A dimly lit room. A pool table with scattered pool balls and sticks laying on the table sits in the far left corner. Above it, a lit Budweiser sign, its light flickering as a dead... squirrel (?) lays atop it, its head nothing more than a chunk of blood with its own mini pool cue, its left eye ball, dangling by the proverbial string... or, in this case, tendons. To the right, a pile of broken bar stools. Middle of the room, a jukebox playing this on a loop...



The floor is simply a misty haze of gray. To the right, Tony Santos sits on a ledge, a glass of Guinness Black Lager in his hand as a tap to his left pours a never-ending stream of the thick, black liver poison. Laying in the mist, mouth open, sits Tony's pet ferret, Joshua. Joshua acts as the drain of sorts for this tap, consuming the beer without showing a hint of drunkenness or even an enlarged stomach!

Those crafty ferrets. Everyone should have a pet ferret who drinks beer.

Everyone.

Tony smiles for the camera as he takes a sip from his glass. Tony takes his free hand and, in trademark Santos fashion, he slides his fingers gently through his brown locks. However, these fingers, they're... magical. As his fingers make their way through his hair, a trail of red, orange, and yellow follow, his hair becoming a gorgeous color palette that would make Vincent van Gogh blush...

...or cut off his other ear. Maybe.

Santos: What is this? What are you witnessing right now? Magic? A peculiar dream? A ferret who can drink you under the table? Don't worry, children, I'll give you a moment. Just, blink... a few times. Please, take a moment and do so. I want you have time to really digest what's in front of you.

Tony looks away for a moment, observing the dart board to his right. The bullseye a black hole. The surrounding points are a matching pink. The out of bounds area is a collection of tiny, human hands. Their fingers consistently wiggle, awaiting a miss from a poor, drunken dart player. The penalty? Not simply a loss of "points," of which there are none in this game of darts. No, no. These hands await the opportunity to wrangle over the wayward dart, which they immediately launch directly at the player's face...

Always hitting between the eyes.

Always.

Santos: Is it okay for me to look now?

Yes?

Tony turns his head back toward the camera. His smile quickly becomes a frown as he squints in the camera's direction.

Santos: Are you okay? I told you to blink, not wash your eyes in battery acid! You look horrid! Frightening! Ghastly! Disgusting!

Not pretty.

Tony shakes his head in disappointment, his colorful locks waving side to side as they emit an ominous cloud. The cloud, a fog of black, floats toward the center of the room, falling to the level of the mist below. It sits there for a moment or two, seemingly unsure of itself...

...if it had the ability to consider its own actions.

Suddenly, a spark! Then another! A few more sparks follow, before the cloud starts boiling... yes, boiling. Bubbles of blue, red, purple, orange, green, and other colors gurgle at the bottom of the cloud, then rise, and...

POP!

Santos: It's a motherfucking rainbow!

Tony claps as a look of boyish wonder crosses his face, fascinated by the towering rainbow that he has formed with his hair alone. Tony's face then jolts back toward the camera. The clapping has ceased, but the smile has not disappeared.

Santos: So, have you had a minute or ninety to consider what you're witnessing? Well, I'm sorry to break it to you, but this is not real. This is a sneak peak in to my brain, my friends, and you're fortunate enough to partake in the showcase. Who am I, then? I'm clearly not the Tony Santos, no no. I can't be. The Tony Santos is currently making emasculating comments and dropping penis jokes faster than it takes for Deanie McGovern to hit the local playground.

No, I'm the conductor of Tony's mind. I keep the train rolling as smoothly as it can for an alcoholic with a bad attitude and a strong case of narcissism. I play the garbageman of sorts, as well. I throw out the trash before it seeps in to the ground water. Similar to a line worker at a food production plant... you know, those folks who "review" and sort the processed hunks of glue and animal parts that make up the fine cuisine that we call U.S. fast food, lining the pockets of overpaid executives while increasing the BMI of the average pre-schooler by a few points per year, I sift out the garbage from the merely tainted parts of Tony's brain, ensuring that he doesn't end up disemboweled in the bathroom of a Denny's in Bumfuck, Montana. I have interests to protect, you know! If he dies, I die!

"Tony" goes for another sip of liquid tar, only to realize that he has nothing left in his glass. Turning toward this fountain of everything that is good, he places his glass underneath the tap. However, what was Guinness Black Lager turns in to a stream of thumbtacks. The glass is filled to the brim as "Tony" looks on, unfazed. "Tony" pulls the glass from beneath the tap and takes a big gulp, shredding the insides of his mouth. "Tony" composes himself, then proceeds to force the tiny slivers of pain down his throat.

