The scene opens with a still of the street sign for Glorietta Boulevard, which is just down the road from the San Diego Coronado Bridge, which connects San Diego proper to the rest of San Diego. The camera, trying to remain still as it pans the characteristically mild, sunny street, can only manage to slightly bob and weave, giving any viewers with the pleasure to be tuning in a mild case of nausea.

The camera quickly turns to its left, and its focus lands on Tony Santos. Smoking his ninth Camel 100, he'd become something of a chain smoker over only about two weeks. Having an obsessive personality and a need to do everything in excess, this was right up his alley.

Santos, turning his head to his left to catch the camera, looks irritated. This isn't Jeremy running the show, this is a replacement camera guy. Well, to say that he had any sort of credentials to hold or utilize a video camera would be pushing it, considering it was basically a portly little 50-something man who Tony picked up at the airport to take on this responsibility for a day, all for $50. The man, around 5'5" and 245 pounds, balding but with an incredibly thick, black goatee, had been standing outside of San Diego International Airport with little purpose. With only a night job as a (very ineffective) security guard at the San Diego Zoo, he spent his days perusing, panhandling. However, he couldn't even panhandle well, having no sign or container to put the money in. Instead, he just stuck his hand out to passersby, little emotion in his facial expression. Tony, seeing this man and realizing that he could probably get him to take over the kid's duties, since he was stranded in Wisconsin due to plan issues and likely wouldn't make it to San Diego until that night, showed him two 20s and a 10, lifted his heavy frame up, and slapped his broken iPhone (from his night in Brooklyn a week or so ago, where he smashed it simply because he could) in the man's hand and told him to start filming.

Now, Tony was becoming a bit impatient with this man's lack of ability to 1) navigate San Diego, and 2) hold a camera straight whilst not running into Tony or tripping on something.

Santos: Hey, man... hey! Focus the camera on me for a second. Yup, just hold it up, parallel to the ground... nope, not vertically, that's perpendicular to the ground. Turn it, yup, okay, turn it!

Tony, becoming visibly frustrated by all of this, guides the man's hands in the direction that he wants the camera to be, then proceeds to tightly grip the man's wrists, as in saying, "don't move your god damn hands from the position they're in or I'll break your wrists."

Frustrated, but accepting the fact that this was the best that he was going to get from this makeshift cameraman, Santos, readies himself for the camera, flips his hair back, and speaks.

Santos: So, a gauntlet, eh? That's what the powers that be pushed for? Fine. Apparently, based on the rants of my soon-to-be opponents, I'm supposed to rant and rave about each and every one of these lovelies, giving my opinion on each of them separately, pointing out not just their flaws, but also the reason why I'm superior to them. To this I say...

Shit, why go one-by-one? I can give you my blanket opinion: they're all stereotypical, long-winded archetypes of people they've seen in comic books, and I'm their damn puppetmaster, director, commander, and every other title for a person of superiority in their line of "work" that you can possible think of. They're little children making their way to the deep end of the pool far too soon. Kids who talk a big game, about their ability to leap off of the diving board without any idea how they're going to breathe once they go under water.

Tony pulls the pack of Camel 100s of out of his right jean pocket, whips out his Zippo, and lights his cigarette. He savors the first large inhale, then proceeds to slowly exhale, head tipped toward the sky, a wide smile on his face. Tony looks back at the camera.

Santos: Well, alright. I have plenty of cigs left, so I'll take a few, and I mean, just a few minutes to talk about my wonderful opponents for Wednesday...

Tony stops, looking slightly confused. He lifts his eyeballs to the sky, trying to recall something, but clearly nothing is clicking. He then looks down and sticks one hand in each of his pockets. He fumbles around for a moment, and lifts his hands out, empty. Panicking slightly, he moves to his back pockets... nothing in either of those either. He then pulls out his wallet, where, after fumbling through his receipts, finds a set with an elastic band around them. Nine receipts, nine names. The receipts? Well, nothing interesting there. They were from the 3 in the morning trips to Denny's, McDonald's, etc., all of which were generally fueled by a drunken desire for unnecessary food consumption. Scribbling down their names on each of these receipts was the only way he was possibly going to remember his gauntlet opponents. The first receipt's lucky participant? Matt Ward.

Santos: Matt Ward. Hey! Matt! Question for you, and this one's been bugging me for quite some time... you always seem to cut your interviews, on-camera appearances, promos, and the like off so that you can train. You're dedicated, and I love it! However, shouldn't someone who's apparently always training win every once and a while?

I'll hold out for your answer. Feel free to let me know of your secret once you stumble backstage after Callaway pins your vanilla ass.

Chris Legend. Hey, welcome back!

Tony sarcastically waves enthusiastically at the camera, smiling a large, elated grin.

Santos: No one gives a shit! You're still as uncoordinated and full of garbage as you were when you last stepped in the ring or in front of camera here in XWF. No one missed your grammatically challenged ass when you left, and no one's better having you back. I hope I personally get to stomp your skull in, but Jason E Smith will probably have the pleasure of doing so for me.

Speaking of Jason E Smith...

Jason, you have a knack, like so many in this damn company, to talk, talk, talk and tell stories that you believe have a purpose, but don't realize that you're just spewing hot air. But when it comes to getting it done in the ring? Honey bun, you're nothing more than a second-rate hack. Similar to how I carried your ass in our six-man tag match on Warfare two months ago, expect me to steal the show for you, but this time, we're not partners. I'll gladly kick you in the teeth, drop you and leave you down for the count with a Final Destination, and pin you, if and when I'm given the chance. Then you'll have plenty of time to mumble to yourself in the back and tell stories to whomever will listen to a slightly concussed, hack of a wrestler. I can make your dreams come true, Smith...

