The scene opens on a muggy night in South Beach, Miami Beach, Florida. The humidity oozes through the camera, even at 79 degrees, a sheet of moisture overtaking the camera lens, covering the nightlife taking place on the street in front of it. With what can be seen, the street is filled with bright neon lights, some signaling traffic, others welcoming Thursday night patrons into drunken dance traps. A buzz makes its way through the landscape, with Spanish rolling Rs, many a hip gyration, and young kids, just out of college and working in a city known for bars closing at 4am, staying up into the night, plastered beyond all comprehension, simply because they know their boss won't notice in the morning.

Miami: The site of Relentless. Miami: The 24/7 party. Miami: Because Vegas needs an East Coast sibling.

Miami.

The camera pans down the street, capturing similar drunken debauchery caked in neon. Bar after bar holds drunken 20-somethings, as well as families in town to see the most raunchy wrestling in town. The lights flash through the sky like a thick, neon paintbrush, thanks to the camera accelerating through the chaos beneath it. It turns to the right, finding a young woman letting a tequila shot be taken from her belly button, and then to the left, where a young man... sips tequila from the sidewalk?

The point is, we find ourselves in a city primed for partying and shame. As the camera pans the street, it finds person after person, willing to debase his or her self in the name of gratification. In the name of pleasure.

The camera stops outside of Cameo:



Sweat practically drips off of the Cameo sign, the vices oozing from within. Men and women in the process of cheating on their wives and husbands, the spectacle of infidelity on full display. We turn closer to the club entrance, passing more hot pink and hair gel than all 80s music videos combined, and, in the distance, we see the pole.



The bazz pounds against the walls of the club, two young women dancing in lockstep with the beat, against that pole. Thirsty young men surround the women, cackling and egging their barely legal performance on, the scene reminiscent of Girls Gone Wild, or the start of a bad porno. The dancing continues, with the grand finale ending in the two women kissing, which gets a ROAR from the overly horny onlookers, and even a few dollar bills rain down.

The camera continues its way through the haze of sweat and alcohol, past the VIP tables, where the likes of Chris Brown, Suge Knight, and other celebrities have spent literal tens of thousands of dollars to be gawked at by drunken kids. The tables are packed, buckets filled with high priced champagne, traces of white powder that are most certainly not cocaine, and servers sucking up cash tips from the table like vacuum cleaners.

The energy in the club is palpable on a Thursday night, and none of these people are going to watch Relentless. This is just how Miami, and South Beach, are. Clubs open at 8am, close at 4am, and then the cycle continues. It's fuel for every person looking to have a good time.

And it's a deathtrap for an alcoholic.

Stop me if you've heard this story before. Tony Santos walks into a bar...

...oh, you have? Well, let's just get to it then.

The camera zooms into one particular table in the middle of the VIP section, and servers part like the Red Sea. Empty beer bottles are strewn on the floor, with shards of a broken bottle laying on the table. An ashtray sits in the middle of the table, holding old cigarette butts, and one still burning bright, a clump of ash falling off of the burning butt and into the steel tray. We pan up, and we see Tony Santos, sitting in the middle of the couch, in the middle of uproarious laughter with two other gentlemen. Tony sits in crisp, new(!) jeans, some flashy pink and green Chucks sneakers, and a white button down shirt. His face is clean shaven, hair combed and gelled, and he looks... happy, for once. Almost as if he's in his element.

The men surrounding Tony met him a mere few hours ago, noticing him not for the fact that he's a professional wrestler, but because he just looks so off in a place like South Beach...

...and maybe because he was flaunting his championship belt. You know, the gaudy white and pink belt with a flying skull on it? Yeah, that might've done it.

And now Tony was regaling them with tales of the road. Tales of matches he fought in, the weird food he's eaten (especially the time he got a bad case of diarrhea in the heart of Thailand), and how...

Santos: I've never had a drink in my life!

Ah yes, revisionist history. For anyone who had actually watched Tony Santos on TV over the past six years, you'd easily know that's a lie, what, with his televised blackouts, crawling on everything from pavement to airplane bathrooms, and the numerous hallucinations he's gone through with the audience, and his opponents, watching.

But here? No one cared if you were a fraud. If you bought them drinks or drugs, you were their best friend, and they would milk you until the night was over.

Miami.

Tony's laughing dies down a bit, and he notices the camera in front of him. He taps the two men on the shoulder, handing them each a $50 bill.

Santos: Hey guys, speaking of my wrestling gig, I've got a little bit of camera work to get in, so go buy yourselves, and maybe some lucky ladies, some drinks at the bar and come back in, say, 20 minutes?

Tony looks upward, eyes squinting, as if he's deep in thought.

Santos: Scratch that, come back in 45 minutes or so. This is gonna take a while.

The men leave their chairs, step over the velvet rope blocking the VIP section from the rest of the nightclub, and head to the bar. Tony, meanwhile, leans back, letting his outstretched arms rest on the plush leather couch. He smiles that toothy smile, his front tooth seemingly shining under the disco ball overhead. In front of him, a glass of sparkling water with a lemon wedge on the rim. Tony's Hart Title lays on his lap, never having left his side as long as he was in this nightclub. A drunken Tony might've passed it around the bar, having to explain the next day how he lost the title belt to some drunk college kid in South Beach, but not sober Tony. Sober Tony actually had his wits about him, and, having been off booze for weeks now, seemed relaxed, collected, and happy.

For now.

Santos: Why helloooooo everyone! Thank you for taking the time to sit in on my own personal vanity tour through South Beach! See, I figured, if I'm going to face such an accomplished, wealthy, and successful man like Centurion, I need to do a better job of understanding his routine, his thought processes. So I thought, you know, I make bucket loads of cash as the Hart champion, and have been making said bucket loads for a while, given that I just so happen to be one of the longest reigning champions in history, so why not flaunt it a bit. Act like a Centurion, flashing money to cover up my weaknesses. Really show off how great I am, by every standard we as a culture have accepted, which is how fucking big that bank account is.