"Tony" smiles as blood begins to stream from his lips.

Santos: Oh, Tony, my dear friend. It's not nice to consider hurting folks with items that are much better utilized on a nearby bulletin board. There are missing dogs to find! Apartments to rent! Strangers to lure in to hapless situations of treachery and tragic murder! They're not meant for the human eyeball!

See, folks? I'm here to quelch his foolish thoughts before they can become reality. If I have to endure some discomfort, that's just fine! Anything to keep Santos alive! This is the hand I've been dealt, and I will ensure his safety, if only for my own self interest!

And that... brings us to quite the situation that he's thrown himself in to this upcoming Sunday. Mystica and Liz Hathaway. His own partner, Dean Moxley McGovern.

You just had to stay in this tournament, didn't you, Tony? I let your vengeful and foolish idea of drafting Salman Van Dam become a reality so that you'd lose that match, you imbecile! And it worked! You lost! Yippee! You're alive! The plan was for you to lose, go home, and sulk. Maybe stroke your John, maybe get some from that money hungry girlfriend of yours, maybe just eat at the local Hibachi for a week.

Anything but wrestle. But no, Tony, you had to get Star of the Month. You had to actually succeed at something in your pathetic little life. For the first time in our long and successful partnership, I wasn't able to keep you down. You took the bull by the horns and made it your goal to not become a roofer or some shit.

You son of a bitch!

Now, heh, now, I have to worry about you stepping in to that ring and getting impaled by a turnbuckle. Getting burned by one of Mystica's cigarettes, or assaulted by his excessive use of unnecessary vocabulary! You can't handle words larger than four letters, Tony!

Or Liz! That convict! She's gonna go all GTA on your stupid ass and leave you for dead! I can't fathom her rounding up her posse of illegal immigrants and bad jokes, nabbing a helicopter, strapping cinder blocks to your ankles, and dropping you off in the Pacific Ocean for a permanent vacation!

Tony! Think about this! I didn't want you here!

At this point, "Tony" is violently yelling at the walls around him as he downs his thumbtack concoction. However, as he lifts his glass to take another sip, the contents turn in to large, black, dildos.

Santos: Dildos?!? Tony, really?

"Tony" downs the glass of fake penis begrudgingly, chomping down on and swallowing a heaping helping of silicon penis. After he labors through the final bit of false man junk, he looks back at the camera. Placing his glass on the ledge, he clasps his hands together and... smiles, blood dripping down his face and naked chest.

Santos: Ladies and gentlemen, my master may be a blowhard, and he most certainly is an idiot, but he's my idiot. I want to stay alive, so I will ensure that he stays alive. On Sunday, I'll fight fire with fire.

Mystica: You're a deep individual. A poetic soul. What must I do to tear you down? Be prepared for a barrage of Robert Frost... some Walt Whitman. I'm going to make sure that Tony brings you to your knees with the sweet, sweet sounds of nature and well constructed prose. Trust me, if you're not already blowing Eli James IV, you'll be attempting quite the act by the final act of this lovely tag team epic.

Liz Hathaway: For you, I have a special treat. I know what you're afraid of. It's really quite obvious actually. You're petrified of being trapped. Alone. Left feeling utterly useless. You have dreams of big things, of grand accomplishments, but you're too afraid of confronting anyone head on. Tony's going to make you feel vulnerable on Sunday, Elizabeth. Not just physically. No, no, that's a given.

He's going to break you down mentally.

You're scared of Tony. The moment that he flashes that disgusting smile of his your way, you'll crack. First, a few beads of sweat breaking through your pores. Then, you'll feel your hand shake. Just a little bit. Just enough to sense that there's an issue. Your heart will start racing... an adrenaline rush of sorts. Fight or flight will kick in, but you ain't fighting, my dear girl. No no, you're going to disappear. Your physical presence may still be in that ring, but you'll already have admitted defeat. The proverbial white flag will be flying overhead, and then...

Ding. Ding. Ding.

Match over. Tony and Dean, hands held high, while you and Mystica lay unconscious. You'll sulk afterwards, if you can even remember the 20 minute embarrassment that you just put yourself through. Like a swift hammer to the head. Except, think of that same hammer planting those final nails in the coffin that holds your time in this tournament, hell, in this company.

Liz and Mystica, since Tony can't smile for you right now, and since I'm not as much of the smiling type, let me do you one better.

"Tony" looks down at his hand as he presses his right fingers against one another. Lifting his palm to his face, he kisses his hand, and blows it toward the camera. A stream of sparkles follows, as "Tony" lets himself drop in to the mist below, out of sight.

The scene fades to black.

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