Tony discards of Smith's receipt and looks down at the next. He smiles, then chuckles a bit.

Santos: Alexandra Callaway. I'm not even going to waste my time with someone who's waiting on the retirement of a 25-year-old, a guy who she says has something. I've got something, alright. Something more than her, and no, I'm not talking about a certain form of genitalia. I've got the common sense not to become friends with someone as hokey as DeathMerchant. Even worse, I don't give said person a completely emasculating nickname. Deathy? Enough said. Callaway, if you make your way into that ring with me on Wednesday, expect to be embarrassed. I'll drop you like a two dollar whore and put you back in your rightful place, should it come to that. Please, just do what you do best, and lay down, should I get in that ring. Yes, I'm implying that you're a whore, hun. So it goes when you're a woman in a man's business.

Tony, fumbling through his stack of receipts, stumbles upon two huge names: Sebastian Duke and Peter Gilmour of The Brotherhood.

Santos: And now I come to the big kahunas of our match tonight, the most self-important folks of this match, and hell, they rival the likes of Madison, Luca, and Satellite for the most self-important folks in the entire organization. I'm talking about the, wait for it, hold on, I need to just absorb the originality of this team name, the, the...

Tony lifts his left index finger up to the camera, making pains to let everyone know how seriously he's taking this. Looking like he's going to sneeze from the discomfort, Tony stops, takes a deep breath (with the requisite breathing arm motions, showing an inhale and exhale, the contraction and relaxation of the diaphragm.

Santos: THE BROTHERHOOD! We've got a cult leader with a serious identity crisis in Sebastian Duke, a man who goes on and on about a whole lot of nothing, a man who is so poetic, so full of big words and long thoughts. A man who talks about destroying the Black Circle, a man who wishes to take them down in the name of The Brotherhood. He's prophetic, and challenging. And then, he calls me a bitch and to be a man? That's not very consistent or even nice, Dukey.

But that's quite alright. You have bigger things to worry about, like rigging Wednesday's match to your liking. Should you make it to the end, and I say that with a big if, you know that the equality that you talk about within the Brotherhood will crumble in a heartbeat. Peter Peter People Eater will lay down for you like the whiny, sandbag-hating son of a bitch that he is, and let you make the charge for Eli. And honestly, Duke? If you were to make it through all of us, even my sweet ass, I'd love to see it. Why?

Because Peter Gilmour has consistently exposed himself within the XWF as being nothing more than a spineless coward, and he's hidden behind a worthless trio tag belt that no one cares to fight for as his claim to fame, his reason for why he believes that he's in the elite. Your showdown against one another would only prove that, while also exposing Duke's bullshit to the entire XWF community.

You guys are just one of the many phony groupings of wrestlers with nothing in common in this company, looking to latch on to other's successes rather than show your own worth. You'll eventually crumble under your own heavy, heavy burden of inadequacy and self-importance, and take each other down in your petty, worthless squabbles, with opportunists like myself ready to take the spoils from you while you're on the way down. Just a matter of time, friends. Just a matter of time...

And then, there's that other faction that has a connection with this match. However, this group, led by Eli James, makes no bones about the fact that Eli is the leader, and the rest are just followers. Mystica, you and Elisha shouldn't be tag team champs, but, while you guys believe you stole a belt full of importance, signifying your imminent dominance of this company, in reality you took a pair of belts that are only slightly more important than Gilmour's play thing. You folks have a better chance of surviving than our resident dark lord and his minions (partially because you won't be eaten by one of your own members... see what I did there, Gilmour, I made a fat joke, just like everyone else... I'm so clever!), but, Mystica, I can guarantee you won't make it through me. You won't make it through me, on your way to a phony US Title match against your leader, because, well, I won't let you. Not only do I not want to see you, nor any other groupie of any faction make his way to the Promised Land, I also want to drop Eli on his head.

See, Eli came to me with a proposal over the last day or so. He asked me to join The Congregation. Yes, yes, this place has uniqueness oozing from its proverbial pores, I know. But, nonetheless, I was offered a spot in your budding group. Why? Eli wanted to save me. Save the alcoholic in me; take me under his wing. You know what I said to him?

Take a god damn hike.

I can do more on my own than I ever could as someone's lacky. I don't, and won't do someone else's bidding, and I sure as hell won't lay down so that someone else can be champion. Besides blind power and control over other human beings, that's Eli's other objective: hold on to the US Title at all costs, and have as many people serve him so that he can't possibly lose it. But here's the thing...

I serve no one. I'm a blind servant of the bottle, I'll admit that, but I serve no god or demi-god. I won't hide my objections for the cowards of this organization, the ones who must hide in the cover of others to do anything around here. Hell no. I'll continue to fight my own fight, and continue to bash each and every one of your skulls into the canvas and make my points known. Winning a title is the icing on the cake.

Tony, who has just finished his fourth straight cigarette since the diatribe began, drops his used up cigarette butt on the ground, then proceeds to crush it with his shoe, forcing it into the warm concrete as if he hoped to make it one with the earth.

Tony pulls his pack of Camels out of his pocket and holds it up to the camera.

Santos: You know, they say these things are bad for your health. You wanna know what's worse? A lack of self-awareness. Each of my opponents lacks the basic ability to understand their own limitations or the flaws in their decision-making. It's god damn brain cancer, pervasive throughout not just this match, but this company. That may not kill you in a tangible way like these beauties will, but it will keep you from ever accomplishing anything of importance, or reaching your goals.

It also might get you dropped by me.

Folks, understand that, tomorrow night, I'll step in to that ring and make a fool out of each and every one of you. I'll do it, not necessarily because of my abilities (even though I am damn good), but because of your own limitations. Your flaws will leave you vulnerable, and I'll send you to your final destination...

The canvas.

The scene fades to black.

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