Santos: Let's walk and talk, shall we?

The scene opens in New York, NY. We find ourselves outside of the Empire State Building. It's a cool, albeit sunny morning in the city that never sleeps. If there were trees to be found, they'd be devoid of leaves. It's only the middle of the Fall here on the East Coast, but, in typical East Coast fashion, what you expect of Fall weather quickly goes from "cool and crisp" to "are you sure it's not winter yet?" Given that it's a Sunday, the area is littered with tourists, many of whom are here simply to rise to the 86th, or if daring, 102nd, floor of the Empire State Building, so they can take a few photos of the New York skyline before heading off to Times Square to eat lackluster food at the Hard Rock Cafe and watching the Naked Cowboy give the same old schtick he's been giving for well over a decade.

Amongst the tourists, walking in front of the camera, is Tony Santos. Dressed in a black Boston Bruins hoodie that has certainly seen better days, with a tear in the left elbow, a front pocket that was torn off when Tony broke up a fight back in Boston a year ago, and numerous cigarette burns, Tony smiles as onlookers question this man's appearance. He looks like a sore thumb, with his green/black, neck length hair, missing tooth, and bandaged hands, and that's saying a lot, given how this is a city that rivals San Francisco in the number of costumed, mentally ill. However, Tony doesn't seem to notice any of the attention around him, instead looking ahead at the camera in front of him. His Virgin America flight seemingly having cleared his head of the ills that plagued him on that fateful beach, during that last, confused week.

Santos: Let's talk, camera man. Let's talk life. Let's talk love. Let's talk me. It's pretty all one in the same, don't you think? I'm headed back to Madison Square Garden. A world class stadium known for some high profile events, yet somehow XWF manages to get booked there seemingly every other week. It's quite impressive really, considering the numerous decapitations that have taken place in XWF rings, the many body fluids that have been exchanged in said rings, and the fecal matter that has covered those exact same rings. It's either a testament to how in demand and talented our roster is, or it's a testament to the lost filter that society used to have over its lens. LJ Havoc, god rest his soul, would not be pleased.

But, given the circumstances, this is an honor. I'm honored to be back here in New York City. I'm honored to be back in an XWF ring, the opportunity to be crowned its king before I cash my check and leave with its nasty entrails in tow. And since I always go by the law of threes when making a point, I must fill in that I'm honored to have the opportunity to make a mockery of this company, and of its "talent."

Steven Kessler: Ah, another man claiming to have an ego. Claiming to be another god damn up and comer. He claims to be a damn good talker. Well, shall we dissect a recent jab he made on his way to King of the Ring glory?

Steven Kessler went after Wrestler82, the man whose name alone screams of mediocrity, who's one of the easiest targets in this entire tournament, with this...

Tony pulls out a crumpled up flashcard, opens it, realizes it's the wrong one, and stuffs it back in to his pocket. Rummaging through his his pockets, he pulls out a ball of flashcards, checking each one individually, tossing some on the ground as he looks for the one in question. Finally, a moment of realization.

Santos: Ah, here we go. And I quote...

"There's another competitor who calls himself Wrestler 82, just in case we all forget what he's out there in the ring to do. What kind of a name is that? I'm pretty proficient with a crossface and a few painful holds, but I don't call myself "Submission Wrestler", do I? I can use a steel chair, or a sledgehammer, yet I don't have to call myself "Hardcore". And I'm certainly not about to give up my expert takedowns and or superior technical skills... I'm just not going to call myself "Mat Technician". Tell you what, I'll give you a bit of advice... if you want to name yourself after what you are, better change your ring name to "Inferior to Steven Kessler"."

Tony looks up at the camera, a blank expression on his face.

Santos: That's... it? See, Steven Kessler, I've come across enough of you in my 18 months here to make the world's saddest set of rodeo clowns, fitting for a good gore or two in the throat, an area of your body that you sure as well don't need for talking. See, my friend, here's the deal. If you come out here and try to obliterate a mediocre grappler such as Wrestler82, just call his name dumb, gaybash him a bit in the spirit of all things XWF, and call it an insult. You'll win support from your fellow wrestlers in the same way a 6th grade bully gains acceptance by playing bumper brains with the chemistry whiz on the back of the school bus, and you will have had to expel absolutely no energy to do so. Instead, we had the honor of watching gems like that, while seeing you wax poetic about your incredibly unnoteworthy lineage.

Thanks for wasting our time. I promise you this, Steven Kessler. Should you have the privilege of facing me in the second round, I promise you, without a doubt, that I won't waste the time of a bunch of impatient New Yorkers. I'll personally piledrive your head in to the mat, making you forget that you were ever a Kessler, a Fazetti, or even a man of imperfect wit.

