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+---- Thread: The Danger of Starting a Fire When The Rain's Dried Out (RP #3) (/showthread.php?tid=13390)
The Danger of Starting a Fire When The Rain's Dried Out (RP #3) - Tony Santos - 07-06-2014
The scene opens on Route 128 South, in Danvers, Massachusetts. If you've been following, it's now Saturday morning, and the rain has dissipated. Cars crawl down the highway, as a late 4th of July accident a mile down the road has caused traffic to come to a halt. The skies have opened up, with scattered clouds dotted the otherwise blue morning atmosphere. The sun is still rising, greeting the bleary-eyed passengers as they sip their cups of coffee, hoping to inject enough caffeine in to their veins to wake themselves up in time to not face the same fate as the people in the accident ahead.
The camera focuses down the congested highway, noticing the faint red lights lining up in a row like a bunch of irritated lady bugs on a spring morning. After about ten seconds of this, the camera pans downward, then swiveling to its right. After a shaky right to left motion, it manages to pinpoint a solitary figure in a ditch, slowly crawling along, down the highway. This figure lays in what is still fairly muddy ground from Tropical Storm Arthur, digging in to the soft earth, pulling itself forward. Covered in an all black covering, it is dotted with brown spots of mud, as well as an underbelly of brown with the thickness of manure. It continues to move along, inch by inch, as cars fail to notice its movements... its breaths... its...
Santos: Fucking... god... damn... shit... fuck... fuck... fuck... erph!
...grunts.
The camera focuses on a weakened Tony Santos as he crawls along the field below. He digs in his right hand, then pulls himself forward, only to curse the existence of this highway, and this earth, and his life. Tony stops, dips his chin in to the ground, and simply stares straight ahead. He could certainly spend more time thinking, just as he had earlier, but, whaddaya know! A camera was placed in front of him!
Tony notices the camera blocking his view in to the hopelessness of life and closes his eyes, letting out a deep sigh in the process. Tilting his head forward, his nose buries itself in to the ground. He takes a moment to reflect on his predicament, breathing in and out... in and out... before pounding the soil hard with his right hand, forcing it in to the ground, and lifting himself up just enough to focus on the camera in front of him.
Santos: Frodo Smackins. I want to say something here to be as clever as you and your band of chucksters are on a daily basis, but I refuse to go down the road of Jon Plex. I refuse to be as much of a hack as that fuck aspired to be. However, you and I meet again, don't we? We faced off recently in a triple threat match that neither you nor I could win. Shame, ain't it? I know you wanted a piece of Tony Santos, a hot, meaty piece of me... I know how you work, Frodo. I know what you're like. And you wanted my sexy self more than you've ever wanted any slab of man meat in your entire life! And you got me...
You got me worse than I even am after my worst bender. Worse than the heaviest cocktail of booze and cigarettes can make me. You know how you can tell when I'm not doing so hot? Just look beneath my eyes. The bags under my eyes go from, "Ah, he looks a little tired. He probably should've gotten a few more hours of sleep last night," to, "Ugh, I know how that guy feels. He must've been busy pulling an all-nighter for a difficult test or to prepare for a grueling presentation. Golly, I feel bad for that guy," to, "Oh, sweet Jesus, that there man is an alcoholic! He looks like he shot Johnny Walker in to his eyelids to get a quick high so he could move on to coke off of a stripper's dick! Jesus, that guy's got some serious issues!"
You got me at Reeve Alexandra Gordon levels of awful, Frodo. Levels where it takes too much self awareness to keep breathing, let alone put together a solid wrestling match. Levels where I'm too preoccupied with the color of Frost's poop to give you 50%, let alone 100%...
Tony tilts his head forward slightly, glaring in to the camera, with crusty portions of his hair falling forward, their strands melded together by dried dirt and bits of motor oil.
Santos: Consider yourself to be getting 100% of me now, Dear Smackins. 100 fucking percent. I'm not gonna give you the typical snark that gets tossed around this federation and say that you're not worthy of 100% from me... even though you're not... and tell you that you're getting 10-Packs Santos on his 67% game...
...even though that wouldn't be such a bad line to toss out at you to catch, reeling you in with half-asses insults couched in fear and an utter lack of confidence.
No, no, my dear. See this? This drunken shithead who's lying on the side of a backed up highway, talking in to a camera like an idiot? This is the piece of shit who you're going to lose to. This is the sack of failed existence who's going to make you question yours. Why? Because I ain't losing another title after a few weeks. Not to you. Not to anyone. Are you worthy of the incredible amount of difficult, tar-soaked breaths I've given you thus far?
Not at all.
Are you worthy of a shot at a title that represents the medium that you so dearly squander?
Not a chance.
Are you worthy of stepping foot in a ring that's not run by Barnum & Bailey?
You and everyone watching guessed it...
Nope!
But, consider this your shot. Paul Heyman, in another one of his ever apparent bouts of wisdom, considered you worthy of a title shot, so, well, good for you. You've got me. You've got Tony Santos in a ring. Will you squander the opportunity at gold? Will you fail to man up and make something of yourself when you're three feet away from me? I reckon not. However, there's no doubt in my mind you'll make good on three counts from the referee while you're lying on your back. That bit is guaranteed. And why?
Because you're scared of me, Frodo. I can sense it from your fear of mentioning my name in any serious context during the forgettable segments we've seen from you this week. You're putting up as half-hearted of a verbal fight against me that would bring Alex Shawn out of the shadows to give you a nice pat on the back and an invitation to share tears over lost opportunities. Do you know who he is? Of course you don't. Why not? Because he was a scared little bitch who couldn't do more than tell me, leading up to our match at Leap of Faith in Pittsburgh a year ago, that he prefaced his bullshit with a caveat that I, the ever wise Tony Santos, will clearly fight back with "clever" insults. When he wasn't fearing the agony I'd beat in to him, he was complaining about internal predictions by our fellow wrestlers as to who would win. And where is he now?
You know as well as I do, hun.
So go on, give me what you've got. Show me how terrifying and downright mean you can be. But, but, don't forget to mention that you really didn't want to fight poor ol' me, but rather, a ninja! Yes! We're not getting the best of Frodo because he wanted to fight a fucking ninja.
Heh, well, Frodo, I'm unfortunately not a ninja. But here's what I can do for you. Let me knock you down, twirl you around, and give you the fucking you so love... so hard that by the end of it, no one will know where you went. I'll throw you in to the shadows of obscurity, so you can become a ninja yourself!
Sound good?
Don't answer that. It sounds just fine by me, and that's all that truly matters.
Tony stops. Looking confused, he focuses his eyes on something in front of him. His eyebrows curl inward and his eyes follow. Looking straight ahead, a cross-eyed Tony Santos focuses in on his nose.
Santos: Well, what do ya know?
Tony lifts his right hand out of the dirt, letting the left side of his body support all of his weight. Bringing his hand to his face, Tony straightens his right index finger and scrapes dirt off of his nose. He takes a moment to observe the grime covering his fingerprint, then raises it to the camera.
Santos: I've got dirt on my nose! Hell, I've been talking to you folks this entire time looking like I just stuck my nose up a dog's ass! Oh my goodness! How wonderful! How embarrassing! How...
...fitting.
Frodo, go follow my lead and stick that nose as far up my ass as you possibly can. Let the world know how much you respect and admire me. Show them how brown that nose of yours can truly get. It did wonders for Alex Shawn, and I know you can outdo him. Now get to sniffing and give everyone a preview of how much of my bitch I'm gonna make you on Monday night.
The scene fades to black.