Tony, please sit down. Let's talk.

Morton's Steakhouse in Cincinnati, Ohio is the spot for this scene. Tony Santos has just arrived in this posh establishment in a city more well known for its chili monstrosity than any sort of upscale dining establishment. Beneath this well renowned steakhouse? Another... steakhouse, but a Brazilian steakhouse. You know, the types with endless plates of meat? The ones where you can get chicken heart, pig liver, and many other (unwanted) delicacies? Yeah, that was it. Cheaper, but definitely more up the alley of Tony Santos.

Above Morton's Steakhouse was KMG Sports Management, an agent/law firm for fairly high profile athletes (or those whom aspire to be high profile athletes) and misfits that like to call themselves athletes. It was perfect for your middling former college athlete or your aging, irrelevant pro star, but for someone who was looking to make a name for him/herself? Probably not... unless you were desperate... and short on cash... and looking for that classy treatment and feel without the five star price.

Enter Tony Santos...

Tony, with his newly tattooed body and cut hair, walked in to Morton's in a denim jacket with a plaid, black and white buttoned down shirt underneath. Tony's hair still in his typical dirty brown hue, he attempts to whisk it behind him with his left hand, only to realize that, well, there's nothing there to flail backwards. Noticing his error, he jabs his left hand in to his pocket and walks stiff-legged toward this man directing him. Tony smiles that one-tooth-short smile, then plops down in to the seat.

Tony, it's nice to meet y...

Tony raises a hand to this man at his table. He looks down at his silverware and napkin, then back at the man across from him, then back down to the table. After a minute or so of contemplation, Tony picks at the napkin in front of him with his index and middle finger on his right hand, just like a claw at one of those prize machines that no one could ever win. Tony lifts the napkin off from the table, moves it toward himself, then drops it on his lap. Tony glances at his menu, smiles his toothy grin at the man across the table, then yanks his menu and places it six inches from his eyes. Tony's eyes scan the menu up and down, when suddenly his eyes bulge.

Santos: You're paying for this, right?

The man across the table nods his head.

Santos: Good. I didn't bring my wallet.

Ah, yeah, I understand that, bud. You know, you get a little nervous with a bunch of bigwig sports agents and lawyers sitting around a table with ya, grillin' ya, throwing big numbers at ya, I get it, dude! Who needs to keep tabs on their wallet in a place like that when we're practically throwing bags of green at you just for you being... well, you!

Haha, so, we'll pick it up for ya when we get back to the digs, no worries my man.

Tony lets his menu droop just enough down so that the man across the table can see his eyes. Tony glares at this man, checking out the chasm between this man's eyes. Tony's eyes elevate to the top of the man's head, following the outline of his parted, slicked black hair, and waxed eyebrows. Tony frowns as he notices one stray, long nose hair, a rare blemish in what was a superficial man with a perfectly orchestrated appearance. He was truly a sports agent's agent.

Santos: I didn't bring my wallet to Cincinnati. And you look like a tool.

Our perfectly quaffed man lets out an awkward, insincere smile. Tony sees this for what it is.

Santos: Like, a real tool. Like a dick. Not a good, solid, man dick either. No, like a dick just witnessing the first steps in the puberty process. You know what I'm talkin' about, right? Like, those fifth grade dicks that notice their first few spots of pubic hair creep through their soft, supple, Johnson & Johnson crotch region? An innocent, vulnerable, but not in any way lovable dick. Just like you.

And you're paying for my food. Your puny little dick face is paying for my food, and willing to pay me your money.

Well, um...

Santos: And this menu looks like shit! I want a fucking premium fucking McChicken with fucking golden sesame seeds or whatever the fuck they do with those fucking dollar menu cow shits at McDonald's! I don't need to be wooed with a fucking fancy place mat and waiters with oversized napkins covering their tiny ass penises! Penises which are still bigger than your little slinky dick!

The waiter, in his "oversized napkin," walks over to Tony's table, albeit hesitantly, and looks at Tony and his prospective representative. A man in his early 30s, he, just like Tony's "friend" at the table, has a dark, parted hairdo, an intentional five o'clock shadow (or the "two week look" to some), a mature glean in his eyes, and a physique that would make your typical, single 30-something woman swoon. A true professional, he thinks nothing of the insults and, once over the volatile tone of Tony Santos, approaches the two men for their orders. He smiles a smile that would make the "old" Tony shiver in jealousy.

Waiter: Gentlemen! I assume you've had the opportunity to review our menu? What are you thinking? Drinks?

Tony snaps at the waiter.

Santos: Harpoon.

Waiter: Um, sir, we don't have that h...

Tony snaps back.

Santos: I'm sorry! Harpoon IPA!

Waiter: I'm sorry for not being clear, sir. We don't have Harpoon anything here. However, we do have some really, really fine brews here! Lagunitas, Stone, Brooklyn, Southern Tier, and even Hudepohl!

The waiter flashes a very innocent, sincere smile at Tony Santos. He threw out the Hudepohl name with complete and utter local ignorance, expecting that an outsider would be impressed with a Cincinnati beer being considered impressive to an outsider, let alone an angry, condescending one at that.

Tony, who'd been snapping at his server while looking straight ahead and down the entire time, turns his head sharply toward his server and flashes the gap in his teeth as he snarls at the man with the "oversized napkin."

Santos: Get me a water with a splash of my own taint sweat, sir.

Tony...

