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X-treme Wrestling Federation »   » Archives » Wild Card Weekend (June 29th) PPV RP Archive
All The Best Cowboys Have Daddy Issues
Author Message
Tony Santos Offline
Santos Glares at You



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#1
06-29-2013, 05:28 AM

On the road again -
Just can't wait to get on the road again.
The life I love is making music with my friends


A black, 2012 Nissan Serrano winds its way down the quiet streets of Dedham, Massachusetts. It's an damp Friday morning in New England. Kids are home, sleeping soundly. No school is in their future for months. Sure, they have summer reading to do, but, come on, no kid is looking to read Catcher in the Rye until a good two weeks before class is actually back in session.

And I can't wait to get on the road again.
On the road again
Goin' places that I've never been.
Seein' things that I may never see again


The black Serrano swerves around a sharp corner near a vacant school, almost clipping a Canadian goose in the process. The silence on this little suburban road is slightly chilling. Inside this car is more of the same.

The passenger, feeling a bit unnerved, can only manage to awkwardly stare ahead at the winding road ahead of him. Dedham, a town of affluence, has nicely paved roads that the inner city can only dream of. The smooth, black pavement and bright yellow dividing lines provide a bit of peace for the passenger. That's what he needs during this moment of nothingness and unease, but unfortunately, it does little to quell his lack of cognitive balance. Slowly rotating his head to his left, the kid looks at his driver, unsure as to why this ride is taking place or what his purpose in being involved is.

Jeremy: Um, sir?

The music grows louder.

And our way
is on the road again.
Just can't wait to get on the road again.
The life I love is makin' music with my friends


Jeremy: Sir? Why...

And I can't wait to get on the road again.
And I can't wait to get on the road again.


The song ends, and the driver, Tony Santos, who isn't exactly a fan of Willie Nelson to begin with, strikes the volume/power button, abruptly shutting off all music in the car. Jeremy, sensing Tony's frustration, decides that it's probably best to remain quiet for the next however long this ride is going to take place. Tony, who hadn't told Jeremy what the purpose of them being back in Massachusetts was, especially with their obligation to be on the West Coast for Wild Card Weekend on Sunday, had managed to remain fairly tight-lipped throughout their trip back.

Turning the corner of another windy side street, Tony then takes a hard left into a long, non-nondescript driveway. There sits a lonely black mailbox at the end of the driveway with the name "Sullivan" at the end. Tony stops the car and looks around him for a minute or so, eyes squinting, hair loosely held back by a ponytail. After what feels like an hour of contemplation on the part of Jeremy, Tony lightly presses the gas pedal and slowly makes his way down the driveway.

On its way down the driveway, the car hits multiple potholes and cracks in the asphalt, completely uncharacteristic of a driveway in this wealthy neighborhood. In the distance, a lonely, yellow, ranch-style home can be seen with an old, green Ford Explorer, seemingly a 1997 model, parked at the end of the driveway. The lawn is unkempt and covered in crabgrass.

Jeremy: Sir, where are we going?

No response from Tony. They reach the end of the driveway and Tony jams the car into park, clearly not afraid of knocking out the transmission in the process. Tony turns off the ignition and whips the key out and swiftly into his pocket.

Santos: Let's go.

Tony whips himself out of the car and makes his way up the concrete path to the front door. Jeremy, fumbling with his camera, reluctantly follows. Tony makes his way up to the door, almost tumbling to the ground after clipping a loose brick on the stoop. He knocks on the door.

After a few minutes and more knocking, the door opens. A woman in her 50s of about 5'4" opens the door. Cigarette in hand, she squints at the person at her front door, not entirely sure who this kid is at first. After a few moments of confusion and awkward silence, the realization comes to her (or maybe her poor eyesight finally decided to not fail her).

Patti Sullivan: Tony? At my door step?

Santos: Yes, Ma. I heard about Dad.

