Tilden Avenue, Brooklyn, New York. It's four in the morning on Tuesday, this grungy, poor street in Brooklyn silent, with residents holed in for the night before another day at the grind (or... not). Empty Miller Lite cans line the streets, crushed at the neck in a manner similar to the countless rats and mice who get their necks snapped in mouse traps every night on this dirty avenue. A boombox (yes, a boombox) can be seen on a porch, along with a lonely ashtray and a pack of Newports. Otis Redding's "Remember Me" is playing on a loop, and, based on the CD's tendency to skip every few seconds, this is an album that's certainly gotten its fair share of plays (and been tossed around a few times, most likely).

The camera pans the street, then catches a man, wobbling down the sidewalk. It's none other than Tony Santos, in a state of utter drunkenness in a city that he knows nothing about. He jolts left, then right, tilts to one side, then the other, trying to find some state of equilibrium. He's in the same black buttoned-down shirt from earlier in the evening, however, three of the top buttons have broken off, and one sleeve, which was originally rolled up neatly to just below his left elbow, is now completely undone, the unbuttoned cuff laying on his wrist. Shoes untied, he manages to utilize that mishap to have further trouble balancing himself, and he eventually falls in front of the entrance to Tilden Deli, scratching up his right knee and tearing his jeans in the process. However, there's one thing he doesn't let go of. One thing he manages to control and keep from scratching, no matter where his alcohol-dominated brain takes him.

The Xtreme Championship belt.

After hitting the pavement, Tony rolls over and lays on his back. He lifts the belt over his face, checking it out to make sure it's OK. Since winning this piece of hardware at Leap of Faith, he'd been treating that belt like his child, hell, better and with more compassion than his own child, Troy. After tilting it to catch different portions of the belt against the streetlights and realizing that it wasn't damaged, Tony smiled a very drunken, contorted smile and laid the belt on his chest. If a priest happened to walk by at that very moment, it's likely that Tony would've asked him to marry him and his belt on the spot.

Tony reaches for his cell phone in his left pocket. 9% battery left... fantastic. After failing to input his simple, four-digit passcode correctly five times, he finally gets it right. He checks his missed calls...

Wait, nope, he checks his Facebook account first. Then his Gmail account... then he throws on a song...



Because, why not? Tony, still laying on his back on the ground, bobs his head left and right, lip-synching the words, bouncing his feet on and off the ground. If anyone on this street were awake, they'd be looking to get this man institutionalized ASAP.

The song ends, and Tony, oddly elated from a simple Fratellis song, smiles a huge, happy drunko smile, and goes back to checking his phone. Checking his missed calls, he notices an alarming number of calls from Jeremy; 18 to be exact. None from anyone else. Nothing from Shannon, nor from Laura. His mother sure as hell wasn't calling him to check in, not after he missed his dad's funeral, which she had ordered him to attend. Not Colleen. She had bigger and better things to worry about than her idiotic, drunken, coward of a brother. Big Lou wasn't calling Tony. Hell, Big Lou couldn't even if he wanted to, since he had no phone to his name.

But there was the kid, checking in on his "boss" (a term used loosely due to, well, Jeremy being better and giving orders and finding direction than Tony). Why was he calling Tony frantically? Regardless of the fact that he certainly assumed Tony was on some sort of reckless bender by himself in the city, he was more worried that Tony wasn't going to make his way to John F. Kennedy International Airport in the morning to grab his flight to California for Warfare. While Tony could certainly be oblivious to phone calls, he's never ignored more than five at a time (Jeremy knows from experience), so this was getting worrisome.

Eight messages.

Tony stares at his phone, considering listening to at least the first two. However, as he's about to hit Play, he has a change of heart. Nope, the battery hasn't died yet. He just stares at the screen, a bevy of messages standing by. The drained battery icon in red on the top right of the screen. Then he realizes, he doesn't want to hear the kid's orders, the kid's demands, his eventual pleading for Tony to get his shit together and get to the airport. Hell no. He'd dealt with his share of condescending, demanding assholes in his life, and he was tired of seeing someone else, someone younger and, at least he thought, more naive, telling him what's best for him. Who the hell was the kid to think that he could become increasingly demanding, increasingly babying Tony and treating him like a child?

Fuck him.

Fuck. Him.

Tony would make his way to California when and how he damn pleased. Fuck order. Fuck it all. He'd lie on this grimy street corner, staring at the empty night sky until it turned to day if he wanted. He'd lay in the middle of Holy Cross Cemetery, just down the road from this deli, if he felt like it. Fuck authority. He'd beat them all into submission if he wanted to. Fuck 'em.

Santos: Fuck 'em.

Tony, still on his back, chucks the phone across the street, where it lands at the base of a stairwell of a day care center. Good, maybe some little kid would pick up Tony's phone that morning and take Tony's troubles with him. Tony didn't care. He just wanted to sleep.

So he did. On a god damn street corner in Brooklyn, New York.

The scene fades to black.

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