Tony swings his head toward his prospective agent.

Santos: What? You wanna add your taint sweat in to the mix? Sure thing!

Mr. Waiter, please include my fine guest's ball sweat in this cocktail mix, stir it around nice, and bring it on over, with two straws, so we can share in our anatomically perfect drink. Hell, since you'll be back there, why don't you wipe the teeth whitener off your pearly whites and throw it in the proverbial genital stew? Maybe take the candy coating that surrounds your weak, shallow, poverty-ridden soul and shave a bit of it in as well? We could use a bit of sweet gullibility to make our drink a bit more, well, palatable.

The waiter takes two steps backwards, unsure of how to proceed. A few scant beads of sweat make their way from his forehead. He was used to his typical clientele: the types with deep pockets and few opinions outside of Wall Street. He certainly wasn't expecting someone with a lost front tooth to start spewing verbal diarrhea similar to what came out of the anus of a Cincinnatian after eating a bowl of Skyline Chili.

Waiter: I, um, I'll... I'll come back.

The man across the table from Tony, having kept his composure throughout Tony's entire tirade, having only moved enough to adjust his rose-colored tie and neaten up his hair, cleared his throat and, in what was likely an awkward tick, wiped his completely clean brow. He raises his finger to Tony.

If I may...

Santos: You may not.

The man cracks another insincere smile, clears his throat, and...

Well, I think...

Santos: It doesn't matter what you think.

Tony's prospective agent, again, a man of appearance and cordiality, slaps on another smile, then once again wipes his brow. He looks around the restaurant and sees the uncomfortable faces encircling him. He'd taken Tony Santos, a drunk with an attitude problem, to Morton's Steakhouse as he would any normal, prima donna client-in-waiting. However, even most prima donna clients would only raise a silent fuss if anything happened to be off. He wasn't ready for a potential client to openly chastise a waiter for simply not having a Boston beer in Cincinnati. He wasn't prepared for a man to request his waiter to bring him a drink of water with taint sweat. No no, he was expecting a prospective champion with dollar signs in the pipeline to act like an aspiring entrepreneur. A man with a desire to not only succeed monetarily, but a desire to carry himself with dignity, and, hell, display himself as being superior to others. That clearly wasn't the man across the table from him.

Tony, I...

Tony barks at him.

Did you just... bark at me?!

Tony smiles.

Santos: Does a dog eat its own shit?

Well...

Tony barks again at this man, then smiles. Mr. Hotshot Sports Agent was getting a bit hot under the collar. He tugs his tie, wipes his brow, stares Tony in the eyes, then clears his throat.

Mr. Santos! You, you...

Tony barks once again. The man slaps Tony's silverware off of the table, immediately taking Tony aback and catching the attention of everyone in the restaurant.

You wanna know what your issue is? You wanna know why you're such a fool? A man with so much energy and apparent pent-up anger, but no outlet to express your pain? Your stupidity? Your... inferiority complex?

Because you don't know how to express what you feel. You don't know how to interact with people whom you see as more successful than you other than to demean them in terms that would make a 10-year-old giggle. You don't know how to properly represent your sorry self in this pitiful world. You instead go along, figuratively peeing on others, making fun of them for things that you don't have. Making fun of them for being better off than you.

Tony, that's where I come in. You're an idiot. An effective, stupid idiot, and I'm not gonna pull punches when I say that to you. You're as dumb as they come, at least as dumb as someone with a decent vocabulary comes. But you're dumb enough to not realize that, for all the potential you have, you have insanely obvious limits. Insanely obvious faults. You're a man with raw talent. Raw talent that somehow makes its way out of your seemingly anger-filled pores, but has no structure. It has nowhere to go. No outlet.

Tony Santos, you need me. You need Trevor Walters to be by your side. Not just to make money. Not just to win matches. You need Trevor Walters to make you into a success. Tony Santos, hire me and you'll make it to the moon. Hire me and I'll buy you all the Skyline Chili that you can dream of...

Tony cringes.

Trevor Walters: Okay, I'll buy you some sort of local delicacy that you don't hate. Hire me, Tony Santos, and I'll turn you into an absolute stud. Whaddya say, Mr. Santos?

Tony glares at Trevor. His eyes scan Trevor's face left to right as he gauges his sincerity, his potential, his likelihood of dying in five years. Tony lets a slight grin come across his face, ever so slightly showing his teeth. His brow furrows as he once again scans the man in front of him. He finds himself focusing on the stray nose hair for a second time, which makes his lips part, displaying his teeth. Tony's tongue slides across the bottom of his teeth, collapsing in to the gap in the front of his mouth before climbing back to the top and reaching the end.

Tony lets out a brief chuckle, then puckers and kisses the air for the man just three feet away from him. He grabs his napkin and slams it against the table. Tony stands upright, kicks his chair backwards, and brushes the slight bit of hair over his forehead to his side. He extends his right hand outright.

Trevor Walters: Tony, sir, it's a pleasure to...

Tony yanks his hand backwards as Trevor makes his way for the consummation of their professional relationship. Tony glares and lets out a closed-mouth smile.

Santos: I look forward to fucking you in to oblivion. Congratulations on your figurative butt fucking. Now go eat some chili and get ready to shit out diuretic gold, you fucking moron. Now go pluck your stray nose hair before you make me look stupid.

Tony drops a piece of paper with the words "Santos chooses you" on it, before walking out.

The scene fades to black.

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