shame sitting on the corner of Comm Ave and Beacon Street. Cars honk and people whistle, as Tony Santos can be seen crumpled on the ground, looking less like a man asleep, and more like a pile of wet hair... you know, like when you pull hair out of the shower drain? Yeah, like a 224 pound pile of wet hair.

Yum.

Tony can be seen on the concrete, his hair covered in sweat, his red trucker hat sitting by his feet. Tony has let his beard go unchecked, so he has a mustache that is creeping over his top lip, and a scraggly pile of fuzz covers his chin, with little bits of hair trailing from his sideburns down. His new (for once) pair of red jeans have already been torn at the knee, and his (also new) yellow Chucks...

...a hideous color, by the way...

...are covered in dirt and little drops of blood.

Broken bits of concrete scratch beneath him, as a symphony of dropped Rs and car horns rain from above.

But how did we get here?

Monday, May 27th...

Tony had just returned from a trip to Moscow. War Games had finished, Tony having taken a L in his match against Donovan Blackwater's crew. He'd spent his entire 13 hour flight stewing in his overpriced business class seat.

Santos: One more god damn person. That was all... One more.

Tony, a champion, had failed to take down a fellow champion in Lux. He'd been down 3 to 1. He eliminated Robbie Bourbon. He'd beaten the man he sees as the epitome of privilege in Donovan Blackwater.

And then there was Lux.

3 to 1 was too much to handle. His teammates had crumbled under the pressure, in the same way a cheap bottle of booze turns Tony into absolute mush on a couch, his sheet-less bed, or...

...a street corner.

Anyways, Tony landed in Logan Airport in Boston, after 13 hours on a plane, barely leaving his seat, and without having even [i]one drink. Tony, a raging alcoholic, a man who just weeks ago had blacked out on a five hour flight, couldn't muster the desire for even one.

Tony lands in Logan Airport, early Monday morning.

Santos: Ah fuck!

Tony rotates his hand to look at his palm, and he sees the chicken scratch he had scrawled on his hand...

Melissa Oliveira: Fenway Health - 9am

Tony had set up his first appointment with Melissa Oliveira, perhaps the only person with a slightly ethnic-sounding name in all of Boston, let alone Fenway Health, to talk about his problems with addiction and excess. Melissa, a graduate of Boston University, specializes in addiction of all kinds, and, given her lack of experience (she'd just graduated with her PhD from BU six months ago), she was cheap and "in network" from an insurance coverage perspective, simply because Fenway had no choice but to keep their options open for this new addiction specialist.

It was 8:52am, and Tony was at least 30 minutes away, thanks to Monday morning traffic. His first appointment, and Tony wasn't drunk. No no, that wasn't his problem, he hadn't even had a sip! Nope, he was simply reckless in the commitment he'd made.

Not knowing how to work Microsoft Office Calendar. Who knew that would be what took Tony Santos down this time? Life is...

Santos: Fucking insane. This is all fucking insane...

I'm sorry? Oh, yes, I'll hold.

Tony sits in the back seat of his Uber, a 2017 black Toyota Prius. He's in his fresh pair of red Levi's and a set of yellow Chucks that he was gifted by a fan... a fan who maybe knew a bit too much about Tony (when you know someone's shoe size, you might be a little too close for comfort, you know?) Tony's been letting his hair grow a bit, and after his War Games loss, he had no interest in cleaning up. Fucking let it grow is all Tony could consider. His hair wasn't important, given his career plateau.

He'd managed to return to the XWF, win two matches, and then win a third for the Hart Title!

Then he drew his first defense. A fucking draw. A motherfucking draw.

Then he loses, in the match that could've gained him MVP and a shot at another title? He could've helped drive Deacon to a shot against Robert Main for the Universal belt, and lifted his other partners to a semblance of relevance, but instead?

Santos: I fucking lost.

He fucking lost.

So, Tony is trying to find the upside. He's a man who's still champion, living (temporarily) in his hometown of Boston, and is in some new kicks! He's a man who's at least accomplished things, and hasn't lost them as quickly as that vaunted Xtreme Title "reign," or his similarly pathetic TV Title reign. He's made a splash in his work, hasn't driven another lover to an untimely death, and is actively working to turn his red-wine-filled veins into something resembling human blood. Vanquishing nauseating headaches that feel like rocks rattling through the center of his brain, replacing them with real thoughts! Waking up in the morning and not looking for that next beer in the fridge, but anticipating a run through the Fens.