Tony digs his hands in to his pockets, stopping in his tracks. He looks around, taking a strong whiff of the crisp, New York air. He smiles, some stray strands of green hair wafting in the breeze. Tony rests the right side of his body against a light pole, bouncing his head gently against the same structure. He smiles a closed-lip grin.

Santos: This is it, guys. This, this is life. This is where the good stuff is. The East Coast. Just a bunch of bland, old buildings enveloping us, caging us in from the outside world. In my short time in California, I've been exposed to beautiful, sleek mountain ranges, open air, and vast bodies of water. And it's just not as good as this. Why? Why wouldn't anyone choose what I've just mentioned over what you're seeing right now?

Because, freedom, man. We don't deserve it. We don't. We deserve to be couped up like a bunch of monkeys. We need that control. Otherwise, we have our last few opponents.

Gein, Gator, and Doctor Louis D'Ville.

See, Gein is just given the freedom to live. And what do we get for giving him that privilege? A bunch of ominous promos that really only exist because he doesn't have the ability to come up with anything original... or anything at all. It must hurt to be stuck on the mental level of a Peter Gilmour. He also ominously threatens people with threats of destruction, threats that he thinks need to be decoded by us lesser being, but in reality, everyone sees them on their face as empty voids of creativity. Products of a brain that can't get past the first level of FreeCell.

Gein, you're in that same category. Congratulations.

Then, there's my friend, Gator. The holder of the prestigious, and I don't mean that sarcastically, Television Championship. The championship that I would likely still be holding, had I not been attacked by Paul Heyman's posse. What a disgrace it was, giving that god damn title to Steve Davids. A man who, despite his lofty stature, has the heart of government worker. That man checks out the moment he sees it likely for him to exert any effort or face any real competition. It was a god damn disgrace...

...and the reason Gator is our champion. He was fed that title on a silver platter. And what do we get in return? A man who has stooped as low as the majority of this company. Talking to venereal diseases, genitalia, and Frodo Smackins... and yes, Frodo is worth his own category of awful.

See, you let Gator loose... you give him the keys to the city, and he gives you shit with the consistency of an octogenarian's skin. It's not good to begin with, but he's taken the form and made it that much worse.

See, Gator, I'm happy you called me out. I needed a bit of a kick in the ass. Hell, I dyed my hair green just for you. If you can get past the Doctor, just understand that you'll face a tougher challenge than you could have ever fathomed. You have the title that I still own. That title was never Steve Davids's belt. It was always mine. It was my personal god damn ashtray, and I didn't have the chance to make a full mockery of it. Good thing is, you're doing a damn good job in my place. Good news for you! I'll have the consolation prize of making its champion look like a worthless chump, assuming you can make it past...

Doctor Louis D'Ville. Hell, man, can I be completely honest with you? Just keep this between you and me? It's not even showtime yet, and I gotta say, I'm fucking exhausted. There are too many sons of bitches in this god damn tournament! Why did I ever choose to start with the easy ones first, rather than just forgetting them altogether? Why didn't I just start with the people I could pretend care for? Why not start with the legitimate, or semi-legitimate threats, and work my way down? Hell, I'd have saved myself a possible stroke in the process.

But alas, I've made my choices. Choices that weren't entirely well thought out, which, Mr. Doctor sir, isn't entirely foreign to me. So here I am, looking at you, my likely semifinal opponent, straight in the eyes... at least as I envision them in as I stare in to its representation in the blue sky above. I look at you, and I see you. But I don't see you as a threat. I don't see you as being in my way. No, I see you as I see you right now. Floating away in to the blue sky above. Floating in to nothingness. Just another challenger who's blown so much hot air up his own ass that his feet can no longer touch the ground.

And here you are. Here's where you will be. Here, but not really here. In front of me, but no more than a mirage. You speak of me as an old son of a bitch past his prime, and, well, you're probably right. I'm 26 going on 60. That's what the abuse of booze, tobacco, and inhospitable living conditions will do to ya. But, Doctor, what I've seen from you is a man who's high on himself. A man who hasn't won a god damn thing. Good for you, Doctor. Keep talking that big game. Keep thinking of yourself as the new gold standard of this company. But let's be honest...

...you're not even qualified, with your lackluster credentials, to be the gold standard of the UFO division. Don't know what I'm talking about? Look it up, doctah.

Please, Dr. D'Ville. Let it be known that, if you make it past Gator, since we all know it's going to be you in Gaotr in the second round, you're in for the reality check of a lifetime. I'm gonna prescribe you a level of pain and misery that you could only dream of. But hey, thanks for calling me "Mr." every time you address me! Hopefully you'll remember to do so when your brain is ringing, under the lights, following a well-deserved Final Destination. That will be just what the doctor ordered.

The scene fades to black.

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