How many Splendas, sir?

Santos: Four.

The cashier squints at Tony, her face crinkling up like a ball of paper submerged in lava.

Cashier: I'm sorry, sir, could you repeat that one more time? Did you say four? Four Splendas in your coffee?

Tony, looking agitated in his clean cut, dark blue jeans and plain blue t-shirt, stares at the cashier. He eyes a few choices of pastry behind the meek woman of barely 19 years, her long, dark locks resting on her jagged, bony shoulders. The visor on her head, a vestige of the late 90s,sits on her head, seemingly harmless as ever. However, the Dunkin' Donuts abbreviation; a simple "DD" in cartoonish lettering, mocks Tony. In his warped mind, Comic Sans was offensive. It didn't take itself seriously, so it sure as hell didn't take him seriously. It wasn't helping that this woman happens to be so god damn polite. Tony hates manners. He really hates anything resembling positivity, respect, or human kindness, so, well, he's just not a terribly happy or lovable person.

Tony looks at the young cashier unflinchingly, then at a hot pot of coffee to the right, then back at the cashier.

Santos: Four. Four motherfucking packets of Splenda. Not three. Not five. Not two. Not even six! Four packets of that fake sugar shit in the yellow packaging. For the love of god, it's four motherfucking Splenda packets.

The cashier looks at Tony with a frown before turning toward her left, grabbing a large, clear iced coffee cup, then moving to the back of the counter to fill it with ice. Tony lets out a sigh. Suddenly, his tired face becomes fairly stern, his eyelids narrowing as his forehead scrunches. Tony fumbles around in his pant pockets: front, then back.

He forgot his cigarettes. Perfect.

Cashier: Here you are, sir. That'll be $2.75, please.

Tony looks at the coffee, then at the cashier. Tony pulls his wallet out of his back pocket, fumbles through for cash, then stops. Tony closes the wallet, holds it in between his thumb and index finger, and takes as light swing at the cup of coffee. The coffee tips over, with the lid loosening its grip on the rest of the container. The contents of the cup spill out, with the liquid beverage flowing towards the woman faster than a bad first day on the rag, while the ice cubes scatter across the counter like liquid marbles. The girl behind the counter jolts backward to avoid the spill. Tony drops a $5 bill on the counter, then heads for the door.

Santos: Remember this when you're at school, slobbing on some young college knobs when you should be hitting the books. If you're gonna be treated like shit for the rest of your life by those who you serve, you damn well better make sure you get paid well for it.

Tony flings open the door and soon finds himself smack dab in Central Square in Cambridge, Massachusetts. Known for its prime location to the City of Boston, as well as the many fine academic institutions only a train stop ("T") or two away, it also happens to be known for its large homeless and addict contingent. Just a few months ago, Tony Santos, flowing brown hair and a smile that could stun the most picky of ladies, would have looked completely out of place in a place as foreign to his kind as this. Confident, upright, and full of the pure grade of piss and vinegar that only someone in his mid-20s with a swelling bank account could contain, Tony was on Cloud Nine.

Now? Tony was taking slow steps out of a Dunkin' Donuts, hunched over from nagging back injuries that'd yet to have healed themselves, while wearing a light clothing number, not because it was steadily becoming warmer in the Boston area, but simply because his hoodies were either torn up and useless, or filthy from living in a rat-infested, concrete and asbestos jungle in the basement of a dive bar. Not to mention, Tony Santos had just walked out of an establishment having picked on a teenage girl making minimum wage. There were highs, there were lows, and then there was Santos.

As Tony strolls down the street, hands in his pockets, he passes a Chipotle restaurant, where he spots a few homeless folks congregating inside, while five or so line the outside of the store. One such person is holding the door for incoming patrons, her empty Dunkin' Donuts cup in hand, with what sounds like are only four of five coins jingling. From initially looking at her, she looks at least 60, but in reality, she was probably just drug- and street-hardened, and was really in her mid-40s. It doesn't really matter, as age is a pretty useless number in this part of the city. You age quickly thanks to the copious amount of street drugs that you consume both her and in other shithole portions of Boston, you age even more from the packs of cigarettes that you bum (or steal) from passersby. You then either die quickly, looking 50 when you're 35, or you outlive all reasonable expectations, and live a miserable life while looking like someone's 19th century ancestor.

A fantastic existence it is.

Tony walks up to this woman. She jingles her cup and smiles at Tony as she begins to open the door.

Homeless Woman: Good afternoon my...

Tony holds his right hand up to her.

Santos: I'm not going inside.

Homeless Woman: Oh, well, okay. Then do you...

Santos: Why do you do this?

Homeless Woman: Why do I do what?

Santos: Don't play dumb with me. This. Acting like everyone's personal bitch for a couple of fucking nickels. Nickels that some punk ass college kids got for a god damn Quesarito that cost them a solid six bucks. You treat their gifts like gold... they treat them like shit like makes their pockets feel uncomfortable.

Homeless Woman: Well...

Santos: Plus, you make them uncomfortable! They just want you to go away! Don't you get it, you piece of shit? You're in the way. People can open their own god damn doors. They can serve themselves. They don't need you to pressure them in to feeling sorry for you. This restaurant doesn't need you latching on every now and then to better yourself. They don't need you! The XWF doesn't need you!

The woman looks at Tony, puzzled.

Homeless Woman: The, who?

Tony loses his train of thought. He looks at the door, then out in to the street. He blinks a few times, his pupils widening as he tries to shake off the cobwebs. He looks back at the woman, observing her confused, innocent face. Her burnt, brown hair. Her wrinkled face. The unseemly mole beneath her lip. Tony down the sidewalk. There's a homeless man talking on a telephone... except he's talking in to a nonexistent telephone in a phone booth that has no phone, all while wearing a bundle of empty, plastic CVS bags over his head. Tony looks at that man with complete utter contempt as the clouds overhead suddenly clear, with a bright, almost fluorescent sunlight breaking through.

Homeless Woman: Sir? Are you okay?

Santos: Yeah, yeah. I'm...

Homeless Woman: How many Splendas?

Santos: Wh-what?

Homeless Woman: How many Splendas for your coffee?

Tony closes his eyes and rubs his forehead. He opens them to find that he's back in Dunkin' Donuts. Well, he'd actually never left.

Tony looks at the cashier, her ridiculous, multi-colored visor, that god damn DD symbol, the buzz of a malfunctioning heat lamp near the doughnuts, and that god damn DD symbol.

Santos: Erm, um, sorry. None for me. I'm, um, going to leave.

Tony limps away from the counter, making his way to the door, caffeine-less. He stops, stretches his back while wincing in slight pain, then continues toward the door.

Cashier: Sir! Wait!

Tony brushes her off as he keeps moving.

Cashier: Sir, your cigarettes.

Tony turns around slightly to see his Marlboro blacks in mid-air, already careening towards his face. The pack hits Tony in the nose before dropping to the ground. Tony slowly bends over to pick up the pack. Once again he winces in pain as he reaches his left hand for the pack. Still bent over, Tony opens the cover, only to find that he has 18 sticks left. He smiles. Today wouldn't be such a bad day after all.

Standing up, Tony re-opens the pack and goes to pull out a cigarette. He comes out with... a dollar bill. This was his wallet.

The scene fades to black.

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