Santos: All hail our trusty hero, Jon Plex. Our fearless warrior. A man of great character, endless quips, and unmatched luck. All hail Jon Plex.

The scene opens in an alley in Somerville, Massachusetts. Tony Santos is perched on a rusty, black garbage bin. An air conditioner buzzes over his head, its excess water dripping a few inches to Tony's left. A few stray pigeons waddle around beneath Tony, pecking at food scraps that didn't quite make their way in to the garbage. Tony is wearing his traditional set of blue jeans and a black Boston Bruins hoodie. In Tony's left hand sits a pack of Marlboro Black 100s. Tony rotates the pack in his fingers, letting the fresh pack slide across his palm. The gray clouds overhead, in conjunction with the cool wind picking up through the gaps in between the buildings, warn of an impending downpour.

Tony holds the pack up to the camera and smiles.

Santos: Jon Plex. Our trusty hero. I must say, you've certainly managed to get yourself on TV quite a bit since you debuted in April. A European Title shot in your third match in the company?? Winning a battle royal in your second match? Hell, beating The Senator John Samuels so early in your young career? I gotta give you credit before I go off on a long-winded rant about how terrible you actually are, Plex...

That's a bit impressive.

Sure, your debut victory was over a guy who dropped in for a hot minute, hobbled to the ring, and basically quit on you and the company before the first match was even completed, but a win's a win. My first win was against Salman Fucking Van Dam... if you don't know him, you don't want to... so I can understand that you gotta take what you can get when you're as fresh as a baby's uncorrupted lungs...

Tony smiles and licks the gap between his teeth.

Santos: Unlike my lungs, right, Plex? Fifteen packs, right, Plex? Heh, we'll get to that in a bit.

Tony opens the pack, flips two cigarettes upside down and places them back in the pack, then pulls out a different cigarette. Placing the cigarette between his lips on the left side of his mouth, he brings a lighter to the tip and lights it. He places the lighter in his pocket, takes a long drag, and blows the smoke toward the camera.

Santos: And, okay, your battle royal victory took place over, let's see...

Colton Bryan! Another XWF throwaway who managed to mutter three sentences of incomprehensible bullshit before making his way in to his debut match, then swiftly out of the company.

Sebastian Duke and Dusty Wyatt. Two fucktards who think they're on a higher plane of being than the rest of humanity. Sebastian Duke, my former compatriot in his failed shit heap of a group, The Brotherhood, and Dusty Wyatt, another peekaboo wrestler in this fucked up company, who at one moment calls himself the closest thing to a god, while at the next moment having a verbal dickfight with Dixie Carter? Two fucking champions in the making there.

Genesis and John Brooks. Where have they been? Oh yeah, they also took a week off from working at the local bowling alley to stop in what's apparently become a grand conspiracy to make Jon Plex look like a credible competitor.

And then, there are the two biggest pieces of garbage from that entire match... Gilmour Classic and Peter Fucking Gilmour. Are they the same person? Did they create each other, which means they can both finally do us a favor and kill one another (since apparently, based on Gilmour Logic, we can't off them ourselves)? They're too preoccupied with one another to be a threat to anything other than a stray chicken parm sandwich.

Tony smiles with the cigarette still in his mouth, clapping slowly. Small clouds of smoke make their way from his mouth as if he were a mini-chimney. The cigarette is perched in the gap between his teeth, as his toothy smile makes clear.

Santos: Bravo, Jon. Bravo. You managed to somehow sneak your way in to a match for the European Championship! I gotta give you credit for that, partnah. It's certainly no easy feat to get in to a big time match like that, especially so early in your career! So early in your career, and, considering how pathetic your competition was up to that point, likely due to the fact that this company was too god damn empty talent-wise to put anyone with a greater mental capacity than Caliban in to the match to the beat the third wheel to two legitimate competitors. They needed a whipping boy, and they had a strapping, obedient one in you, Jonathon.