Upon hearing even the word "Dad" makes Patti choke up for a second. Eyes moist, Patti blinks a few times, takes a long drag of her cigarette (Parliaments, of course). Patti turns her attention to the kid, who's standing sheepishly next to, well, sort of behind, Tony.

Patti: Who's this? Alcoholic buddy of yours, or some wrestling pal of yours?

Looking back at Jeremy and his meager physique...

Patti: Heh, well I hope its not the latter. Hell, I hope it's the former. Tough to not hit the bottle when you're a "man" of this boy's stature.

Santos: Cut the crap, Ma. He's my intern this summer, traveling the country with me and videotaping my life on the road, wrestling matches, training, and the like.

Patti looks back at Jeremy.

Patti: You're stuck with my idiot of a son for the entire summer?? Hell, if you're not an alchy now, you'll be one by September. Trust me, boy.

Tony glares at his mother and makes an eye motion to the kitchen behind his mother. After taking another drag, Patti turns toward the kitchen and gives Tony and Jeremy a half-hearted motion to come in.

Walking through this living room, it's apparent that the Sullivans were the blight of Dedham, that family that no one can seem to figure out how they managed to make a living and obtain property in a wealthier town. Walking across the creaky hardwood floor in the living room, Tony and Jeremy notice that, in June, Patti and Brian (Tony's father) still have a Christmas tree up from, well, who knows how long. As Tony had known from childhood, it was the typical Sullivan way to simply leave decorations from various holidays up close to year round, mainly to avoid having to re-decorate the next year. Lining the walls are pictures of the Sullivan family in their childhood. Patti and Brian with their daughter, Colleen, at her high school graduation. Patti and Brian with Colleen at her college graduation. Patti and Brian with Colleen at their "family" dinner with her soon-to-be fiance, Mark (who'd propose to her minutes after their dinner photo was taken).

As Tony looks around the Dedham house that he hadn't been in in at least five years, he noticed one thing that was missing from the scene: himself.

See, Tony hadn't been the best student, the most ambitious, or the most outgoing. He had become more or less a stranger to his own family, especially when put up against his older sister, who had big goals and even bigger motivation. Saludictorian of her 2002 high school graduating class (which devastated her), successful Boston College graduate, volunteer at numerous shelters and charities across eastern Massachusetts, and a woman blazing a path through, well, whatever she wanted to. Currently in social work, Colleen had her eyes set on becoming a Psychologist, and was close to completing her doctorate.

Compare that with Tony, who dropped out of college after freshman year and became a pro wrestler, along with his love of hanging out with a bunch of other unmotivated, going nowhere teens, and it was obvious who his family was more proud of. The family had a bit of a falling out around the time of his dropping out, enough so for Anthony Sullivan to legally change his name to Anthony Santos. Why? It wiped the family name from him along with his Irish heritage (Tony, while coming from a long line of Irish descendants, managed to have a dark enough complexion and facial features to be mistaken for an Italian-American if he'd been in the sun long enough).

Tony and Jeremy take a seat at the small table in the middle of their dingy little kitchen. Patti walks toward her pack of cigarettes, pulls out another Parliament, and lights it. She stays, standing, in the corner.

Patti: So why are you here, Tony? You haven't been in this house in years, and hell, I've probably heard from you a good ten times in the last two years. Why now?

Santos: I figured that was pretty obvious, Ma. I'm here because of Dad...

Patti: You think you can just show up because your dad dropped dead? You basically dropped him from your life after you disappeared after college. He's been mostly dead to you for a good five or six years. His physical disappearance shouldn't change a damn thing.

Patti, frustrated and slightly tearing up again, turns and looks out the window, practically torquing her cigarette at this point.

Santos: You think I'm here because I love that guy? I'm here because I have to be! Sure, he was a bastard...

Patti whips around, pointing a stern finger at Tony.

Patti: You watch your god d**n mouth when talking about my husband. That man was nothing but good to you. A kind soul who sacrificed anything for his children. Hell, Lord knows who put a lot of blood, sweat, and tears into you. That man gave every penny he had to help you through counseling, get you tutoring in school, put you through college, and you p**sed it all away. And for what? So you could become a professional wrestler? So you could p**s off your parents for the injustices that you think we caused you?