So here I am! My tab is probably at, what? $10k at this point? $20k? Who the hell even knows anymore. I've bought more drinks for others, drinks that I can't even drink, than I ever imagined. But hey, when you're trying to make up for your own insecurities, you gotta write some checks! Centurion knows that, and I'm just trying to catch up.

And I think I'm doing a good job? See, what I've learned from Centurion over these past few weeks, as I've listened to him ramble on about my own greatness, while bragging about his success as a casino magnate, and the funny little quips with his sister's lover, is that, to truly be next level, to really get on the level of someone who managed to lose to a bunch of similarly tired old has-beens, while simultaneously being stabbed with a syringe, disgracing oneself and their family, at an event meant to make a bunch of old timers feel relevant again...

Tony stops himself, grabbing his sparkling water, taking a big gulp and letting out a satisfied "ahh."

Santos: Sorry, as I was saying. To be as successful as the great Centurion, you need to talk a big game. Just talk, and talk, and talk, and talk and talk and talkandtalkandtalkandtalk, and people will put you in positions you so clearly don't deserve! You can just coast on a legacy that hasn't been relevant since the god damn George Bush administration, and be called a legend, and booked like a legend, until you keel over and die from the weight of your missed expectations.

So here I am, throwing money at people I don't know, and things I don't need. Because in Centurion's world, material wealth trumps actual, relevant accomplishments.

Relevant accomplishments.

Tony stands up, steps over the table, over the velvet rope, and on to the floor. He walks past the dance pole, ripping off his button down shirt. Underneath the button down is a ragged white t-shirt.

Tony makes his way past the fawning boys and towards the bar. He finds a peeling knife, mainly used to peel off rinds from lemons and oranges, and grabs it, his tattooed fingers turning a pinkish sheen as they grip the knife. He takes the knife to his pants, and tears holes in each leg, then sets the knife down on the bar.

Tony walks through the bar, stopping to survey the chaos around him. He looks back at the camera, and smiles once again.

Santos: This is what Centurion flaunts. Shameless capitalism. A bunch of privileged motherfuckers, inheriting wealth, and turning it into excess. This is what Centurion sees as impressive. This is what Centurion sees as success.

But the difference between Centurion and me? Centurion flaunts the money he earned by swindling others out of their savings, and he has nothing tangible, at least in the wrestling business, to show for it. See, he has accolades, that's for damn sure, but when did his accolades matter? Like I mentioned earlier, it's been entire presidencies since Centurion was a thing. So he comes back, basks in the praise he receives from similarly old and irrelevant idiots, who mattered in a time when diatribes about how much you hate gay people, and how funny rape is, were the key to success... and that is how he finds his ticket to ride. And Centurion comes in, and he loses to me. And he doesn't just lose to me, he loses with complete ease.

Centurion, the legend, loses to the man who barely held the Xtreme Title, who barely held the TV Title. A fucking drunk who has ruined each and every opponent in his wake, all while trying to not stumble into oncoming traffic.

Centurion lost to him.

And he's going to lose to him again. And why? Because Centurion is weak. He heaps praise on me like I've been Universal Champion for a decade. He heaps praise on me as the legend he knows he could never be. And for each and every time he speaks, he shows how little he believes in himself, and validates how little others should believe in him.

Centurion doesn't even know how he got here. Centurion doesn't even know how he became a legend. But Centurion knows how I became one.

Tony smiles, walking out of the club.

Santos: Centurion knows that I became a legend by fucking performing, something he can't do. A broken, beaten down alcoholic, is a bigger attraction than Centurion. A man with a scarred liver and a dented brain draws more business than the legend from the Iraq war, Centurion. And why?

Because I could give two shits if I'm as relevant tomorrow as I am today. I could give two shits if I'm in a penthouse or a fucking garage. I could give two shits if I'm beating the brains in of an opponent looking to take my title, or some scrub who's looking to make his way in the XWF.

And that is my advantage. Whereas you, the mighty Centurion, man of zero belts since anyone fucking cared, sits and talks about rebuilding your legacy, I stand and destroy my opposition. You chase praise, I chase victory. Look around you, Cent.

Tony raises his hands in the air, now outside of Cameo. He swivels through the street lights, neon signs, and drunken debauchery, showcasing the insanity that is South Beach.

Santos: This is your town. This is where you should thrive. This is where you should be your best.

Because it's oozing in the vanity you so crave, and it basks in the privilege you're the poster child for.

But this is where you will fail. You'll fail like every time before, because, Cent, you're just not up to snuff. You're just not that good. You're living on past success, in a time when competition just wasn't that good. When competition...

...wasn't Tony Santos.

Cent, I'm better than you. I know it, and you most certainly know it too. It's the reason I've been unstoppable as champion, and the reason you can't help but remind me of how great I am. You're scared of what I'll do to you in that ring, so you're doing your best to protect that precious, ancient, reputation you've so cherished. Win or lose, Centurion comes out strong, since he either beat a great wrestler, or lost to a vicious champion.

Either way, Centurion wins!

Unless I expose you for the fraud you truly are.

Centurion, I hope you enjoyed some spiked daiquiris, threw some of that wealth on the town, and indulged in some of the pleasures your sister so enjoys, because on Saturday, I fucking ruin you for good. Saturday, I end this farce, destroy your fraudulent reputation, and close the book on your career. Saturday, instead of a final fantasy, you'll live the fucking nightmare you so deserve.

Good luck.

Tony leaves the nightclub, hands in the air, basking in the warm Florida air, as the scene fades to black.

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