Good for you! You're the ultimate opportunist! However, just like your piss poor comedy act, you never realize that the joke is on you. Your witty back and forths with the likes of Betty White and the freaking Surgeon General fall flatter than a Peter Gilmour promo, and you seem to be the only one who doesn't realize that.

Betty White giving lap dances?! Hilarious!

Michael Phelps and Ryan Lochte turning in to Poseidon and Theseus?! Pure gold!

The Surgeon General of the United States coincidentally looking in to the health risks posed by old lady lap dances?! Out of this world funny!!!

See, dear Jonathon. Your matches are like watching a WeeLC match. Your promos, like a good episode of Family Matters. The former is a perfect display of amateurism. You trot around the ring like the Barnum and Bailey act that you are, playing the 21st Century equivalent of blackface while the crowd laughs at you, not with you, as they justify their own existences and shortcomings by comparing themselves to you. The latter, a vaudeville performance of the lowest form. A hastily thrown together set of slapstick and outrageous gags that do nothing but leave an already stupid fanbase that much dumber. But hey, at least the typical, middle school-educated Alabaman has someone to relate to while he's dipping KFC Double Downs in a jar of mashed potatoes and gravy, amirite?

Tony smiles as he stamps out his cigarette. He immediately goes to the pack for another and lights it up.

Santos: Heh, of course I'm right. And, since I've got you here, let's talk about these cigarettes you see me chomping on. They're delicious little buggers, I must say. I tried to switch it up a bit and go with the Menthol version of these. Plex, let me give you a bit of advice... if you ever decide to light up a cigarette or two, you know, maybe for some gag in the near future that involves you shooting hoops with Joe Camel or some other bit of bullshit... don't ever go with Menthols. Like my grandfather used to always say, if you're gonna poison your lungs, you might as well be able to feel yourself doing so. It's gotta hurt, you know? We smokers are really a bunch of masochists, Jonny. We like pain. We like to suffer...

Which is why I'm surprised you haven't picked up the habit, Plex. You'd fit right in, since you already love the opportunity to get man-handled by people far superior to you, and you clearly like hurting your own pride and dignity when you give your best impression of Larry, Curly, and Moe all wrapped in a single, human roll of shame.

But I digress. I truly enjoyed your comments on my smoking habits, Jon. Fifteen packs a day, huh? I was in one hell of a dream over these past few days, wasn't I? So much so that apparently you actually believed everything you saw while I was dangling over the Bay Bridge in San Francisco. Did you believe that bit with Shannon in Iowa too? You must find my ability to travel across the country so quickly astounding. Hell, if I told you I sprinted from California to Iowa to Massachusetts in four hours, would you believe that too? Would you?

I wouldn't, because I'm not an idiot. See, one reason why I love the XWF as much as a I do is because they've been able to take the most ridiculous shit and get it out on to our TV screens. I remember the time my brain took everyone on a trip through my mind while playing Elton John's Goodbye Yellow Brick Road, and the whole company was able to see my thoughts in real time! Unbelievable, right?

Right.

But that was apparently too crazy of a concept for you to conceive, and I don't blame you. These things wouldn't be possible anywhere else, but hell, this place has seen far more outlandish things in reality that the outside world would consider fantasy, so it's not entirely unexpected.

But hey, check that segment of mine again if you can avoid talking about Todd's alleged (gotta cover myself... legal issues, you know) herpes, and notice that I...

woke up. Like that. Just like you'll be woken up from what's been a sleepy start to your career here, come tomorrow night. Wake up, Jon, before it's too late. Wake up and make sure you make it to the arena, and don't half ass it for me, either, big boy. I want you at your best. I want a fight from you. I know, I know, it's tough to get it up...

...I know you're thinking of dick jokes right now... just touch yourself and you'll be fine...

...but I know it's tough to get it up for a meaningful match when you've faced... well, not even has beens, but never fucking have beens..., and I won't blame you, should you walk in and immediately fall victim to a Final Destination. I won't blame you at all. But at least show up. At least try. Put on your best face paint, smile wide, and prance around the ring for the crowd like a fucking monkey.

Do us proud, Jon....

Wake up!

The scene fades to black.

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