The scene opens outside of Madison Square Garden in New York City. It's early morning, so the air is just crisp enough following a cool evening on the East Coast, and hasn't yet become corrupted by the soon-to-be baking sun above. The area is bustling on a fresh Monday morning following the holiday weekend. Yellow cabs line the streets like a swarm of bees, buzzing at those around them in their own particular fashion. Pedestrians cram on to the sidewalks, young (and old) male investors pass by in seemingly the same suits and ties from Men's Warehouse, while hipsters skip along with Starbucks in their hands without a care in the world, possibly all listening to Mumford & Sons or some shit.

Then, there's Tony Santos. Still adorned in the same, filthy black attire that he wore through the pouring rain on Friday, crawling through the mud on Saturday, and while resting in an 18-wheeler on Sunday. Had he slept on the streets? In a homeless shelter? One, or both, were fairly likely. But did he care? Clearly not at all.

Tony lays against the brown exterior of the arena, fast asleep. He has no bags to his name, and seemingly no wallet or keys, either.. A half-full cup of cold Dunkin' Donuts coffee sits in front of him, untouched for a good 12 hours. What had likely built up in that cool, brown liquid over the past half-day probably made the drink less than palatable. Was Tony going to drink it? Maybe, but probably not. He was never much for the uppers as he was the downers.

Just then, one of those peppy young investment bankers, full of piss and vinegar and needing to fulfill his charitable, subconscious need for the day before destroying the retirement fund of a middle-aged couple in Iowa just to rake in some stellar commissions, notices Tony laying on the ground, the Dunkin' Donuts cup in front of him. Seeing this, and mistaking the cup for a beggar's cup, the man tosses a nickel in to the cup from a foot away. However, upon doing so, he loses his focus on what lies in front of him, clips a woman's shoe stiletto with his left foot, and stumbles to his right. As he attempts to catch his balance, he clips Tony's cup with his right foot, knocking over the contents of Tony's stale coffee.

Tony startles awake as coffee splashes on his jeans. He wakes up to some schmuck in a suit hopping over him to avoid kneeing Tony in the face, and his reflexes kick in, forcing him to punch the man straight in the gut. However, Tony's punch misses, resulting in him swinging at air, with the momentum of his right hook knocking him to his left.

Tony soon comes to, but not until the man has disappeared from plain sight. Tony rotates his head around as he attempts to lift himself upwards. After a few moments of confusion, he shakes the cobwebs out, then proceeds to look at the camera in front of him.

Santos: Well, I'll be damned! A man can't get some shuteye in this god damn city without being practically mauled in public. What in the hell is this place coming to, and why the hell does the XWF always book this fucking arena?!

Forget that. Despite my inability to find a good place to sleep or bathe for the past few days, I have had the opportunity to listen to Frodo Smackins ramble on like an unappealing Led Zeppelin cover band, and I must say... I'm fed up! I'm fed up with lame insults! I'm fed up with poor attempts at humor (disregard my Led Zeppelin reference a moment ago)! I'm fed up with opponents who feel that the best way to reciprocate my level of disdain and prickliness is to spew out a set of one-liners that make me grind my god damn teeth and make my anus bleed.

Fuck! Jon Plex, the king of cheese attempted to bring me down with goofy ass dream sequences and jokes about my smoking habits, along with just generally awful attempts at humor.

Peter Gilmour talked about, well, actually, he filmed a segment where his girlfriend was getting molested in a bar. No wit or attempts at humor there, just a mentally disabled man living out his odd dreams of protecting his girlfriend from date rape.

Frodo! Give me something to work with, you stupid son of a bitch! Snaggle tooth? Fraggle tooth, as in, Fraggle Rock? And joking about Detroit being better than any city is not just unfunny, it's also downright mean. You shouldn't insult the remaining ten residents of the Motor City with such awful, uncaring lies.

Let's get down to brass tacks. You have 99 problems, huh? Well, if 98 of them don't involve untreated herpes sores, with the other problem clearly being your sick fucking incestuous thoughts, let me make one crystal clear for you:

You lack the ability to understand perspective. You're in way over your head here, and you have no fucking clue. You come back at my verbal STDs by spewing middle school hickeys. I hurt you down in your core, to the point where your great, great ancestors in their graves beneath some shit bucket in a cave in Venezuela hurt, and you hit me with the equivalent of a mosquito bite on a woolly mammoth.

I have a solution. There's a favorite children's book of mine that I like to reference in times of need. It's called Don't Forget The Oatmeal, and it stars Ernie and Bert of Sesame Street fame. The book involved Ernie and Bert going on an incredibly important grocery shopping trip, and the key need, which Bert made clear to his fuckwit sidekick, was oatmeal. It was of utmost important that they get the oatmeal. Bert even tied a string to his finger so that he'd remember before they left.

What happened? They forgot the god damn oatmeal. They got in to all sorts of hijinks throughout the store, ran in to the Cookie Monster destroying an aisle of delicious goodness, and taught kids about how to not keep their priorities straight, and in the end, they forgot the fucking oatmeal. But Bert had the concept right, and I want to pass the knowledge of Sesame Street on to you. The point is, don't get distracted, and don't lost perspective. Be of sound mind, and do whatever it takes to lose focus of what you really need, and, in your case, who you really are.

Tie a string to your index finger, Frodo. Seriously, do it. Tie a string on to your finger, stare at it, and recite the following for me:

"I'm a worthless rodeo clown prancing around like a show dog, waiting to get gored by an ultimately superior beast."

Recite that over and over and over until it sticks in that mentally damaged brain of yours. Over and over and over. Then, once it's sunk in, walk in to this ring with me tonight, and step through those ropes. When we get in there, take one more look down at that string, give it a kiss, and then just lay down. Don't waste your or my time. Just lay down and let me nail you with a Final Destination. No need to waste any of our fine paying customers' time. Just lay on your back, take the loss like a man, and move on out. It's just the right thing to do. I don't want to embarrass you more than you've embarrassed yourself throughout this past week.

Just lay down. The worst thing you could do would be to lose perspective, go in there thinking you have a fighting chance, and getting maimed in front of thousands, no, millions of watching eyes. It's just not fair.

Hopefully I'm putting this all in to terms you can understand when I say, lay down, and don't forget the fucking oatmeal. See you soon, pumpkin.

The scene fades to black.

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