Santos: So I fuckin... sorry, so I freaking missed it?

Tony presses the phone hard against his right cheek. He stares at the floor of the car, nodding slightly as he hears the news that his session was not just cancelled, but that he would also be paying for half the session's normal $180 fee, since he no-showed and didn't cancel 48 hours in advance. Tony's eyes narrow, but he's not mad... not filled with the rage of an alcoholic unburdened after his sixth drink. He's just...

...resigned. Resigned to the mediocrity he's made an art. Resigned to the fact that he's failed so many people... those he holds has appointments with, those he has befriended, those he works with...

...those he loved.

Tony pounds his finger into the screen of his iPhone, hanging up, realizing he's down $90 and has failed Lou, his mentor and old bartender, who just happens to be housing him in his tiny flat in Boston. Tony had one job... make his damn addiction appointment. Now he'll have to explain that back to Lou! Tony mumbles aloud, in the back of his Uber.

Santos: Well, that's gonna be... uncomfortable. Lou's gonna be pissed, man. I can just see his crusty old face now, cracks forming in his ancient forehead as he realizes I missed my first god damn appointment with...

Tony stops in his tracks, jolting his head right from the Uber, his long hair flinging itself from left eyebrow to right, as he spots a DIVE.



"Well, I've been good. I didn't have a sip on a 13 hour flight, where booze is free. And... if it's open..."

The Tam, one of the few bars open at practically all hours of the day and night, has its doors readily open for the old Boston alcoholics, whose wives have died, or who never had wives to speak of, to coalesce, have five or so breakfast drinks, and drunkenly discuss the ways of the world. If you peeked through the musty windows, you would see lonely men, close to death, spending their final years on stools, hitting on the one female Irish bartender trying to get the hell out through law school, or rambling about how Trump is making America truly great again in the face of the liberal machine that consumes Massachusetts, or just playing a game of shuffleboard. There was this one 65 year old man, predictably nicknamed Sully, who was the king of the shuffleboard table, and he...

...oh, never mind, it's not that interesting.

Tony shows up at The Tam, a bar on the verge of extinction before it sold its soul to a venture capital firm that resurrected them from the abyss. The Tam was resurrected in early 2019, and the bar flies came back in droves. Sure, a bar can be hurt by claims of loss of authenticity, but the alcohol always brings people back...

...especially if you open at 9am.

Tony stops his Uber abruptly. He'd been set to still go to Fenway Health, which was at least another five to ten minutes away, but he told the man at the wheel to let him out here. The Prius screeches to a halt, veering into a makeshift parking space, the driver likely OK letting a man talking to himself in the back seat out for the sake of getting him out of the car. Tony basically launches himself from the car and into the bar, his heart pulsing with excitement, his breaths getting quicker. Tony's blood is made of red wine. His kidneys are little distilleries.

His body is a home brew experiment. Tony Santos is a creature of habit. He's a lover of alcohol.

Tony Santos is an addict badly in need of any semblance of...

[i]

Eight hours later

...help.

10 IPAs. 2 vodka tonics. 4 chardonnays.

Tony Santos, Hart Champion. Tony Santos, former King of the XWF contender.

Tony Santos, face first into concrete. He can kick teeth in...

...while losing his own.

Tony Santos, tag team partner. He can carry his partners...

...but not to victory.

Tony Santos, champion. He can carry a belt...

...to draws.

Tony Santos, a man of change...

...until he has to make his commitments.

Tony Santos...

...addict.

And that brings us to today. Tony Santos, a man afraid to show himself in front of his mentor. A man clutching at the handle of a bottle, but also at the handle of relevance... of importance. Loss hurts.

Santos: Losing Shannon to a train track.

It hurt.

Santos: Losing my son.

It god damn hurt.

Santos: But losing my own personal value? Losing my sense of self? Losing control over my own body and mind?

It fucking kills him.

But losing his title?

Santos: It's the fucking end.

The scene returns to Tony on the pavement as the scene fades to black.

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