Santos: Don't imply that I did that to spite any of you. This is what I wanted to do.

Patti: I'm not implying s**t. I'm telling you for a fact that you did. You wanted nothing more than for your dear old parents to see you become even more of a f*ck up than you were already were.

Well, good work, Tony. You wiped our name from your identity and disappointed the hell out of us. Not because of the path you took, but because of why you took it.


Patti takes a final drag of her cigarette and ashes it. She walks toward the living room and motions toward the stairs.

Patti: Come with me. I want you to see this.

Patti, Tony, and Jeremy make their way up the creaky, also hardwood stairs. Jeremy briefly considers making his way out the door and hitching a ride back to Boston, never involving himself with any of this again, but Tony latches on to the back of Jeremy's neck and pulls him toward the stairs.

They enter Patti and Brian's bedroom. A drab room with light blue walls, an armoir and various Irish prayers, they make their way to little door at the base of the corner part of the wall. Patti struggles for a moment, but manages to jerk the door open. Inside sits a small lockbox. Patti shoves it into Tony's chest.

Tony looks down at this modest black box. A piece of paper is taped to the top, marked simply with the letter "T." Tony looks up at his mother in confusion.

Santos: What's this?

Patti: Open it.

Tony flips the latch that keeps the box closed and lifts the lid. Inside, newspaper clippings. Pictures. Tons of them.

Lowell Sun: "Tony Santos Wins Debut Match Against Dom Staley"

Boston Herald: "Tony Santos Shines, Wins PWF Title"

Hartford Courant: "22-Year-Old Santos Ready to Take on New England's Best"

Pictures include faraway shots of what seems to be a younger Tony wrestling. The locations vary: high school gyms, rec centers, football fields, hell, even a nursing home. But, who took these pictures, Tony starts thinking? It couldn't have been his father. His father had abandoned him as a lost cause of a kid, and they had completely shut each other out when Tony was 19.

Santos: Is this... Dad's collection? Of, my career?

Patti: It sure as hell wasn't me. I couldn't give a damn about wrestling, even for my own kid.

Santos: But, I remember him telling me that I was going to become a "washed-up hack of a wrestler at 22." He'd practically abandoned me and my career the moment I told him.

Patti: See, Tony, if only you'd stuck around and not walked out on impulse. Actually, that's always been your problem: impulsive decisions. Sure, your father was done with you when you told him that you were leaving college to become a wrestler, and yes, we always believed that you did it to spite us, but your father, despite your lack of contact with us, wanted to see what you'd become. When he realized that you were seemingly serious about it, he went all-in, looking for and collecting newspaper clippings. There's one in there from a Seattle paper. How the hell do you think he got something from a Seattle newspaper? The man was always dedicated to his children, and you were no exception.

Patti, realizing that she was starting to look soft and showing a bit of empathy towards her son, shook off her happier disposition. Sure, Tony's father couldn't hold a grudge, but she sure as hell could. She was angry at Tony, and she wasn't going to confuse her husband's kindness for anything Tony had exhibited. Patti snatched the box from Tony's hands.

Patti: Your father's funeral is Monday. I expect you to be there. Not for me, not for any of us. I expect you to be there for your father. Do one thing right by that man. Just one thing.

Santos: Well, I have a match in LA on Sunday night, so it'll be tough...

Patti: Be there. Now get out of here. Your father would've welcomed you off the streets with open arms, but I'm not quite like your father.

Tony and Jeremy turn toward the stairs, making their way to the door. Tony slips a picture of he and his father that he had pulled from the box, which he had managed to conceal in his long sleeved shirt, into his pocket. The picture? It's of Tony, at the age of 4, having just graduated pre-school, in a mock graduation gown and cap, proud father next to him, hand on his head.

The scene fades to black.
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